Mele Kalikimaka

I sit amongst the crowd of fellow passengers awaiting to board. We hold our seat assignments close to our breasts, like a precious secret we’re dying to share. We prolong the inevitable: the idea that we might actually sit next to the person we’ve picked out in the crowd. 

I picked out a nice, clean looking young woman, sitting not too far from me. It wasn’t long before I realized……..well….let’s just say I decided she might not be the best choice. So I changed my choice. How about that nice old lady, the one whose son is the pilot? Yes, she’ll do nicely. But then again I never saw her again once she failed to pass security. Probly for the best we’re not row-mates.

The scanning continues.

Wow. Not too bad, everyone looks quite nice.

Then he walks in. He has a T-shirt and khaki pants. His shirt reads, “GOT BEER?” classy. He is wearing a hat, much like one Robin Hood would sport. His shirt was sweated through at the arm pits, and after he spent a long time smelling himself, he seemed pleased with the outcome. Something like “huh, not as bas bad I expected!”  His back pack spewed with quilts (rawr???) and he was very keen on pulling the rim of his underpants far enough over the waist of his pants, visible to all. Gee, thanks.

Yup, I’m gonna be sitting next to him. Something inside me just knew. Once seated, I knew he’d probly tell me all about his recent induction into the Warlock Society. About his involvement in the latest version of Pokemon, and how he meets weekly with friends to battle at Games Workshop or something to that degree.

Well, it’s only 10 hours.

That’s only an hour episode of Lost, multiplied by 10. So like a marathon.  Yah. That’s not bad…..*whimper*

But not so. Not him at all. Granted, I can still see him, he’s across me, in the next row. He has made a tent from his quilt to hide his face from others. …

I have a nice, South African man who has slept 80% of the time. Good choice. And he offered to lift my bad into the overhead for me (literally a first).

I’ve recently (as in like the last 3 hours) attained a cold sore! Good.  REAAAAAAL good. And as if that wasn’t awesome enough, I’ve just got another.  So yes, that makes  2.  Oh, and about 4 or 5 huge, red, angry pimples. Because actually looking presentable for my Loves is just absolutely out of the question.

I might not appear in many picture the next day or 5. Or week or 2.

Why is she so vain? You ask?

You haven’t seen my face lately. And with my newly attained pooch and overly active oil glands around my hair line, yeah…I’m not exactly a sight for your sore eyes.

Now Robin Hood is reading about how to grow his own Cannabis in, “Pot Society.” 

  

On a brighter note, I’ve only used the bathroom once in the last 8 hours. 

Maybe that’s why I have so many issues with my face…

Just a thought. 

Every second I get closer to Seattle, I get a little more anxious about missing my connecting flight. I have only slightly more than 1 hour from the time my plane lands to the time my next one takes off. AND! I discovered that I actually have to take my check back through customs IN Seattle, and then RE-Check it. AWESOME.

I think I’m getting another cold sore.

Well, I’m now safely (for the time being at least…) aboard my flight to Hawaii. HAWAII PEOPLE!

It was a mad rush getting onto this plane, let me tell you. My bag was LITERALLY the very lasted to be pulled from the plane. Once I finally managed to grab it from the rapidly spinning belt, (can you even imagine little old me, hauling such tonnage to and from, here and there, all onmy own?!), I sprinted to customs. Throwing little old ladies aside as I pushed my way to the front of the lines, I RE check my bag, and then go through security, (which I pass with flying colors *applaud, I was like the only one!) and as soon as I reached my gate, they started boarding. PHEW.

Of course my carry on bag is twice as heavy as I am, and at least 3 times as thick. So when the attendant with eagle eyes spots my bag as I try to hurridly shuffle it past her, she stops me.
“oh. No. no. no. nononon. That’s too big.” She points to their “luggage guide” for me to try and put my bag in. It looks like I’m trying to fit a loaf of bread into an Altoid’s box. We BOTH know it will fit once on the plane, but they just want the extra money from my checked bag.

I begin to look teary. (I’m good at that after not having eaten or slept in hours) Explaining that it fit on the last flight, and I have a lot of personal items in the bag, and yaddy yadda.
Her heart was bigger than my luggage. She just said, “Okay, I let you trou. Jus don’t let the odder lady see.”  Big winky face.

AW.

The man behind me reeks of beer and regret. A very sorry combo. It’s also sorry for me that his  legs are currently digging into my back. I DO understand that not everyone is 2 feet tall like me, but really. It’s not fun for anyone now.

Well, my battery is about to die, so I better go.

Can’t wait to see Jess and Laura. Can’t wait to shower.

Love!