leaving on a jet plane

Okay, I’m off to my Vegas conference this afternoon. I don’t like planes. If I survive the plane trip, I’ll make sure to take many phone pictures that I can beam up here if there’s reception out there. But first, I have to survive the plane trip.

Until I get back — one way or the other — you can amuse yourself with mine and Ken’s latest podcast. Yep, Eight is up. I swear we’ll stop the long, monthly hiatuses on those things.

I’ll leave you with this word of wisdom: Boogers!

deep-fried

My family has always had a habit of re-naming places around town to something more amusing or true. For example, if you want a computer, you go to Com-pewsa (CompUSA), to visit an older part of Birmingham you’d head to Eye-ron-delay (Irondale), you can always get some coffee at Barns and Farms (Barnes and Noble), and there is always sub-par electronics at Radio Crap (Radio Shack) where their slogan is, “You’ve got money; we’ve got junk(tm).”

This practice is still going on with Steven and me, and we’ve set to work re-naming some of the places around Auburn. In particular there is this chicken finger restaurant that has a Christian theme paired with good chicken. We’re probably going to Hell for this, but we call it Jesus Fingers. And Jesus Fingers is a good place to eat.

Well, last night I was craving me some Jesus Fingers, and since we forgot to get the taco shells for the tacos we were planning to cook, we headed over to get us some Fingers, making jokes all the way.

“What if I accidentaly ordered a place of Jesus Fingers instead of chicken fingers?” Steven asked. “Do you think they’d kick us out?”

I laughed. “Yeah, they’d smite us and say, ‘Out, sinner!’ Man, please, please, please don’t order Jesus Fingers.”

On and on we went. Would Jesus appreciate us eating his fingers or would He get offended? To that I said, “Well, He did say ‘take of this bread for it is my body.'”

Then Steven shot back, “‘Take of my fingers, for they are deep-fried.'”

At that, I just lost it, laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face. It was a typical Carrie moment. Unfortunately, that moment happened right as we were pulling into the restaurant, so we had to sit in the car a few minutes while I got my giggles out. I was still doing my best to stifle my laughter as we finally walked inside and, thankfully, ordered chicken fingers.

We sat in the ‘Wild Goats’ section and waited for our food, pondering what circle of Hell is reserved for us. Wherever it is, I hope they serve our favourite Fingers.

I’m just plane crazy

I can’t recall if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m going to be getting on a plane in two weeks, two days plus an assorted number of hours. Not that it’s been on my mind or anything. I’m headed to Las Vegas, Nevada on a nifty business conference trip. This will be very interesting because 1) I’ve never been any farther West than Arkansas, much less Nevada, and 2) I’ve never been on a nifty business conference trip before. Unfortunatly, the most economically sane way to travel there is via plane.

I had my first plane dream for the trip last night. This seems to be evolving into a tradition; I had crazy plane dreams the last time I had to fly in 1999. I still remember that one vividly. We were flying to England but in my dream we took the Concorde — this was pre-Parisian firebomb of destruction, — which turned out to be no bigger than a kayak and our bodies were exposed to the elements as we flew in a stomach-lurching, roller coaster-like fashion through high rise buildings and lots of neon lights. Crazy Dream England and their neon lights.

Last night’s dream was, thankfully, in a normal-sized plane, but we were flying to Dallas instead, go fig. We used the interstate as a runway then the pilot immediately did a barrell roll to avoid the power lines. Only after the barrell roll did the pilot announce that the roll was a planned maneuver. Thank you very much, Red Baron. Halfway through the flight I’m told it’s my responsibility to call the Dallas airport to make sure their runway is big enough for our plane, but I can’t get through to them with my cell phone; I keep getting cut off. So, because of my ineptitude, we come to find out as we land that the runway is in fact not big enough, so the plane gets caught up in power lines and everyone hates me.

I don’t think it’s helped that Steven and I have been watching the entire first season of Lost. Have you seen that? Have you seen the plane crash sequences?! Why am I getting on this plane in two weeks? Someone tell me why it’s worth it!

______________________________

Arrrrr.

a boat, a city, and some coffee

Two and a half years ago, I had the wonderful opportunity to take a vacation on a cruise ship with Steven and his family, courtesy his grandparents and their 50th anniversary celebration plans. Our ship, docked in New Orleans, floated us down the Mississippi and out into the Gulf of Mexico, headed for Cancun and the Yucatan peninsula.

The trip itself was wonderful. I have a fondness for boats and I enjoyed that experience even more so than my venture into Mexico. It amazed me how much wind could be generated by a slow-moving cruise ship and I was very thankful for my trench coat and the nonstop flow of coffee.

I was also glad to see New Orleans again. When I was a child my family and I took numerous weekend trips there since my dad’s Navy Reserve squadron was stationed nearby. I know parts of New Orleans isn’t the best of cities but Cathy and I only knew the good parts: the La Quinta Inn near the big American flag and, naturally, the French Quarter, where you could buy a fake ice cube with a fly in it to freak out your mother later on.

We only were in New Orleans for a few hours before boarding our ship; after all, that was the true reason we were there. When we arrived back in town after our boarding adventure, we were greeted with a gloomy city that had seen a good rainfall just a few hours before and the clouds were threatening to have another go.

After we disembarked, I found out the plan was to immediately start heading back to Alabama. Well, I thought it a sin to be in New Orleans and not even go by the Café du Monde, so I talked Steven’s parents into taking a short jaunt down to the Quarter, despite the gloominess.

So that is how we ended up under the awning of the Café du Monde on a chilly, wet February morning, partaking in an early lunch of chicory coffee and warm beignets. We walked by Jackson Square and saw the St. Louis Cathedral, which was unshamefully covered in scaffolding — ahh, they heard I was visiting.

As we were driving away, full and satisfied, Steven’s parents remarked on how much they enjoyed our brief visit to the Quarter and they were very glad I had mentioned the idea.

I’m glad I mentioned it, too.