For a while it looked like no one was going to make it to my place for Christmas. Canadians do not get around in the snow as good as we did before the invention of cars and motorcycles. I talked to everybody on the phone Christmas morning. They all sounded like they had witnessed a mile wide rogue asteroid's crash into the Earth.
Hunky Z and Kitty were sitting in front of their fire drinking tequila when I phoned them. "I don't know Beer. Maybe after a couple more shots I'll have the courage to drive out there. We'll call you back in an hour."
Sister Sal was sleeping when I phoned her. "All I do is shovel snow! I never thought about how fucking long the driveway was when I bought the place." If Frosty the Snowman would have passed by her place she would have kicked him in his fat white ass.
Mom and Reggie weren't answering their phone. They were being entertained by curling friends. I ought to curl. Curlers use the words entertain and booze-up interchangeably.
I did not even bother to phone my aunt and uncle who live on the far side of the winter disaster that is Metro Dope City. The side street they live on had three feet of snow on it and would only ever be plowed if the mayor or the chief of police moved onto it.
But the snow stopped and when I told everybody a plow, the Miracle Christmas Plow, had just cleared my street they hopped in their cars and swerved over. Everyone had also been monitoring the traffic cameras the fucking government has placed all over the province. The roads were looking surprisingly good except for the overturned vehicles clearly visible in the hungry white ditches.
The Christmas party went ahead as planned. I had taken all the bottles from the bar and planted them in a snowbank in the back of the house. At first my guests complained about the temperature of the bar but pretty soon they were giggling like girls as they made snow angels and later painted cranberry flames of vomit by the bar. Nothing says Christmas like red vomit in the snow.