Friday, February 10, 2006

Welcome to Seattle

We hit a storm in between Anchorage and Seattle. That, or the pilot forgot how to fly. Whatever the case, my first move on solid ground was to park my ass in a bar and order a vodka on the rocks, double olives.
"Wanna make it a double for $2.50 more?"
"Hook me up."
I never drink hard alcohol except after flights like that one, and then only as a way to convince myself to get on the connecting flight. Trust me, it's better than this potential phone call:
WORKING: Hi babe. It's me. I'm sorry, I can't do it.
TREV: Can't do what?
WORKING: Get on the next flight. I'm done. The flights stop here. I now live in Seattle / Tacoma.
TREV: What are you talking about?
WORKING: I am never leaving solid ground ever again. Except maybe to change a lightbulb. But that's it.
TREV: Hon, you have to.
WORKING: No I don't.
TREV: Yes you do.
WORKING: No I don't.

Instead, I drink double-vodkas. And it works. Unless my friggin' flight is CANCELLED. Then I get a buzz just as I need to logically work my way onto the next available flight. And then intoxication kicks in when they try to explain how complicated it's going to be to get my bags out of customs in time to make the connection to Toronto. Oh, and then the hangover hits while I'm waiting at the gate. I'm left in a depressed, dehydrated funk just in time for boarding.

And I'm only half way there.

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