A Day in the Life: Home, Sweet (?) Home

Coming home from a trip is bittersweet. For me, for most trips, it’s mostly bitter. It’s bitter because I love family and they are usually the reason for our trips, or the company with whom we travel. Saying goodbye to them and not knowing when I’m going to see them again is very disconcerting for a homebody like myself.

This trip’s end was bitter for all of those reasons AND because we dragged and hauled and hoisted all of our bulging luggage through the DFW airport, (which is probably only slightly, if at all, smaller than Rhode Island,) only to find that our car was NOT where we parked it. You can imagine the choice words that escaped our lips as we three weary travelers discovered that the spot where we intended to leave our car parked for seven days was in fact a “One Hour Parking Towing Enforced” zone. This series of seriously unfortunate events led us back to the terminal to place a call to the Parking Enforcement Coalition in an effort to begin the vehicle reclamation process.

You might also imagine, that after four hours of seat-belt constricted travel, Henry, who had just peed through every layer of his clothing, was itching to ride a round on the baggage carousels, try out the airport wheelchairs, and stick his hands in the flap-covered openings of every vending machine. Trying to avoid direct contact with his wet garments and keep him contained during the anticipated haggling with the towing company, we resorted back to the restraints of the carseat. Just as Nate was dialing “2″ to choose an option from the ultra-frustrating automated menu of choices for stranded towing victims, a trickle of inspiration and wisdom seeped into my skull like molasses. I draw the comparison to molasses advesedly because the “ah-hah!” came together very gradually.

My thoughts: Wait…We came in underground…by the baggage claim. This is the check in area. This isn’t where we came in. That may not have been where we parked. Our car could still be here.

“Nate!” I beamed. “I don’t think this is where we came in. Remember, we had to ride the escalator up to get to the check-in desk?”

He hung up hesitantly. I could tell that he desperately wanted to believe me, but he maintained an aura of skepticism. (He’s good at that. He’s an auditor.) We hauled and hoisted and dragged all of our bulging luggage and our now dry, but slightly orphaned looking, child (we fished through the suitcase to find him a very uncoordinated, but DRY, combination of: Green Nike Sweatshirt and TwoSizesTooBig Red Tartan Plaid Pajama Bottoms,) and descended the escalator, literally praying to find our car on the lower level of the parking garage. And……….. (i hate excessive punctuation, but sometimes it’s necessary………………………………)

We DID! I could almost swear to the fact that there were unseen legions serenading us with the Hallelujah! chorus in that moment. Nate’s hoodwinked purchase never beamed like it did in the bowels of the DFW parking structure before the eyes of two tired travelers breathing sighs of utter relief not to have to part with precious cash to liberate an old pile of mileage-laden metal from the local impounded-car-yard.

Life just continued to brighten as we arrived home to find all of our valuables, (all four of them,) were still in place, and that we hadn’t been burgled or otherwise violated while we were away–something I always worry unnecessarily about while we’re gone. But we did have one unpleasant surprise waiting for us at home. Our house stinks. Bad. Do you know how to get rid of a lingering, wiffy house stench? Please tell. I’ve tried candles and carpet granules, but to no avail. I hate to admit to the Internet that I have a stinky house, but I do. I also hated to admit to eating cake for breakfast, but I did.
But while we’re on the topic of shameful admissions, I’ve got one more. I love to hate to admit that while I was very disappointed and worried about the possibility of our car being trapped in the local tow-yard, somewhere in the back of my slightly warped, blog-loving mind, I was kind of tickled that it was happening to me. Because, let’s face it, tales from the tow-yard make very meaty subject matter for blog posts.