By Jason Offutt

Author’s note: Hi, folks. It’s been about a year since I retired this column, but it’s family vacation time and, well, things like this happen all to us all too frequently. I wanted to share.

One of the most important bits of planning a vacation isn’t the when, or the why, or even to put every family member in the car. Forgetting one or two might make the experience more relaxing. The important detail, at least from the onset, is knowing where.

It’s harder than it sounds.

We embarked on the Offutt Family Summer Vacation 2021, with me behind the wheel, my only instructions, 1) don’t kill us, and 2) go north.

From our home, “north” takes in a lot of territory. At the top are white places filled with Canadian rednecks and maple syrup. Below that, there’s Minnesota with its lakes and mosquitoes, then Iowa. I listed Iowa last because that’s where we were headed. Yes, on a family vacation. Shut up. Iowa has a lot of interesting sights, like the tree that ate a plow, the Iowa Quilting Museum, and corn. Don’t judge us.

My wife, who expertly planned our vacation to a place with lots of hiking and biking trails, then slipped on the stairs the day before departure and hyperextended her left ankle, sat in the back seat, her swollen, bruised foot on my arm rest. 

Simply go north? Nope. I wasn’t going to question a damn thing.

An hour later, after stopping for lunch, I pulled over, because, like he mighty lion gorging on a gazelle in midday, I needed to crawl beneath an umbrella tree and nap. For the record, my gazelle was a vegetarian low-carb wrap, and this lion wore a Hawaiian shirt, and shorts with a coffee stain. 

You’re judging again, aren’t you?

“I can drive,” my wife said. “My right foot’s fine.”

Rule 1 of surviving on the plains of the Serengeti: Never argue with your wife. She’ll eat you. 

I crawled into the backseat and fell asleep.

I have no idea how much time past. All I knew was during that time, a thick heat and even thicker smell crawled over me like something evil in a science fiction movie. As an adult, being dragged from sleep in the back of the car during a family vacation is like being in Metllica’s tour van during the early years. Body odor, stale French fries, and we all know somebody threw up, even though no one will own up to it.

“Where are we?” I asked.

I ask the stupidest things.

“Honey Creek is 1.2 miles,” the generic Google Maps computer lady said. “Turn left on Honey Creek Road.”

One-point-two miles later, my wife turned onto Honey Creek Road, which was, in reality, the gravel drive of a modest ranch-style house with an American flag and above-ground pool out front.

“You have reached your destination,” Google Maps Lady said. 

Destination?

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” My wife’s voice held a sound I’d never heard from her. Oh, sure, I recognized it. My own voice made that sound all the time. It was defeat.

After she held a discussion with Google Maps Lady (which involved lots of middle fingers. Touch screens are so therapeutic), she cheered up.

“I told the GPS Honey Creek, not Honey Creek Resort. There’s apparently a difference,” she said, laughing in a way that made us all nervous. “We’re three hours away.”

Our 16-year-old boy stirred from whatever foggy semi-conscious state teenagers exist in and spoke.

Dear God, he spoke. Couldn’t he see the paper-thin difference between Happy Mom and this one?

“You said–” he started, before I interrupted him.

“Did you see they have a pool? And–” I motioned toward the trees behind the house. “Ticks. They probably have ticks. Nice place.”

My wife did the first two out of three in a three-point turn, partially in the yard of the nice people with the pool at the gravelly tail-end of Honey Creek Road, Iowa, and ripped back down the gravel.

“We should have at least walked up to the front door with our bags and told them we’re here,” I said.

No one laughed. I thought that line was funny, but maybe it wasn’t. Our family’s used to events like today’s. We’re that TV sitcom family, the one that’s sometimes nominated for an Emmy, but never wins, and the network’s usually “this” close to cancelling us. Catch our show, “Those Darn Offutts,” every weeknight at a Dumpster fire near you.

Yeah, sure, we finally made it to the resort, and it was nice. Nicer than that Metallica smell we’ll never get out of our car. Wherever I parked it.

Jason Offutt is an award-winning humor author. His latest novel, “So You Had to Build a Time Machine,” is available at www.jasonoffutt.com.