Crawfish, Smelly Bourbon Street and Other Tales of NOLA: Part 1.

In the interest of time, and because I felt we should switch shizzle up and not make a huge mother mammoth entry that no one will actually read, we will be retelling random anecdotes from our very fun adventure in New Orleans and the outlying bayou areas to the south. None of them will be in chronological order. That would be too easy - ed.

In the seating area of C-12, the American Airlines terminal in Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, I noticed that there was a hipsterish creature sitting a few seats down from me, peering curiously at my reading selection. It was decided that this was probably most likely because everyone else in the airport had taken advantage of the plentiful supply of In Touch, Star and Us Weekly, and I was the only one with actual books, making me a pleasing intellectual oddity. Since I was enraptured in my fifth run-through of Hillary Clinton's memoirs - which I take on all trips to intimidate my inferiors - I noticed that he had a few books as well, but again, we were almost to the Monica chapter (innocuously called "August 1998"), so we didn't take the time to study his tomes. After about 10 or 15 minutes, someone announces that our plane is going to be delayed 30 minutes. A bunch of New York Jewish ladies (you can spot them miles away) became verklempt and an Anderson Cooper lookalike looked none to pleased, but we had Hill, so it was fine.

"We are NOT taking American Airlines again."

However, I was getting rather hungry, so I dipped into my sack o' amazingness and pulled out my multi-colored penis lollipop that I had won at the bachelorette party a few days earlier. (I didn't really win - I was the only one who had any interest in playing the games, and was rewarded for my potential participation in the toilet paper game that never fully materialized) The hipsterish guy, who was looking more and more like an auburn-haired Richard Dreyfuss circa 1977, was staring in confusion at my sucking implement, but really, would YOU mess with a stranger who has a deteriorating teddy bear, Hill's memoirs and a penis lollipop? Exactly.

The only legitimate weapon you can bring on an airplane. HEART.

Finally, we end up in the actual airplane, and OF COURSE, the hippie Dreyfuss is sitting next to me. After everyone buckles up and pretends to listen to the dog and pony show about the oxygen masks and the depressurizing goodness, the creature next to me clears his throat and says, "Are you from New Orleans or New York?" Now, look. I am perfectly willing to be social when the time calls for it, but come on. I had just been through four days of interaction and was ready to take a three hour breather with Hillary, and I was in no mood for one of THESE people. I turned and got my first look at him. He had a colorful yarmulke on, which, because I'm a sick pup, immediately reminded me of the partially ingested penis lollipop, and he was STILL clutching his books. I gritted my teeth, plastered my microscopic condescending smile on and said, "New York." He grins. "ME TOO!" Jesus. My inner monologue was having a field day, but that's because it was inner, not outer, and didn't have to deal with the disgustingly social thing next to me. I was hoping that was the end of it, so I turned my head and started intently at a portly Mexican who just seemed to be wandering around the runway for no reason. "Open borders policy?" the inner monologue asked. I smiled a little at that, because my inner monologue and I get along GREAT.

A different open Borders.

Unfortunately, Jewish Dreyfuss thinks my smirking means I still want to participate in his inane chatterfest. "How long did you stay for?" Sigh. "Um...about four days." He's positively beaming now. "I STAYED FOR SIX DAYS!" I nod and go back to the Mexican, who looks like he's playing hopscotch by himself with invisible chalk. Infinitely more amusing than turning my head. However, I could tell that staring at the Mexican wasn't going to help, so I decided to take the initiative, Emma style. I looked at his books and innocently asked, "What are you reading?" He holds them up so I can see they're Hebrew texts of some sort, which of course reminds me of one of my ultimate carnal fantasies of all time. "You know, Ariel Sharon and I are BFFs." Finally, the dopey smile disappears and he looks at me uncertainly. It is not known if a) he's not a big Ariel fan, b) he doesn't know what BFF means, or, most likely, c) knew what a BFF was and was disturbed beyond words. He didn't say a single word for the rest of the three hours, and I got to read about Bill Clinton's impeachment process in peace.

Works every time.