Murphy’s Law: Proof again of when the time is right, Murphy will strike. This time, he waited for my grand, “Welcome Home, Kelly!”
We’ve all imagined it.
The magical moment when you see your family again. Your husband’s smile curls your toes and he lifts you into the air in a warm hug. Your children’s grins are turned to full throttle as they chant “Mommy!” until your heart is bursting with love. Bear hugs all around and you inhale their sweet scents until the family rides off into the sunset with everyone glowing and happy.
I admit, after my first weekend away, I had hopes our reunion would unfold at least somewhat similar.
I did not account for Murphy.
After cringing in fear of the powerful of my Canadians, Murphy laid in wait, crouched for the perfect moment to spring.
The second I landed in the United States.
I just didn’t know it then.
It all became clear when I landed in Austin and immediately called my husband, letting him know of my arrival.
He said a few sentences and hung up on me, not bothering to explain why.
I learned later that excrement was involved. And running late because of excrement.
Correctly assuming he was nowhere near the airport for my Hallmark greeting, I took my time to get to the baggage carousel. After all, in Canada mine was third to last bag off in a plane with nearly 200 passengers.
Knowing my lottery luck, I predicted a similar occurrence.
I was wrong.
There was no bag.
It turns out, Denver doesn’t like those darn Canadians stealing their outdoor tourism by allowing skiing or rafting.
So even though I had over an hour layover in Denver and you could have easily walked my bag across the tarmac to the other plane, the ground crew just didn’t.
I learned this from the nicest United employee who practically beamed rainbows from her eyes.
It was impossible to be mad at her.
Same for the guy from Winnipeg who the same Canadian Connecting Flight issue.
Which happens all the time in Denver. So I’m told.
By now CG had arrived and was irritated because he had to entertain the children while I dealt with locating my luggage. I heard The Tackler over the phone, whining and upset about why they couldn’t pick me up yet. In desperation CG gave the iPod to our almost four and half year old son.
I finished with United, promised my bag would arrive before 9 AM the next day at my house (and it did).
Finally, I would see my family.
I loaded my carry-on into the back, opened the car door and received:
- A nod from my husband.
- A quick smile from my son as he flicked between iPod apps.
- A happy “Mommy! Mommy!” from Lil Diva as she kicked her feet and gave me Eskimo kisses before beginning her demands to be released from her car seat.
I shrugged it off: one out of three wasn’t bad.
Then my son wanted to play Zombie Pizza which gives him nightmares. The iPod was taken away, my pick-up completed.
The Tackler whined. And cried. And demanded.
First, about the iPod.
Then about getting a snack.
Then about CG daring to throw out the dinner The Tackler hadn’t finished which now eliminated any way to earn dessert.
It was one constant after another.
Halfway home, Lil Diva joined in, her urge for mimicry too great as their whines and meltdowns blended in a headache inducing cacophony singing “Welcome Home, Mommy.”
I missed Canada already.
My Hallmark greeting destroyed as life returned to normal, I hoped the next day would be better.
CG greeted me the next morning with, “Don’t freak out, okay? Just don’t freak out.”
And I knew.
We had ants. Appearing from inside an outside wall outlet and streaming onto my counters, across the stove – the only fully working kitchen appliance that came with this house.
“Have you seen them before?” I asked my husband.
“No. I swear.”
What. The. Frak.
Why did the ants get the Hallmark memo when my family didn’t?
On the positive side, with a broken oven and my stove Ant Party Central, it finally gives me justification for dining out every night.
I spend my days cackling maniacally, watching as they devour the bait traps.
Counting down to their extinction.
If you want to live outside, fine.
But you don’t frak with my kitchen. Or any room within the walls of my house.
Or you die.
Happy Friday all.