TheMommyBlog

Thursday, January 01, 2009 Our Holiday Curse, Bad Mood Dude, Family

I don’t even know where to start.

Phil’s home—we picked him up at the airport last night—and we all stayed up for midnight and then stumbled to bed, where the children were asleep before I pulled the covers up.

Sounds fun, huh? Sure, if you like that sort of thing, or you if omit the Buster Keaton routine we ran between six and nine last night. We figured if Phil landed at 6:30m there was very little chance of spending New Year’s Eve at baggage claim again. As it turns out, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

I took the kids to see Marley & Me (hey, remember I have a 15 year old Labrador at home, along with two little boys and a girl? They should have stopped us at the door.), which ended just in time to put us at SFO before seven, plenty of time for Phil to get his bags and be on the curb. Ninety minutes after we arrived, we were still circling the airport. All this time, I’m trying to fix my cell phone charger (I kept hearing Tim Allen in my head from Home Improvement: “So I rewired it!”). My phone was dead, the charger had a wire loose, I was driving, the kids were falling apart, the parking cop wouldn’t let me walk five feet to a payphone, and I didn’t have correct change anyway. I needed two quarters; I had a fistful of silver dollars from the Post Office stamp vending machine. Why do they do that? Never mind, I know why, but there are precious few implements that take silver dollars.

We finally said, FINE, and went to short-term parking. Only it was short term for International, and I didn’t see the sign until we where whizzing past it. To get out of there, I had to go down a road that landed me practically in San Bruno, and then we had to take a detour through the loading docks to find the terminal again. As we drove up the ramp to domestic parking, Logan said, “Oh, no. No, this is NOT happening.”

We found a space, went down a moving walkway, up an elevator and then an escalator to a completely, and I mean completely, empty baggage claim. I asked a porter if he had change, but no. I mean, why should a guy who accepts tips all damn day have a couple of quarters? But there was a change machine waaaaay over by the carts. I put in a dollar, got change, fed two quarters into the pay phone, and then two more because, I don’t know, it sensed I really needed to make a call. These were entirely new experiences for the children, and they were fascinated. I was annoyed.

Any, Phil had JUST LANDED. So we went back through the escalator, elevator, walkway, and garage, drove to the exit, put in the ticket, saw that we owed two dollars, and swiped my debit card. And swiped it again. And again. Christ on a sesame cracker. I blared the assistance intercom, waving to the guy behind me that he’d have to back up. When someone finally answered, he said, and I swear this is verbatim, “Fuck. Ahhhh, try the next one over, and if that doesn’t work, go to Level One where there’s an attendant.”

Thank you. Thank you for the profanity lesson for my children.

So we waved the car behind us to back up, they shuffled over to the next lane, then we pulled up behind them and waited our turn to watch the machine reject my card a few more times, and then got two more people to back up behind us, ON THE RAMP, no less, and I had to figure out how to get out of the chute. I asked the kids to duck, threw the car into reverse, and Magnum, P.I.‘d my way halfway back up the ramp, threw it into drive, and flipped a right into the parking area just before the next car came careening down the blind curve. And then suddenly I’m in Paris trying to negotiate one of those ridiculous turning circles, only this one had seventeen arrows and ramps that went up and down, and none of them actually said anything like LEVEL ONE or ACTUAL, FUNCTIONAL EXIT, so we just kept going down until we hit the last barrier, and lo, there was a woman in one of the booths.

“Oh thank goodness you’re here. We literally pulled in, made a phone call, and came right out, and it was two dollars, and my card was unreadable, so I tried the next lane over, and then it was four dollars, like five seconds later, and here’s my ticket.” I looked up at her with Marley eyes.

“I’m sorry, but it says four dollars. I can give you a slip to mail in, asking for a refund.” Yeah, lady. I’m going to buy an envelope and a 41 cent stamp, and send in a request for a two dollar refund that IF APPROVED will arrive in eight to twelve weeks. I got your slip, right here.

I paid the four dollars and by now was in tears. Logan offered to lend me two dollars when we got home. “That’s not the point, honey, but thank you.”

Two hours after we arrived at the airport, we had Phil in the car and were headed once again toward the exit. Phil turned around in his seat. “Happy New Year!”

And then? This afternoon? A home care nurse called to tell me that my aunt, the aunt in Connecticut who only speaks to two members of her family (me, and some guy I’ve never met), had a stroke the day after Christmas and was frantic to know why I hadn’t called. The cousin was supposed to contact me. I’ll be leaving him a message. As soon as my voice stops shaking.