Stuck in the Middle Again

Well, apparently the post-by-phone option I tried whilst stuck in the Phoenix airport for three and a half EXTRA hours yesterday (never mind the three hours early that one has to be because some kook likes C4 enemas) did not work.

It featured some photos of our incredibly patient children, postulating that perhaps the reason our airplane was delayed (mysteriously, I might add) by three and a half hours was because Spiderman and Superman (and possibly J’onn J’onzz) required it for some kind of anti-crime commandeering…thing…with Jedis and noodles? I’m a little fuzzy on the last bit there as I think I dozed off. At any rate, the airplane bit ended well because the Flash was able to bring the required parts to the airport to ensure the plane was A-OK.

Three and a half extra hours in the airport meant we missed our connecting flight home.

The airline kinda promised us the first flight in the morning (which was at 8:30am), and we thought that’d be fine, but then when it came time for the airline representatives to actually give us our boarding passes for the flight next morning, it turns out the next available flight was actually just after noon o’clock, which means that we’ll miss The Captain’s last hockey game of the season.

*insert Angry cenobyte here*

The airline kindly provided us a hotel for the evening and a veritable crapload of food vouchers to cover the costs of our meals, which was very nice of them.

So His Nibs and I, together with our Very Tired and Very Patient and Very Good-Natured children, collected  our luggage and made it through customs (WITH our cactus seeds, thank you, douanes) and we made our way to the Hotel Shuttle (so’s we wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi, the airline works with a hotel that provides a shuttle!). Of course, 90% of our flight is waiting for the shuttle, and although we are the only ones with two small children standing out in the cold, dark Calgarian night, they all are tired as well, and they pile into the van.

The driver looks at us and says, “You’ll have to take the next one.”
I say, “and when, exactly, *is* the next one?”
“Forty-five minutes,” the driver says.
“What-y five minutes!?” I ask **insert Angrier cenobyte here**.
“There is only one shuttle,” the driver says. “I will return in one half an hour or forty-five minutes.”

We truck our children, their luggage, our carry-on, and my attitude BACK into the airport while I start thinking “I’m willing to bet the rooms the airline booked for us are going to be halfway across the hotel from each other” (the airline booked us two hotel rooms because our family has two different last names). So I call the hotel to make sure we have adjoining rooms, or a suite, or a king-sized bed or a cot or something.

“Well, ma’am,” the hotel bitch says, “it’s all based on availability, and so we can’t promise you anything…”
“…” I said. I believe I was shaking by this point. It’s 10:30 at night, we’re supposed to be HOME by now, my children (thank God for their being patient and good) are ready for bed, and His Nibs is…well…probably getting frightened by this point.
“So we’ll just have to wait and see when you get here what is available, m’kay?” the bitch says.
“No, miss, I’m sorry; that is not okay. I am *very* upset.”
“Yes. We’ve missed our connecting flight, and the airline has booked us two rooms at your hotel. They instructed us to take the shuttle, which we’ve just been informed means we will have to wait an ADDITIONAL forty-five minutes in a god-forsaken airport, and now you’re telling me you cannot confirm for me that you have adjoining rooms or something that will accommodate two very patient children, one frustrated adult, and one very angry adult?”
“Well ma’am,” the bitch said bitchily, “we only have one shuttle, and your airline booked the rooms, so you’re just going to have to take what’s available. M’kay?”
“No, that is not okay. I am now VERY angry.”
“Well there’s nothing I can do until you check in.”

**cenobyte throws her phone across the floor and stomps off to punch something. Then cenobyte returns to her very patient family, retrieves the boarding passes and tries to find an airline representative to talk to. There are none. cenobyte phones the airline. The airline’s customer service person is very patient and understanding and apologises and suggests cenobyte talk to a customer service rep the next morning. cenobyte feels a bit better.**

We then trudge BACK out to get the shuttle. No shuttle. His Nibs calls the hotel. It’ll be ANOTHER forty-five minute wait.

cenobyte then says, “Fuck this. We’re taking a fucking taxi, and we’re going to fucking mail the fucking bill to the fucking airline and we’re going to fucking ensure the fucking airline never fucking uses this fucking hotel chain ever the fuck again.”

cenobyte’s children stare wide-eyed.

cenobyte stomps off to the taxi line.

The woman with not enough to do shouts at cenobyte’s family that we are not to take the *second* taxi in the lineup; we are to take the *first*. His Nibs stares at this woman (who is wearing an Official Vest, and who is across the street). “Are you yelling at *us*?” he asks.


His Nibs shakes his head. The taxi driver looks embarassed. The children are excited to be taking a taxi. cenobyte shouts back: “WE HAVE NO INTENTION OF TAKING THE VAN TAXI. WE KNOW HOW TAXI LINES WORK. IT’S PRETTY BASIC. SETTLE DOWN, LADY.”

His Nibs groans, figuring cenobyte is about to be arrested. cenobyte does not care.

Oh, this is NOT the end of the story. But I have to attempt to get my family on to the shuttle (assuming it’s fucking here) to take us to the airport to take us home, more than 24 hours after we left paradise. If only I weren’t too fat to ride a horse, none of this would be happening.

cenobyte is a writer, editor, blogger, and super genius from Saskatchewan, Canada.


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