How We Fly

Last month we flew to Louisiana to visit our fabulous families. When we fly, we don't give a sh*t who thinks we're crazy. It's all about keeping our toddler occupied and if Griffin wants to dance on his tray table, so be it. At least he's not yelling or having diarrhea. I hate to be "That Lady" on the plane, but riding with a squirming toddler in my lap puts me in a certain mood where I lose most of my altruism.



I had a dream recently where Jake and I won a free trip to Paris, but we had to fly for seventeen hours with Griffin on our laps. It was horrible. All the wriggling and the gesturing and the sticky fingers.

Just in case my dream sounds all together too realistic, I should mention that Barack Obama was our flight attendant and he gave us caramels and sea salt and sounded eloquent when he pointed out the over-wing exits and forward lavatories. I hate the way people in movies never have dreams that have that bizarro-world quality that always invades my dreams. There's always something not-quite-right going on in the background, like the time I had to perform Spoon River Anthology naked in front of an audience of very judgemental oscillating desk fans.