That Machine STOLE My Credit Card!

First of all, let’s get one thing straight.  I don’t even have a credit card.

Cut ’em up years ago.  Swear I’ll never have one again.  They’re useless pieces of debt collecting plastic that should never have been invented.  They have the ability to trap you into a vortex of overspending that you will blame on the credit card company then decide you should file bankruptcy when really YOU were the one who made the decision to use it and YOU owe the money.  Just save the money and pay cash.  If you have debt, pay it.  And immediately, cut up your credit cards.

Yikes…that was a crazy tangent.  Guess now you know what my opinion about credit cards is.

So, really, That Machine Stole My Debit Card.  But, that title just isn’t as sexy.  Not as dramatic.  It just doesn’t sound the same as That Machine STOLE My Credit Card!, does it?

Anyway, I’m already side tracked again.

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What I really want to tell you is that The Animal Whisperer and I took my right-hand-man, my laundress, my dishwasher, my clothing mender, my gourmet cook, my cheesecloth whitener and deodorizer, my humble, my gracious, my assistant in class preparation and floor mopping, my fellow harvester, my fellow canner, my second-favorite-mother-in-the-world, my mother-in-law, to the Denver International Airport yesterday.

DIA to the locals.  The airport that looks like a white circus tent featuring a new, 23 story glass boat anchored outside set to sail on a sea of solar panels that are protected by the blue, demon eyed gigantic horse out front.  Ya, that one.

We took her to DIA because it was her time to depart after spending 2 months with us here on the farm.

TWO MONTHS WITH YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW????? you say.

DO YOU GET ALONG????? you ask.

I CAN’T SPEND TWO HOURS IN THE SAME ROOM AS MY MOTHER-IN-LAW!!! you lament.

As to your first question, Yes.  Two months.

As to your second question, Yes.  We get along.  Very well, actually.

As to your third comment, I’m sorry for you.  But not sorry enough to trade.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand.

We took her up to DIA, and unless I’m going to visit my City Girl sister, I steer as clear of Denver as I can.  I’m not much for the big city, and well, I just don’t get out much.  I associate Denver with a faster pace, which includes faster thinkers, faster drivers, faster talkers and faster technology?

Which explains why I walked into the terminal to the never ending bank of computerized check in booths, hoped I would spot a human dressed in United Airline clothing and a little chiffon neck scarf that might indicate she could talk me through the steps on the computer machine because even after reading the welcome screen, I couldn’t figure out where to scan my Spanish speaking mother-in-law’s passport.   There were words on the screen that said something like “Insert the bla-or-bla-or-bla-or-bla-or-passport in the machine.”  There were no less than three options for passport insertion, and one option appeared that if I inserted it there, the passport would fall through a trapdoor tube system underneath the machine that transports all mis-inserted passports to the mis-inserted passport pile in the airport basement never to be seen again.  I couldn’t afford to make that mistake.

I must have  looked confused enough that the aforementioned chiffon neckerchief lady came out of nowhere to my rescue.  She pretty much did everything for me.  And, as The Animal Whisperer is my witness, my mother-in-law made it through security and safely arrived at her destination, so the chiffon lady must have done it right.

And that wasn’t even the credit card part.

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As we were leaving the parking lot, we, of course, had to exit through the Pay for Parking booths.  Here in we-still-drive-horse-drawn-wagons Colorado Springs, there are still PEOPLE at the pay for parking booths.  So, naturally, I expected a person.  Not finding one, it took me close to an eternity to figure out how to use the machine perched on the side of the used-to-be-occupied-by-a-person-but-it-was-to-expensive-to-pay-him-so-we-replaced-him-with-a-machine parking booth.

But thankfully, after trudging through molasses with each of the three steps…

1.  Insert Ticket: Where? Oh, THERE! I wonder if that goes to the same pile where the mis-inserted passports go?*

*the parking ticket got sucked in and never reappeared.

2.  Insert Credit Card:  WHERE?  Oh, THERE!  Again!  In the same slot that just sucked up my parking ticket and didn’t give it back?  Seriously?*

* as a side note, I did actually shriek as the slot violently sucked my credit card out of my fingers before my brain could even process the “let go of card” neurological command and cause my fingers to release independently.  This time, the slot gave the card back.

(You’re right, I totally missed step 3 on the machine.  Didn’t even realize the step 3 button existed until I looked at the above picture.)

4.  Take Receipt:  Adrenaline was pumping so hard through my system from steps 1 and 2 that, after grabbing my credit card out of the stealer slot, I stepped on the gas (GET ME OUT OF HERE as fast as possible!), slammed on the brakes (The Animal Whisperer said, “Don’t you want your receipt?”), looked up (realized I was right under the raised red and white automatic bar that looked like it had the propensity to slam right down on top of my car if I even thought about reversing to get the receipt), and jammed the pedal to the metal again.  Fuggedaboudit.

…we were FINALLY out of there.  On our way home where I could sit calmly and milk a goat or pet a bunny.

–  The Goat Cheese Lady

P.S.  And, I won’t even TELL you about the toilets that flush automatically in the bathrooms.  So fast and suctiony that you don’t even have TIME to fix your clothes and get OUT of the stall before the force of the flush sprays imaginary or factual microbial aspects of what you just left in there and what the 20 people before you left in there onto your bare legs.  No, I won’t even go there.  Neither will I tell you that I nearly flattened myself to the inside of the stall door to get as far away from the spray as possible since there wasn’t time for an actual escape before technology took over and the blinking red the-toilet’s-going-to-flush warning light went berserk.

 

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P.P.S.  WHO actually TAKES a picture of an airport toilet????  I’ve definitely gone over the deep end.

 

 

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About The Goat Cheese Lady

I am Lindsey. At first I was a city girl. Then I was an urban farmgirl, attempting to balance city and farm life. Now, after moving to the country, I have embarked on life as a rural farmgirl, complete with my husband, the Animal Whisperer, man of exceptional knowledge and patience, two boys who are louder than my sister and I ever were, a herd of milking goats, and a flock of egg-laying chickens. Coyotes, mice, country dogs and prairie dogs are frequent visitors. Just 45 minutes north is Colorado Springs, the setting for our first six years in the goat world. Our family. Our city friends. Our introduction to cheesemaking. But we...and our growing farm and soon-to-be creamery...have set up shop down off of Highway 115 in Penrose, Colorado.
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2 Responses to That Machine STOLE My Credit Card!

  1. Roberta says:

    Ahhh! I have a mother-in-law like that too. Wish I could have her here for two months, but she never bothered to get the passport, so we must go see her goats instead! Which is really just as wonderful! Did she make you pupusas?

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