As I winged my way home from a conference last week, wedged in a coach class seat designed for an undersized gymnast and having again successfully violated the "two carry-on" edict by bringing my purse, my laptop, and an entire Samsonite outlet store aboard, I found myself seated next to a man from my own neighborhood.
We hadn’t previously met, but armed with a common ZIP code, a friendly conversation ensued. Of course, it was a conversation about real estate.
For the record, I didn’t start it. In fact, I was far more interested studying my magazine, the one with all of the retouched pictures of people who are famous for no apparent reason. With a teenage daughter at home, I have to do my homework occasionally lest I be relegated to the "parents who aren’t cool" category.