Stuck for another eternity in yet another airport, I have decided to stray and drink, hopefully not to encounter other travelers and only to eavesdrop on business people with their interoffice gossip. My first double vodka soda arrives as New Order’s Bizarre Love Triangle comes over the speakers in the BEACHES – HALIFAX restau-bar in the Halifax International Airport. Having been banned from listening to this song at the risk of messing up the words to my remake, it’s a moment of jubilation in an otherwise dreary (although well-upholstered) airport.

The station must be some kind of amazing 80’s bliss in the midst of KIDS STATIONS (like, stations in the airport where you can let your kid scream and look at pictures of Arthur or whatever with fake plastic tree stumps and stuff), because I’m listening to The Romantics Taking In Your Sleep now, vodka soda in hand and PGA tour on the television at the faux-granite melamine bar (you can’t win ‘em all).

I can’t help but hope to catch wind of illicit affairs as my whisper 2000 catches clips of “you know, Debbie in HR is a divorcee, you know”. How many people a day in airports make eye contact and follow each other down too-brightly-lit corridors to then perform acts encouraging exchange of the fluids of their bloated, travel-pillowed carry-on selves?

My microwaved pizza arrives, soggy-bottomed and highly caloric as my heavyset poodle-permed and talkative bar-neighbours disappoint by discussing Philip Glass. This disappointment is quickly turned to thrills as I realize this conversation is a preface to the two of them comparing notes on their performing arts daughters. STAGE MOTHERS! Blondie’s One Way Or Another adds a heightened element of competition to their one-upmanship as they namedrop the institutions and classes their daughters have attended. I am internally begging for the daughters to show up, as both mums appear to be baggage carts for Hannah Montana-esque hard-case luggage yet they themselves carry sensible, no-nonsense bags without WHEELS even (bags from the dark ages).

I just wrote drunken postcards to my parents and grandparents, which should be hilarious upon receipt, or equally possible, completely embarrassing. Why don’t they have postboxes in the airport, given that people are sending last-minute postcards all over town? How stupid is it that I have to mail a postcard from Halifax once returned to Toronto? I am now incommunicado as I’ve had to turn off my phone after leaving the charger in my other home, the Vancouver International Airport. Grrrr. They will totally be charging up on my dime. Or on my charger, at the very least. Jerks.

Anyway, I should probably take another sleeping pill and try and get to it before I garner enough motivation to go to the airport bathroom and slit my wrists with a safety razor to a muzak cover of 99 Luftballoons.

Hope you’re having as much fun as I am!



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