Holiday Hiatus Comes to an End...

Source: National Archives of 18 Reed Street

Surprisingly, it wasn't the late night sleepovers beside the cold steel of a Keith's keg that kept Fatty McGee away from the posts. No, the holiday hiatus can only be attributed to cannon shots from a Garrison, drunken wordplay involving "habus," freaking family members out with Aristotelian rants on the soul and leading them to believe I practice Wicca, and causing Steve-O puke-laugh-fests with incessant impersonations of "Dick in a Box" (Step 2: Put your junk in that baaaaxxx!).

That said, there have been a few lessons learned and notes taken while crossing this Great White North twice in two weeks. Let's begin with Cow-Town, the land of ten gallon stetsons and dirty needle drop-off programs... at the airport.

1. I thought I'd be frowned upon on my way home to ask for a cold one at 0930 hrs while I slammed back a farmer's breakfast and looked out at the Rockies bearing down on the plains outside the city like a perfect storm wave. But this is oil/cowboy/I make $25/hour serving Tim Horton's coffee-land. No sooner had I chugged back the neck of a Pilsner had the entire family next to my booth ordered a round of Buds, with tar sands chasers. The eight-year-old could have stared down a family of rabid cougars and blinded them all with spits from his mouth full of chewing tobacco. I raised a toast to them all and said I'd see them at the Stampede in June. They challenged me to a hog-tie and I quickly settled my bill.

2. Surprisingly, the Calgary airport and those who frequent it have a severe drug problem. So severe that when I went to use the washroom (and this was a handicap washroom - I ain't messin' around in some 10x10 ft Guantanamo cell while I get my shit done), I discovered after washing my hands that instead of a towel dispenser next to the sink, I almost lodged my hand inside a dirty needle drop-off site. I thought it was only a forward thinking public health initiative, until I walked to my gate and saw numerous dentist offices in the airport, offering 2-for-1 check-ups for meth addicts. I began to long for the cougar-stare-down-kids as I got onto my plane.

3. On my way back West, I thought of all my New Year's resolutions, how quickly I had chosen to delay 3/4's of them until 2011, but then realized that I had to put my best foot forward when it came to meeting new people: Step up and start the conversation... especially with those homo sapiens wearing blond pony tails, carrying bags worth more than me, and vacancy showing on the fourth finger, left hand.

Which is just what I did on my flight back today. Finally, the scan of the airline, chalk full of flu-vessel grandmothers and leather jacket-wearing bushmen from Yellowknife, left me realizing that I was actually going to get to sit beside someone fairly, um, hot. I sat down, and started with the "disinterested" vibe. Read my book, look out the other side window, read my magazine, yawn a bit, glance briefly at my co-passenger's nervous playing of her jewelry and top button on her shirt, yawn some more, and pretend to close my eyes.

But then, I realized I had to throw out the "Nice guy" intro. "Been traveling a lot today?" I asked. And just like that, it was convo time for the entire flight. Chats about planned trips to Europe. Family time over the holidays. Getting drunk and laughing at people bringing their babies to New Year's parties. It was a solid side-by-side get-to-know.

And then... the Question: "So, are you working now, or finishing school?"

"Yeah, I'm just finishing school. I'm going to start up a hospitality management course next September."

"Fantastic," I say. "Where are you finishing your BBA before you get into that program?"

"Oh," she said. "I meant I'm just finishing HIGH SCHOOL. And I'm so psyched for Grad."

Thankfully, there were no Morality Police or Air Marshals sitting next to me, seeing as how I had to continue the conversation by pulling out the recipe cards in my memory of how lame "dry grad" can be, what Prom Queen really means to an 18 year old girl, and how hard it is to get a really good fake ID. I kept on truckin', though, and ended the flight not knowing if my new friend had any clue that on a very bizarre Oprah, or an everyday Maury Povitch, I could have been her dad.

Double-oh-seven is off to a great start... Bond would be proud... Wonder if the junior high needs any new coaches this year?