An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

San Francisco, our second home

Yesterday Jon, Leta, and I flew out to San Francisco for the week where we will be speaking at a small conference. The title of Leta’s panel is YOU: ON A DIET OF FRUIT LOOPS, and we just came along to press the forward button on her slides.

Our flight with the kid was average-to-moderately-bad, as she was not interested in anything we had packed for her to play with. For me, the only quality that exists in air travel is the opportunity to sit down for a specific period and read books or magazines. Otherwise, being on an airplane is almost unbearable, especially for those of us whose legs do not fit in the allotted space. And yesterday’s flight was particularly bad for Jon in this regard when the man in front of him reclined his chair so far that Jon was pinned to his seat, his arms and legs splayed in opposite directions like a fly that has been smashed with a rolled-up newspaper.

I spent the whole flight suggesting things for us to do: color? read books? play with stickers? And each recommendation was met with a shake of her head and roll of her eyes. She was not interested in anything except the food cart where there were drawers and drawers of cookies. I explained again and again that she’d had her share of cookies, there were no more coming, and she had two options: one, we play with something in the bag, or two, I throw her out the emergency door. She answered, “Three, cookies!”

It’s good to be back here in the city, and we’re going to have some time to play around a bit later in the week. According to one of the TSA workers at the security checkpoint in Salt Lake City, we need to be sure to pick up some sourdough! Because when she asked where we were headed and we told her San Francisco, she informed us that this is what you do when you go to this place. You buy sourdough, and then sit in the park and glare at the gays.

I wonder if there are TSA workers at other airports who recommend that passengers flying to Salt Lake City pick themselves up a Mormon. Because they taste like chicken.

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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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