I was telling a friend of mine about my second meeting with Phyllis Tickle. "You mean to tell me," she began, "that you were on a plane for seven hours, one row in front of Phyllis Tickle, and didn't know it till the end?"

"Unfortunately that's right."

"You could have been chatting, getting to know her?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so, unless she was sleeping."

"Ann!"

"I know!"

"She writes for Publishers Weekly, you know?"

"Yes, I know!"

"I can't believe it."

"You're telling me. She'd be a good person to know."

"Well, she probably won't forget you ... the mom with the kids on the plane ..."

"... and the husband sopping up vomit."

Yes. Yuck. She'll probably remember that.