There was quite a to-do with me coming home. Eventually, after I had been stranded in the Detroit airport, given up hope and fallen asleep, awakened as they were calling stand-by people up to take my ticket, crashed out so hard on the airplane with my head on the tray table that it took three people poking at me to rouse me, I collected my luggage, sat down in the airport for another half hour and then met Mom and the stepfather. And the dog.
The following conversation has happened no less than six times:
Mom: I don't know how you think we're going to get back into that house.
Stepfather: It'll be fine.
Mom: If they've ploughed the road and there's snow up to my ass we have to climb over, we're going to a hotel.
Stepfather: We'll get up to the house just fine.
Mom: It took over an hour to get out of the driveway this morning. I don't know how you think we're going to get back in there.
Stepfather: We'll see.
This is why we have the dog. Because we're not sure we're going to make it back there today. Or anytime soon.
