A LITTLE RED-HAIRED BOY

I admit to checking out the people boarding the same airplane as myself.

I mean, if we crash in the middle of the Pacific and end up spending six years on a beautiful tropical island that amazingly resembles the North Shore of Oahu, I would like to know in advance who the Sawyers and Lockes of the groups are - as well as getting on Sayid and Jack's good side - and how to eliminate Benjamin Linus right away.

No, seriously, I just look at people and just randomly wonder if the 395 lb. guy is going to be sitting next to me - what way I could offer my sole talent of putting babies to sleep to the mom traveling with a newborn without coming across as a kidnapper-weirdo - if there is ANY way the Australian couple with the lovely lovely accents can be directly behind me on my left side (my hearing side) - and how could so many of these people afford to sit in first-class and I can't?!

 

I go through the normal frustration of being rushed onto the plane so we can leave on-time but then be forced to stand in the cramped aisle while waiting for everyone in front of you load tons of stuff into the overhead, make certain they have a pillow and blanket, and ask the airline attendant (who is frantically trying to get all passengers situated before the plane actually takes off) each and every question that they will cover in their little 'pre-flight' lecture that most of us have memorized from being on multiple flights.

When we finally got seated, a little red-haired boy in the row ahead of me turned around and asked me loudly what my name was, told me his name was Brent, and proceeded to throw his hands high in the air as the plane began lift-over over the ocean.

Brent was true entertainment the entire six hours - he was continually grinning from ear-to-ear, he was always interested in something, he played his GameBoy for hours without any help, and only occasionally (about every five minutes) yelling hello to his mom and dad, who sat across the aisle.

I wouldn't have picked Brent out of the waiting crowd as the person who helped this be one of the happiest flights I have ever been on.

Thanks, Brent.

A LITTLE TIME TO GET LOST

I am leaving home for six days, and I am terrified.

I'm not scared of flying - I've flown over the Pacific ocean enough times and watched "Lost" more than anyone should - and I am convinced if I ever am in a plane that crashes, it just means I'll be stuck with Sayid for at least four seasons - YES!

And even though I am going to what is probably the most BORING small town in the universe (look up the word "stodgy" in the dictionary - there is a photo of my mother-in-law's home town next to it), I am certain I can sit and nod and listen to her stories and mentally be a thousand miles away... hmm, perhaps with Sayid.... no, don't go there.

But I am leaving someone else in charge of my house... and my animals... and even the neighbor's animals (I'm watching them while they're in Texas).

My son.

I know he will feed the animals - I'm just worried about WHEN .

I am certain he'll separate the horses - I'm slightly concerned about him remembering to put them BACK.

He will walk the dogs... sometime.

And I am UTTERLY CONVINCED that my house will be standing when

I get back in six days....

But just barely.

So is there anyway that someone can guarantee that I AM gonna get some time with Sayid?!

I'll be able to leave happier then.

LOST AND FOUND

I get nostalgic about odd things.

I find the distinct smell of a doctor's office extremely reassuring... probably because my mom worked for several physicians.


I honestly do love those horribly ugly 60's and 70's 'art-deco' buildings - those were new while I was growing up.

The feeling of your skin when you have gotten too much sun - the 'almost-burned-but-not-quite' tightness, almost tautness of your arms and face (admittedly, I am very lucky - I very rarely have had sunburns which actually hurt) from either being at the beach or the pool too long, and you are dehydrated in very way possible.

And I have been homesick for Hawaii for years and years... in fact, since December 1991, when I left last time.

So tonight watching "Lost" reruns and being fully aware that the Pacific Ocean (well, the water in Pearl Harbor, but that's close enough) was literally 50 yards away....


Ah. Back home again.