My wife, baby boy, brother-in-law and I embarked on a road trip from Phoenix to Lake Tahoe and back in a 1993 Toyota Previa mini van.

It’s a long trip (over 750 miles) during which you traverse many hundreds of miles of pretty straight boring road. Making it even more interesting are big rigs passing you in the opposite direction at such velocity that the mini van would shake and practically blow off of the road.

On the trip back from Lake Tahoe, I decided that I wanted to make it as comfortable and roomy as possible, so I strapped the cooler and the baby stroller onto the roof rack.

Well my wife liked that stroller way more than she liked my peace and contentment or her brother’s ability to have the maximum room inside the van to stretch out and relax. She was incredulous that I would do something as stupid as to strap those items onto the roof rack and she drilled me on that subject the entire trip. All 750 miles.

Every time a big rig would pass us going north as we were going south, the wind friction would push the van. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the friction was loosening the connection of the items “strapped” to the roof rack and further, was tearing the material right off of her precious new stroller. Eventually, we had the stroller material flapping on the roof and the side windows as the material continued to tear and play its rhythmic beat of she was right; you are stupid, she was right; you are stupid; she was right; you are stupid. I couldn’t get that song out of my head; primarily, because my wife was singing it to me along with the flapping material drum beat for what became hundreds of miles.

Remember, I’m a guy, so I don’t stop to ask directions. And I definitely don’t stop to reconfigure the packing of the car so that I may continue to resist my better half’s attempts at reason or prudence. When it comes to a contest of a battle of the wills between her and me, I am as stubborn and dogmatic as any Neanderthal husband can be.

Most husbands do not like to be nagged – specifically not in front of other people and particularly when they know their wife is right. Especially not for hundreds of miles! As the miles piled up, and as the drumbeat of the now severely torn and damaged material from the previously new and precious stroller provided the rhythm section for the chorus of “I can’t believe you do things like this”, the tension in the cabin of the van rose like an airliner.

Mercifully, we finally pulled into Las Vegas for the night where we had plans to enjoy the night at Treasure Island. All of us were grateful to be done with this long arduous trip and I, in particular, was eager to change this same song that I just couldn’t get out of my head.

As we neared our destination, I saw the signs for Treasure Island. Immediately, my wife belts out a new tune of “Turn right here before you miss the entrance!”

Now, not wanting to ruin the evening with that particular song playing throughout the entire evening, I (for once in my life) decide to comply even though my own inner voice was screaming, “No not here, this is the wrong driveway!”

So into the entrance of the underground parking garage of the mall next door to Treasure Island goes the Previa and all its happy occupants.

That would be all of the occupants and the contents, which included (but which I had miraculously forgotten), those wonderful contents I had so cleverly strapped to the roof rack so many miles and so many hours ago.

I’m not exactly sure of the height of a 1993 Toyota Previa with a roof rack and a cooler and some crappy torn up shredded stroller piled on top, but I do know it’s about 6 inches higher than the clearance of the top of the tunnel we were entering to get into the mall’s underground parking garage that I didn’t want to go to in the first place.

Maybe due to a dip just before the entrance, or maybe due to a poor shock absorber on the van, the damn thing cleared the beginning part of the tunnel, but then jammed perfectly and completely in the middle of the tunnel.

Now, with a new song being loudly played from the passenger seat, I (feeling like Jed Clampett), get out of the Beverly Hillbilly mobile to survey the damage. At that exact moment, a line of cars quickly begins to form. All just suddenly having to get to that stupid mall right then and provide melody to my wife’s lyrics with a cacophonous horn section.

Being the astute observer I am, I quickly assess the situation with the newly acquired horn section helping me remember the tune.

So picture this. A white mini van securely wedged between the bottom of the tunnel entrance to the underground parking structure. A pissed off, dazed and confused Jed Clampett surveying his overloaded rural vehicle obviously making its first trip into the big city. A wife, whose lips are moving wildly but (thankfully) being drowned out by the horn section. A tired and crying baby strapped into his car seat mourning the loss of his new stroller. And a brother-in law who has probably incurred kidney damage from trying not to laugh, knowing how mad Jed is.

So, being the take charge problem solver that I am, I say, No problem. I know how to get us out of this.” I proceed to gun the mini van and immediately hear a terrible screeching and breaking sound as the stroller (piece of crap anyway!), cooler and entire roof rack of my wife’s brand new mini van, get ripped off the top.

Now my brother-in-law can’t hold it any longer; he is crying with laughter as my wife’s mouth finally silences and her lips form a perfect O shape and stay there. He apologizes profusely for laughing as we climb out to pick up the pieces so the horn section can proceed while they, also, cry with laughter. As we throw the broken pieces of the roof rack, stroller and cooler into the back of the van even I have to start laughing now.

We make our way over to the correct parking lot (next door) at Treasure Island and I open up the back of the mini van to get our bags out for checking into the hotel. That model of the mini-van opens straight up; I open it up and decide to punish the cooler and stroller by making them sleep in the car all night while we sleep in the comfort of one of Treasure Island’s hotel rooms.

By now, my wife has got her bearings and I know she is alright because even she had to laugh as a tension release valve. However unbelievable as it may seem, her song starts to ring out loud and clear again. “I told you so! I KNEW something like that was going to happen! You never listen to me! I didn’t mean THAT driveway!” and so on…and on.

Now this next part is the part for all of you psychologists and pop psyche analysts to have a go at. I maintain that this was purely accidental and I felt horrible about it, but I swear it happened this way whether or not you believe there was subliminal intent.

I reach up and start to pull down the open back door of the mini van and I swear I thought my wife’s head was far enough clear of the pathway of the door swinging downward to its closed position.

It wasn’t.

Now she is the one looking dazed, confused and wobbling about to go down.

Her brother and I drop the bags, grab her to steady her and look for blood or bruises. As she regains her senses, we realize that she is okay. We quickly assure one another that we all believe that I did not hit her in the head with the door on purpose to shut her up.

Finally we all start laughing hard and I am the Clark Griswold of our family and I deserve it.

We did leave the cooler in the car, though, as we checked into the hotel so she could retain just a shred of her dignity. It was the least I could do, even if my cooler had much less expensive cans of Diet Coke than they sold in the big city.