My husband went for a day business trip to Santa Clara, California, yesterday and got stuck there because he was wait-listed for his flight back and couldn’t get another until today.  He’s not too broken up about it.  All his work there is done, so theoretically he’s getting up this morning and going swimming in the ocean.  At least that’s what he told me he was going to do, and he has no reason to lie to me.

I remember the last time I got stuck in California because I couldn’t get a flight out.  It was September 11, 2001.  It was kind of the same thing, only instead of being stuck at the beach for a day, I was stuck with my relatives and two small children in the inland valley for a week.

I wouldn’t have been too broken up about it, except that the reason I was there in the first place was that my father and his wife invited me to come down there for a mental health vacation, you know, to spell me with the kids and let me rest up a bit–only a couple days after I got there, my step-mother needed a rest from the kids, so I went to visit my in-laws for the remainder of my visit, only on my (scheduled) last day there was that horrible national tragedy and I had to go back to my dad’s house because he lived closer to the airport I was hoping to get a flight out of VERY SOON, only I didn’t get one very soon but a week later, only I couldn’t stand it at my dad’s house for a whole week so I decided to go back to my in-laws’ for a couple days, and that was okay except for me getting into a car accident on the way there because the kids were whining and touching each other in the back seat and I had to turn around and yell at them or something, which was stupid because, you know, I was on the freeway going 70 miles per hour, and you really shouldn’t let yourself be distracted under those conditions, but fortunately no other cars were involved and no one was hurt–even the car still worked, but it was scary–so I was at my in-laws’ for a couple days, then back at my dad’s house again before finally getting on a flight back to Oregon.

The flight got in at midnight-something, and the kids were mostly asleep and couldn’t carry their own crap or walk of their own volition, so I was carrying at least one of them, plus all their crap, all the way from our gate to the baggage claim, which were the two farthest points away from each other at the airport, naturally, and about 100 feet from where Sugar Daddy was waiting for me (because he couldn’t meet me at the gate, because of the new security measures) I could no longer feel my arms, so I decided I would rent one of those carts, even though I only had 100 feet to go because I could not feel my arms–except that I didn’t have any cash on me, so I got out my credit card and put it in the credit card slot, only to get a message that it wasn’t taking credit cards AT THIS TIME.  It was those last three words that did it for me.  I think I dropped Mister Bubby on the floor and started beating up on the a la carte machine with both my feets and screaming the F-word as loud as I could.  Well, in my head I was screaming the F-word.  In reality I was so tired that I could only scream, “GAHDAFADABADDAFOCKALACKABLAHDEBLAHDEBLECK!” But that was okay, everyone got the idea.

Meanwhile, pummeling the a la carte machine had restored feeling to my limbs, and once I was out of breath and voice, I picked the baby and all our crap back up and pushed the half-asleep Princess Zurg with my foot the rest of the way to meet my husband, who was not remotely pleased to see me.  You see, I was supposed to return from my “vacation” tanned, rested and ready, and instead I was the same crazy bitch he’d dropped off at the airport two weeks earlier.  Who wouldn’t be sorely disappointed under those circumstances?

I don’t want you to get the idea that I begrudge my husband his opportunity to go swimming in the ocean.  I hope he finds it very refreshing.  Especially since we’ll be at the beach again tomorrow, with the kids, and you can’t rent a la carte carts at the beach for cash or credit.