These past few weeks have been busy for me. I’ve had a lot on my mind. Beginning with the end of the school year, my two biological kids left for the summer to live with their mom. Since then, we’ve been working in the yard, visiting Karin’s parents near Houghton Lake, and getting ready for my stepson to go with his father for two weeks. Karin and I drove him to the airport Monday afternoon (for which I took three hours off of work). The drop off should have taken all of 90 minutes. Yet, somehow, it took–FIVE. HOURS.
This is where I introduce you to (dunh dunh duuuuunh)…
Here’s how it went down: I shut down my computer at approximately 12:59 p.m. and zero seconds to go to lunch, which would start my afternoon time off. Karin sent me a message on Facebook at approximately 12:59 p.m. and one second to let me know that The Douche’s flight was delayed and he hadn’t left yet.
So I, blissfully unaware of any delays, made the 35-minute drive home from work only to get there and find out he was just now boarding the plane. Ugh. OK, fine. Let’s go ahead and get ready. If his flight was delayed due to bad weather in Michigan, chances are that the flight out would also be delayed. Natural conclusion, right?
So we leave just a little later than planned because he estimated he’d land around 3:00, and he’d call us when he did land. Giving a little leeway, we arrive at the airport at 3:23. We find out that the flight out was, indeed, also delayed. Great, we can still make this work. We wait for The Douche to call…
Half an hour goes by. 45 minutes. An hour. All the while, we’re calling The Douche and being connected directly with his voice mail, which tells us his phone isn’t even turned on, and trying to entertain a very antsy, very persistent, very bored and hungry 4-½-year-old boy.
Alright, where is he? Karin goes inside to check the board. His plane is here. He should be calling by now. She thinks aloud, “I bet he didn’t charge his phone and the battery died, and he packed his charger in his checked luggage.” I respond, “Why wouldn’t he have charged his phone, and who schedules flights an hour apart and checks luggage?!”
From where we’re parked, we can see the plane that they’re scheduled to depart on. I figure we’ll wait until it actually backs away from the terminal before we give up and leave because, at that point, he’ll be scheduling the next flight, which had also been delayed until about 9:00 p.m.
Their flight did leave, two hours from when we arrived. Screw this shit, we’re going to McDonald’s. We leave a third or fourth voice mail message for The Douche and get ourselves some deliciously engineered pseudo-food. As we’re finishing up our dinner, my cell phone rings. It’s:
His phone did die, he did pack his charger, and he did check his luggage. He also assumed that he’d missed his departure flight, so he took his sweet ass time at baggage claim and waited for his phone to charge, all while his plane sat waiting for him. Brilliant.
We decide to let him entertain the now fed, yet still restless boy for the next couple of hours since our entire afternoon had already been consumed. So we tell him we’re leaving now, and we’ll meet him in Departures in a few minutes. He asks, “Do you think it’s a good idea to leave him at the airport with me for the next two hours? Won’t he get bored?” Are you f*cking kidding me? Anyway, we get there, Karin and the little man get out of the car, I say my goodbyes and I love you to the little poop face, and…
I wait. Again.
It seems he figured we’d call when we got there, so he was just hanging out in Arrivals. ARRIVALS. Did we not just say–? *sigh* Luckily, Karin found him before another hour went by.
And, of course, none of this was his fault at all. How could he know his flight would be delayed or that his phone would die or that he shouldn’t check his luggage with his charger in it or that his departure flight might have also been delayed due to the very same weather that delayed his incoming flight or that he should find a pay-phone to call us from? Of course it’s not his fault. He’s a victim of circumstance, obviously.
This guy is either a complete idiot, or he does a damn fine job of portraying one just to make others suffer.
I should also mention that I did not dub him “The Douche.” That was his name from the day I met (reconnected with) Karin. We’re trying to create an amicable relationship with him, even though he doesn’t pay child support and hasn’t yet helped with medical bills by paying HIS OWN insurance deductible. I have a really hard time not hating The Douche.
I guess I could chalk it up as a part of my life goal to accept things for what they are and appreciate life’s challenges and contrast. Acceptance comes more quickly with processing, and processing begins with thoughts and feelings… Hate is a feeling.
Let’s start with that.