A few weeks from today, while you suckers are surreptitiously reading The Frisky on your office computers, I’ll be lying in the sun at a hotel in Los Angeles. There’s a pool on the roof and cabanas and waiters who’ll serve you cocktails poolside. I don’t intend to get up from my beached whale position all week — except, you know, to have sex with my boyfriend whenever I damn feel like it. It’s going to be heaven.
But there’s one little detail — two details, really — that throw a wrench in the whole vacation: I have to fly there and I have to fly back. And being trapped inside an airplane for six hours twice in one week fills me with such a crippling fear that I’m tempted to call the whole thing off. Keep reading »
