On Saturday night, hubby and Little AG picked me up from the Las Vegas Convention Center and took me to dinner before the slew of Blog World parties that were happening that night began. We headed to the Venetian to have dinner there, which was as great as it possibly could be with a 19 month old occasionally stabbing me with a fork. Also, I had somehow managed to cut my foot open the night before, so it was somewhat in pain from walking around in a set of fabulous heels all day.

We head back to the elevators to the parking garage, and after a brief debate about if we were on level 4 or 5 (we knew it was a lower level), we decide we are most definitely on level 5. The elevator doors slide open, and we walk out of the elevator to our fantastically sexy red mini-van. After a little walking around and attempting to set off the van-alarm, we decide that we are not, indeed, on level 5, so we trek it back to the elevators (me still with my painful foot gash) and head down to level 4.

When we get off the elevator at level 4, we both immediately agree that it looks familiar. We walk halfway across the garage towards a red mini-van – only to discover that it isn’t ours. We start in again with the method of trying to set off the alarm, to no avail.

Back to the elevators.

At this point, we’re kinda laughing, like what idiot truly doesn’t pay attention to ALL of the signs that practically scream what level you’ve parked on? It’s just that, when we got out of the van, we were so distracted discussing my day and strapping Little AG into her stroller that we just managed to not notice. The plus side is that we’re absolutely confident that we are somewhere on the bottom levels, so we (me quite painfully) drag ourselves back towards the elevators.

We try level 6. Nope.

We go back down to level 5, just in case we missed it the first time. Nuh-uh.

We go up to level 7. This time, my foot throbbing, I let hubby wander through the garage alone while I wait, skeptically, by the elevator. No sexy mini-van in sight.

Hmm, how about level 8? Nope.

We dejectedly go up to level 9 just in case we were just crazy thinking that we parked on a relatively low level. No van. Level 9 was the last level. At this point, I’m wondering if someone stole our SMV. I mean, I’m a smart gal, and my hubby’s no dummy either, so how in the world did we lose this sucker?! We couldn’t have. The only logical explanation is theft.

We head back down to level 4. I have full intentions to report the theft of a red mini-van, nevermind all of the Ferraris and Corvettes that were available. Clearly this thief is all about family. Hubby, talking the calmer approach, walks all the way over to the other side of the garage and hangs his head out of the side, while trying to set off the alarm.

HE HEARS IT. It’s above us. Halle-freakin’-leujah.

We head back up to level 5. Hubby goes to “get the van” but comes back without it. Are you kidding me? It’s still above us.

We head to level 6. We get off the elevator, and hubby walks to get the van. I have been waiting by the elevator with Little AG at all of the stops, but realizing that he finally sees our SMV, I decide to book it over to where he is, practically running in relief. I’m almost to the van when he flies backwards out of the parking space, throws it into gear and zips down the lane.

Fantastic. I dart through cars, literally running with the stroller, waving my arms like a mad woman – not caring who is watching me. He passes me right up again. I shove the stroller through another set of cars, flinging my arms up in the air like I’m on a rollercoaster. No luck.

Finally, I see brake lights. He sees me! The SMV rolls slowly backwards in reverse, and then, right next to the elevators where this whole disaster began, I crawl into the van.

It’s time to party.