Michelle, Jill, and I sighed happily over our exquisite French/Vietnamese food, which we chased down with the finest pinot noir the Pacific Northwest has to offer. Sadly, dessert was more inhaled than enjoyed because we had a private plane to catch. So the group of us hurried through our goodbyes, hopped into the van that had served, for a day, as the Ari-entourage shuttle, and sped to the airport. I’m still not sure what all the hurry was for. I mean, the plane couldn’t really leave without Mr. Lear, and Mr. Lear was with us, goddamn it.
It had been only 12 hours and already we were taxiing down the runway, heading back to LA. As the wheels left the ground, I knew I’d never enjoy flying coach again. When I went into the bathroom, it was stocked with everything a person could want in even the finest hotel suite. And, yes, I was able to lift a pair of brand new, fluffy, pink socks from the flight. When we landed home at the private airport, I laughed in disbelief at the sight of our cars lined up 25 feet away from the jet’s resting place. Now that is the kind of service a girl from Dorchester could get used to. In fact, I am already plotting to offer my songwriting services to Rush Limbaugh’s organization. While he could not shine Ms. Huffington’s Christian Laboutin pumps (yes, I am obsessed with her shoe collection — so what?), I hear that his private jet is even better.
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