REACTIVEradio

As of 7:06PM MST yesterday evening, I officially became a Calgarian. Again. After 9 months of solid absence, I have made my faithful return to Cowtown in the hopes of finding health, wealth, and happiness. OK, health I can do without, and happiness is something that Hallmark invented in the 70′s after their lead designer (who coincidentally was a Nazi apologist) passed away, so I’ll take my chances with wealth. At the very least, I’ll take a job.

I really hate moving. No, I know a lot of people say that, but I honest-to-God despise the act of relocating. I know my history wouldn’t really agree with that statement but believe me, it’s true. The never-ending cycle of having to go through everything you own and decide if it’s worth keeping; the stress of making mental checklist after mental checklist of everything you need to take care of before, during, and after the move; the worry that you’re going to come across some dead animal hiding in the back of the dresser drawer you haven’t even though of since you moved in. It’s all bullshit and I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. Baker: I’m looking at you.

Boo stuffy airport. HOORAY BEER!

We begin our journey at the airport wherein we check my baggage. I know from pervious experience that any bag over 75 lbs. will not be allowed on an aircraft. End of story. Period. Full stop. There is no room for negotiation, and airline workers aren’t exactly known for their bargaining skills. I see the scale and contemplate my fate.

First item up for bids: a suitcase. This elegant suitcase was designed with ease of use in mind, with its thirteen cubic feet of storage space, nine thousand pockets and sturdy, extendable handle, this suitcase is perfect the traveler who has never heard of the phrase “pack light.” I place it on the scale. 74.5 lbs…74.8 lbs…74.9 lbs…74.9 lbs…74.9 lbs…YES!

Next item up for bids, a duffel bag. This bag was designed by VIC Sports and is most often purchased by nine foot tall hockey players who keep three sets of goalie pads with them at all times. It is also useful for hunters who need somewhere to keep their surplus grizzly bears when their truck beds are full. My dad and I manage to balance it on the scale. 74.2 lbs…74.6 lbs…74.7 lbs…74.8 lbs…74.9 lbs…75.0 lbs. Holy fuck, this might be a perfect pack job – 75.2 lbs…75.6lbs. Fuck. The check-in lady looks over and says “Seventy-five point zero pounds.” And then winks at me. WestJet, I swear I will never fly another airline again, you saucy minx. Hoping that I’d dodged the first of few bullets, we paid the eighty dollars for the excess weight fees, and made our way over to the X-Ray machine for oversized baggage.

I lift the bag onto the conveyor (during which I silently curse my lack of steroid use) and watch it slowly disappear into the giant metal contraption, wondering if my testicles were really safe being in this room. The conveyor stops with my bag inside. Frick. The latex glove and the “private room” is coming, I can just feel it. The man watching the screen starts to concentrate harder on his screen. Double frick. I didn’t pack any weapons, bombs, or vibrators and just forgot about it, did I? No, I’m pretty sure I left all that stuff in the garbage at home. He looks at me — Oh shit, here comes the “Sir, I’m going to ask you to come with us” as they ‘politely’ attach handcuffs to my wrists — and asks “what are these metal pieces?” At this point, my ass cheeks had tightened up so much that you could have stuffed a piece of coal up there and had a solid diamond brick in about an hour.

Hold the goddamned phone. I thought about it for a second, and realized that there were a few items that were added to my bag last minute. “Oh, those would be parts of my computer case. Just sheet metal.” “Oh, ok then. We’re all good to go here then. Thanks a lot and have a nice day.”

My ass cheeks relax and release enough kinetic energy to power a small city for about 2 weeks.

Ashleigh and I take the escalator upstairs, expecting to have a half hour to eat dinner together before I had to depart. We walk across the upper level of the airport, round the corner, and — WHAT THE FUCK? The line to get through the security checkpoint has more people in it than an English soccer — *ahem* football — arena during the World Cup finals. Well there goes that brilliant idea. If I want to have any hope of making it to my gate before Christmas, I have to get in line, and say goodbye right now.

After standing in line for long enough that I’m pretty sure I missed two birthdays, I made it through the metal detectors without a major incident. No one questioned me about the thousands of dollars in camera gear in my backpack, but they hassle me over my belt. Whatever.

I take about 10 steps and make it to the Tim Horton’s, where I met the little old lady from hell. I’m not sure if she was actually sent back from hell or just hoping to secure a spot on the cold rock for when she finally arrives, but Lord Almighty, you could not find a more useless person on this planet if you tried. When I entered the line, there were 5 people ahead of me. 5 minutes later, and several repeated orders later, there were still 5 people ahead of me. Looking back, I’m pretty confident she was stationed there as a mole by the airlines to draw you in to the Tim Horton’s branding, but cause you to miss your flight, thereby forfeiting your hundreds (or thousands) of dollars to the aviation companies with no chance of a refund.

