You may have a case of the Mondays when you're dreaming all night of hearing your landline ring in the wee hours of the morning, hoping to pick up and hear the slight pause of the automated message and then the voice telling you that school has indeed been canceled due to the ice storm, but no such luck, yet you still manage to completely bust your ass on the icy front steps, sending your belongings flying willy-nilly and giving you what can only be a fat fucking bruise on your right butt cheek.
I went to Minneapolis this weekend, which was good, except my flight home was delayed almost three hours and I didn't get home until after midnight, when my flight normally gets in around 9:30. There was some mechanical delay that hurt the three flights before us. So I'm in the dead-as-hell Minneapolis-St Paul airport with the seven other people taking the flight to St Louis, two of whom are priests. One priest, no joke, slept the entire time we were at the gate, sitting up, snoring harder than my Grandma Best (seriously, lady could saw some logs). I can hear it even while listening to This American Life on my iPod. So we finally have our flight, full of turbulence to the point where I think we might crash, but land safely in St Louis. I'm waiting just off the plane where the airline people bring your valet bags (carryons that won't fit in the overhead compartment). Some dude is waiting there. When the priests get off, he grabs their bags, says, "Hello, Friar. Hello, Archbishop. Welcome back to St Louis." Then they walk off the gangway right onto the tarmac, get into a chauffered SUV, and take off, right from the tarmac. Freakin' Burke was the snoring priest!
Reverend Emily says I should have asked him what he thought of the Golden Compass.
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