Ah, Reality, you are a skunk-ass whore-bitch. The return from Nashville has been filled with commotion, chaos, foul-ups and tooth-gnashing.

Shortly before leaving Nashville, my husband, Mr. Tailgater, was following someone too closely. When he inevitably slammed on the brakes, my neck made a nasty sound, followed my even nastier sensations. I’m fine now, so I guess I don’t need to get a neck brace and sue my husband’s ass for whiplash. I just won’t let him forget it for the rest of his long, long days. If you ever meet him, even if it’s decades from now, do me a favor. Greet him with, “Brian! Nice to meet you. Remember that time you tried to break Robin’s neck in Nashville? Why do you insist on trying to drive up exhaust pipes?”

Having a whacked-out neck is never fun, but it was really a lot of not-fun on Tuesday, the day I had two Amtrak trips on my agenda in order to fetch my kid.

It seemed like good planning at the time.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that I’m a big fan of Amtrak. No, it’s not a perfect system, especially when it comes to staying on a “schedule”. I’m cool with that. Since I try to avoid that whole rush-rush-rush mentality, I sort of like the delays. Especially when I’m on the train by myself. Please! Drag this trip out as long as possible! The more time in which I can knit, read, and listen to my Ipod without interruption, the better.

On Tuesday morning, however, I had an Amtrak experience that left me questioning if I’d ever voluntarily set foot on another one of their trains.

I boarded in St. Louis during a snowstorm. When leaving from St. Louis, I usually pick up my ticket at the station. When I leave from my hometown, I get my ticket from the conductor. Since the weather was so bad and the train was boarding when I arrived, I decided to skip past the over-crowded ticket counter and get my ticket (which I purchased almost a week earlier online).

The two conductors were standing at the train door, gabbing, when I approached. They stopped talking and looked at me. In my sleepy, coffee-deprived state I said, “Is this Sedalia?”, motioning to the train.

“No,” snorted Conductor #1. “This is St. Louis.” Then he Conductor #2 shared a snorty chortle.

“I mean, is this the westbound train?”

“It’s going to Kansas City.” Translation: yes, this train will be stopping in Sedalia, which I know because I’ve made the trip numerous times. Someone who’s unfamiliar with the route would have to endure more of the conductors.

I asked if it mattered which car I chose. From past experience I know that sometimes, on crowded trips, they try to keep people detraining at the same place in the same car. “Just go upstairs. The seats are all up there.” So I wrangled my single bag over my bashed-in neck, picked a seat, and got out my knitting and Ipod, waiting for the train to start. That’s when the conductors come around to settle tickets.

Pretty soon Conductor #2 came around and asked if I had a ticket. I told him I had a paid reservation and needed to get my ticket from him, at which point his head exploded with such force it nearly blew his conductor’s hat back to St. Louis. No! You can only pick up tickets on the train anywhere but St. Louis and Kansas City! You owe $32 right now!

Or what? You’re going to dump me along Manchester Ave. in Maplewood?

When I refused, he called the station, gave them my name and credit card number, verifying that, indeed, I had paid my $14 fare and was where I should be. Unfortunately, I was supposed to pick up my ticket at the station. My mistake, which I wouldn’t have made were it not for the arbitrary nature of Amtrak’s ticketing process.

Here’s where it gets weird. Conductor #2 informs  me that the only way to straighten out the situation is to cancel my reservation for the current trip, as well as the reservations Clara Jane and I had for later that night. This makes no sense, since the two trips were completely different transactions, but at this point I was fighting tears and ready to just be done. I paid, then called Brian before I lost my cell phone signal, asking him to call customer service and see what the hell was going on.

According to customer service, there was absolutely no reason to cancel the evening tickets and repurchase them. The nice agent simply reinstated the tickets at the price I’d originally paid. I can only speculate that the evening reservations had been canceled by Conductor #2 for one of two reasons: 1) incompetence, or 2) spite. I’m guessing #2, since I was rather spirited about the whole situation.

I eventually made it to my hometown, reunited with Clara Jane, took a nap, and prepared to hop the evening train back home.

Now, my hometown has a great deal of pride in its railroad history.  This pride doesn’t carry into its railroad present. The station’s a shithole. The local homeless use it for shelter. Not that I blame them, but when I’m in a new place and I see homeless folks hanging around in places like the train station, it makes me wonder if the local people, government and churches actually give a shit about their less-fortunate citizens.

The station smells like a cross between an ashtray and a latrine, although a latrine would be favorable to the bathroom facilities. Don’t you love urinating in an unofficial homeless shelter under the glow of a 15-watt lightbulb with paper towels for toilet paper? Clara Jane took one look at this bathroom situation and, in all her 4-year-old wisdom,  informed me that she’d just hold it.

So, my mom and I wrangled her into a Pull-Up, something she hasn’t worn in her waking hours in months, to give her a little relief. She needed it, what with the 90-minute postponement, which left us sitting in the cold, dark evening. She got hungry, so she had a little picnic on the bench outside the train station.

By the time we finally got on that train, my mom was in tears, making her the second generation of my family that Amtrak made cry in a 12-hour time period. Go Amtrak!

The delays continued through the trip, getting us home at midnight, almost three hours later than scheduled. Again, I generally expect these delays. Love them when I’m alone, and when I’m with Clara Jane I bring all sorts of things to keep her occupied: lots of books, art stuff, and for the really tough moments, The Lobotimizer (you might recall, that’s a portable DVD player).

It was only after we boarded the train that I realized her crayons weren’t in her bag, The Lobotimizer’s battery was dead, and I didn’t have a plug-in for the AC adapter.

No way were five books going to get us through this trip.

I remembered that, two years ago, I loaded an episode of “Dora the Explorer” and one of “Little Einsteins” onto my Ipod in case of an emergency. I never had to whip them out, but this seemed like the time.

Hallalujah, when Clara Jane saw my Ipod, she asked if she could listen to “Hey Ya”.

And that’s how I wound up sprawled in a train set, staring at the ceiling while my child at potato chips with a Pull-Up over her underpants while listening to the majority of Outkast’s “The Love Below”. That’s probably also when Family Services should have intervened, but we wound up being fine. She listened to some music, watched her shows, and we read her books. She wound up sleeping for two hours while I knitted and pondered what it might be like to shuffle across the state on foot next time. It seemed somewhat preferable.

(Okay, I’m not actually going to shuffle. I left my Ipod in the car and I still don’t have much music moved to my MacBook. Besides, it’s Beatrice the Ipod’s second birthday this week. She’s worked hard, so let’s get her a little vacation. I promise I won’t cancel her return ticket, either.)