I stood in line for nearly 20 minutes before getting up to the counter. This was only because two people ahead of me probably decided that dipping their faces in hot wax would accomplish more than wait around for this woman to screw up their orders. In retrospect, I too should have chosen the wax.

After reaching the counter, I place my order. Medium iced cap, please. “WHAT?” Medium iced cap, please. “WHAT?!?” A medium iced cap, please. “Ok, one second.” As the counter is roughly as long as a ham sandwich, I am able to watch her turn around, pour a coffee with cream and sugar, and turn back to me to offer me said beverage. Actually ma’am, I wanted a medium iced cap. “WHAT?” I said that I’d like a medium iced cap, please. “Oooooooh, I’m sorry. One second please.” She turns around, bends over, opens the fridge and pulls out an apple juice. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, I think to myself. No ma’am, a medium ICED CAP. She turns around and looks around the counter.

It’s at this point I contemplate throwing the napkin container that is conveniently sitting next to the register at the back of her head. I’m pretty sure the people waiting patiently behind me (or in the case of the guy about 3 back, not so patiently) would back me up to the bitter end if it just meant that they could enjoy their Crack Horton’s even a moment sooner. But after looking around confusedly (is that even a word? Confusedly…confusedly…confusedly. Whatever.) she see the machine labeled “Tim Horton’s Iced Cap”, and puts two and two together and starts making my iced cap.

Mere minutes (*sigh*) later, I walk away victorious. Iced cap in my hand and a head full of dreams, I walk to gate H where I am assuming that after having wasted more time in lines today than I have the rest of my life combined, I will be on my way to freedom. My assumption is revealed to be incorrect when I find that my plane is going to be a half an hour late. Triple frick. The only good thing to come out of this delay is a joke the gate attendant told all the waiting passengers.

Q: What did Sushi A say to Sushi B?

A: Wasaaaaah’ B

(Say it out loud if you don’t get it.)

I look at my “Catastrophe Tally List” in my folder. Justin – 2; Universe – 3. And we haven’t even left Winnipeg yet. Think positive. Think positive.

Up, up and away

We get on the plane relatively quickly; people are already sick of waiting and somehow the notion of “if we move faster, we can get to Calgary faster” sinks in and everyone is buckled in with their seats and tray tables in their upright and locked position in record time. Seriously, I’ve never seen so many people work so hard to accomplish a single goal. It was breathtaking.

We pull up to the runway that we’ll be launching from, and I look out the window to find….a line of jets ahead of us. RAPTURE! We wait for a good 10 minutes before we take pole position. As we say our final fuck you to gravity, I close my eyes, finally knowing that there is nothing bad that can happen between here and Calgary except possibly a pigeon getting sucked into the engine — scratch that, that would be fucking awesome — when it hits me.

No, not an idea, the drink cart. The stupid flight attendants thought it would be fun to take the ol’ fridge-on-wheels for a test drive during the worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced in my 24 years of existence. We were being thrown around the cabin like rag dolls in a 2 year old’s puppet show, and they think that sending a mainly-steel box throughout the cabin would be fun.

My arm still hurts, you bastards.

TOUCHDOWN!

Our plane touches down in Calgary, and we’re all excited to be on the home stretch. We can’t undo our seatbelts yet, due to the fact a sudden turn or stop could cause us to launch like a rocket through the aisle, but some of us are taking our chances anyways. We just survived being thrown around for a good 15 minutes leaving Winnipeg, a little more face-to-airplane contact won’t kill anyone.

We pull up to the gate and the excitement in the cabin is felt throughout every man, woman, child, and invalid. We are about to stand when our wonderful co-pilot steps out of the cockpit with one of those blind-person’s canes and bleach white eyes and runs into the bathroom door.

Well that fucking explains the bumpyness. Half of the flight personnel can’t see a goddamned thing. Wait a second. HALF OF THE FUCKING FLIGHT PERSONNEL CAN’T SEE A GODDAMNED THING. FUCK YOU WESTJET, I’M NEVER FLYING YOU AG – and he looks away for a moment, only to look back with the pure white contact lens on his finger and his left eye full of color. I take a few deep breaths (OK, so maybe more like 30) and I wait casually in my seat until my heart rate is lower than that of a hummingbird on meth.

Calgary: home sweet home.

The boring end to this boring story.

I arrived home with nearly all of my goods in the exact same shape that they left my possession. The only thing that wasn’t the same was a brick of hard drives in my computer case which had become dislodged from the case itself and had discovered that its new favorite hobby was that of exploring other remote regions of the inside of my case without my prior knowledge or consent. This may have to do with the fact that rather than screwing said hard drives in, I just taped them in with some packing tape, but I’m waiting to hear back from the inquiry before I make any firm accusations.

Oh, and I got a few quotes for car insurance today. $4393 a year. Yes, for those of you who live in communist provinces or states who still have public insurance, that number again is four thousand, three hundred and ninety-three dollars a year. I could buy two damn nice computers a year for that.

I guess it serves me right for being male, under 25, and single.