The only way you will get me on an airplane is by dangling a bottle of vodka in front of me. Grey Goose makes me move faster than Smirnoff, but I am not picky.  I have at least two or three vodka drinks before I walk the plank. Wait that’s not what it’s called. What are the last thirty steps of carpeted tunnel hell just before you get on a plane called?

Whatever it is. I walk through it and tell myself over and over, “You aren’t going to die.” Gulp of vodka. “There are hundreds of thousands of planes in the sky right now.” Bigger gulp of vodka. “This is safer than driving a car.” Gulp. “This plane will land safely in a few short hours.” Down the rest of the cocktail and stumble towards JJJ aka: Depends on my mood.
What I love:He looks good in a cowboy hat or a business suit and wears them both daily. But not together, that would be creepy.
Hobbies: Building furniture, remodeling homes, playing sports with our kids, laughing with me. Seriously. who is holding the bottle of vodka.

Once on the plane I do this crazy thing where I look around to find other people that might have better karma than I and therefore keep the plane in the air. For example.  A nun. That’s good stock. We are definitely landing safely.

There was a time when small children would make me feel better but then the media started doing round the clock news coverage of plane crashes and they take great pleasure in showing you the doll or toy truck that belonged to a small child and was found in the wreckage. OVER. AND. OVER. So now children just remind me how much more awful it is if the plane goes down. Pass the vodka.

How about those special reenactments the media does? Those are the most fun you can have without actually being on the crashing plane. Could you jackasses have some compassion for those of us with an irrational fear of flying?  Seriously. We all know the plane went down. We know lives were lost.

Do you have to do a trajectory of the plane's descent towards earth and tell us what the people must have been thinking at each of their last thirty seconds? I’ll tell you what I would be thinking. “I fucking knew it.” That’s what I would be thinking. And also. I would be really pissed off at my husband because I SO TOLD HIM SO. He was wrong and I was right. As usual. That would my last thought of J.

Once, YEARS AGO, I flew sober because I was flying with KeenanKeenan aka: Kman
Age: 14
"Special" Qualities: Door slamming, stomping and eye rolling (can do it all in one impressive motion).
Best Qualities: The softest kindest heart, hysterical and quite charming when he tries. who was just about a year old.  It was a particularly awful flight from Indiana to Florida. After clinging to my baby for over an hour and telling the horrified person next to me (horrified because he was sitting next to me, not because he suspected, like I did, that our plane was going down) that it felt like the wing was going to fall off of our airplane. “I’M SERIOUS,” I said as I put my face uncomfortably close to his. He moved closer to the window and went back to his reading.

I grabbed a passing flight attendant by the arm and demanded, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PLANE?” Thankfully that was pre 911 because my ass would have been tackled to the ground, handcuffed and locked in a bathroom before you could utter the words “vodka please”. 

The flight attendant gave me a look very similar to the one the boys give me after I explain to them that I am INDEED cool and it is fine if I sing JAYZ's, Empire State of Mind in the car with their friends. After removing her arm from my death grip she assured me all was well and we would be on the ground soon. Yeah. That’s my fear lady.

Another special flight was the time, POST-911 (that will become important later) when J and I travelled to Indiana to meet his family for the first time. After a few screwdrivers (my drink of choice for flights because a screwdriver is appropriate morning, noon and night) we boarded the plane.  As soon as the flight attendants came down the aisle, I ordered another and then another.  Woot. Woot. Party in the air. Come on everyone, let’s do a conga line.

Not really. I don’t dance. I talk. Non. Stop. To anyone. And everyone. Which causes J incredible humiliation. This flight was no exception. Fortunately for J it was late in the evening and people were falling asleep (or pretending to) and so I was forced to shut up and try and read. Which is a big problem after five cocktails because the words are all blurry and I couldn't remember the sentence I just read so I reread it over and over until I finally gave up and tried to get some sleep.

Keep in mind that it is now post 911. It helps me look less stupid. So. Please keep it in mind. About twenty minutes into my slumber, there was some turbulence which caused me to wake up and start grabbing at things because, DEAR GOD WE ARE GOING DOWN.

To calm myself, I did what I always do and looked to the front of the plane to make sure the nose was slightly higher than the back. Whew. My heart rate slowly righted itself, I snuggled back in and was just closing my eyes when I saw it.

Out the window I noticed lights that clearly belonged to another plane. I was mortified that another plane was so close to us.  I looked over at J. Sound asleep. Seriously. We are about to crash into another plane and all he can do is sleep. 

I shoved my face up against the window to get a closer look and that is when I realized what was happening.  HOLY CRAP we were being escorted by FIGHTER JETS.  FREAKING FIGHTER J-E-T-S. I started shaking J and whisper screamed, “Get up.”

Used to my drunken flight shenanigans he just opened one eye and said, “What is it babe?”

“Look out the window,” I whisper in a panicked voice.  He did and then looked back at me trying to figure out what in the hell I was freaking out about.

“J,” I said in a very covert way.  “We are being escorted. BY. FIGHTER. JETS.” With each word my face got closer to his.

He looked around me and out the window again without an ounce of urgency. Which was really annoying because, I think I just mentioned FIGHTER JETS were escorting our PUH-LANE.

He shifted his gaze back to me and with a sad and exasperated look on his face said, “Do you mean those red lights out there?”

“YES,” I said. Fin-a-lly.

Again with that look he said, “Babe. Those are the lights on the wing of our plane.” He looked at me for a second in disbelief and then he tapped my knee a couple of times and went back to sleep.

I so knew that.

Why do I tell you these stories of fear? I tell you because I have just booked a flight for August. And my nightmares have already started. I have begun talking to myself about the safety of flying and reading websites that INSIST I am less safe in a car. But I know. Just like every other time. I know. This is it. So. I just want someone to know that if my plane goes down in August. I SO told you so.