SQUIRREL!!!!!!

     I’m often 

               distracted 

            by 

                                    menial

                      things. 

    Just to illustrate, the window washers in the old “full service” gas stations I experienced back in the 70s were fascinating to me as a little girl. With my blue eyes, and from the backseat of my parent’s metallic turquoise 1967 Mustang, I would engage in the back and forth motion of the squeegee device they used to wash the windshield.

    Back and forth. 

    Back and forth.  

    It was quite mesmerizing to me, along with the smell of “regular” gas that was being pumped into the car just adding to the wonderful ambiance. It was really a great combo for me as a kid, like cookies and cream ice cream or peanut butter and jelly might be to most people. 

     My take-off from Kona proves this point as clearer as the display windows at Macy’s during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade time of year.  So, as we are accelerating on the runway, I’m trying to appreciate the speed, the views of the lava fields and ocean perspective that we are gifted with. Even with one of my favorite dive spots right alongside of the runway, I get totally distracted by the fingernails on the lady sitting on the other side of the aisle. They’re these bright pink press-on nails that are being worn by someone that looks like they’re in their 30s, and perhaps on their honeymoon. Oh, good for you!

     I mean, I get the whole fake nail thing, sort of.  I tried my hand at them in college...for like a day. Until I couldn’t wipe my ass or take my contacts out without giving me a homegrown colonoscopy or LASIK experience.  Gawd knows how Flo Jo even clenched her fists while running with the nails she had goin’ on.  But those were “fancy” fake nails that have that gawd awful smell when you’re getting them done back in the day, not the Sally Hansen press-on dealios. These were PRESS ON NAILS on Alaska Airlines flight 196!!!!!!!

     So by the time I’ve reminisced about reasons why anyone would get fake press-on nails as a 30-year-old, and Flo Jo (who I randomly had a history class with at Saddleback College in the 80s), I realize I missed the whole take-off experience and I’m now 35,000 feet in the sky for the next five and a half hours next to a lady with bright pink press-on nails. 

     Excuse me, waitress...I’ll have another drink.