1 car ride, 2 exhausted children, and 5 hours into our second flight, he’s still funny

Yesterday afternoon on our flight from Chicago to SFO, around about when our epic day of travel had worn my will to live down to a wee nubbin, our flight attendant came down the aisle holding open a garbage bag and asking, “Rubbie? Any rubbie?”

Um, rubbie?! What was this, some Outback Steakhouse cutesified term for trash that United introduced to in-flight vernacular to boost their international brand perception? Or their lovableness?

Since hearing that word was the most exciting thing that’d happened to me all day, I turned to Mark to share share share. He was engaged in some Black Diamond-level dual-action paternal soothery, like stroking Kate’s hair while popping Cheerios into Paige’s mouth–and trying to read the food issue of The New Yorker. Bless his heart.

Me: “Did you hear that? That flight attendant is going down the aisle waving around a garbage bag and saying, ‘Rubbie? Rubbie anyone?’”

Mark: “She is? Really? I didn’t know they offered those. [then in a deep voice] Well… sure! I mean, long as the wife doesn’t mind.”

I laughed for a good long time.

I’d hoped the laughter would’ve lasted me ’til we landed, which it didn’t quite manage to. But my wonder and amazement for Mark—who can bring on his Funny Guy A-game even after a cross-country flight with two kids and a week’s worth of bourbon hangovers—is something I’m still marveling over.