I Hate Sending My Son Home (Updated)
If you’re expecting a heartbreaker post, this ain’t it, but I DO detest sending my son home to Montreal. The whole process, from packing his bags to the “see you…whenever?” cloud that hangs over us all day, to the overpriced greasy Sbarro’s pizza at the airport (that never fails to taste like shit), to the boredom of waiting for the plane, is a fucking downer.
Not that we didn’t have a good last day: Sam’s visit was really short, so I scheduled a late flight. We went to the Seaport Museum, including the soon-to-be-scrapped-because-America-can’t-fix-shit-anymore USS Olympia, the oldest steel ship still floating, as well as the ship that introduced the [rapidly-collapsing] American empire. We also toured the USS Bacuna, a WW2 era submarine.
Anyway, that’s where I am. Sam comes back on December 22 or 23, so it’s gonna be phone calls and maybe some Skype until then.
Tonight, I’m gonna eat some leftovers, drink some beers, and hit the sack. Oh and quietly seethe a little.
UPDATE: beyond the psychic toll, these visits kill my fucking budget. The visit to Montreal two weeks ago was covered, until the Super Devils canceled two gigs that represented $300.00. So instead of breaking even, I’m in the hole, exacerbated by Sam’s weekend visit down here, including the extra $100.00 I need to pay up front to put him on a plane (US Airways provides a chaperone). So that means child support’s gonna be late, and it means the extra bass that’s repaired but still in the shop will stay in the shop a few more weeks. It means I have to put off fixing my car’s tie-rod, as well as replacing a leaky gasket. It means that my mortgage gets paid right at the deadline, and means that the cellphone bill will be late. It’s an enormous economic strain, and I do not get anywhere NEAR my money’s worth.
