Lost.

A few weeks ago, we decided to start Lost. Both Alex and I managed to completely miss the phenomenon when the show was actually in production, but luckily my dad's Amazon Prime account is hooking us up.

Each episode (so far) has started by spot lighting a particular character and flashing back to that character's life before he or she landed on the Island (via plane crash, for those of you who haven't emerged from under your rock in the last decade).

We're on episode 22, or something like that, of Season 1. The survivors have been on the island for a little over a month-- that's a little over a month with zero communication with the outside world. Just sand, jungle, and the occasional polar bear (you read that right-- the show is straight up nuts).

I just spent the last 30 minutes looking for my phone. I pulled up to my house, sent a quick text to Morgan, loaded my bags and grabbed the mail, and headed into my house. Threw the junk mail away and took the garbage out, watered the plants, and came back in to text my husband and complain that he had done none of those things.

But there was no phone.

I looked everywhere. I went from scanning the room to tearing cushions out of chairs. I checked rooms I haven't even been in today.

Friends, I went outside and went through the garbage. Not once. THREE times. Then, I brought it in and moved the garbage piece by piece into a different bag. Piece. By. Piece. We're talking old grapes, lunch meat boxes, and the bag I marinated my chicken in last night.

I checked my car three times-- moved everything from the front seat to the back seat and back again. Moved both seats all the way backward and forward.

Googled how to trace an iPhone.

On the fifth car check, I found it: wedged between the console and the seat, undetectable to the human eye.

At this point I'm sweaty, uncomfortable, and on the edge of a meltdown as I realize that I don't have a landline-- other than my cell phone and email, I have no way to contact the outside world. I'd already emailed my husband and Morgan, and after 30 minutes neither had checked their email.

I was LOST.

Sweaty and irritable, I might as well have been wrecked with Hurley, Kate, and the Others on Mystery Island. I felt like all civility was lost-- without my phone, I might as well have to hunt my own food and build a fire with flint and bamboo shoots.

Maybe I'm too dependent on my phone. BUT. In my defense, EVERYthing from my certification process emails to my work contacts is on that tiny machine.

My heart has just now slowed to a normal beat after that brush with disaster.

never grow up.

When I was in Kindergarten and first grade, my dad taught at Cleveland High School. Kindergarten thru twelfth grade classes were all on the same campuses, separated by a breezeway and a shared cafeteria. So I never had to ride the bus-- until ninth grade, I rode to school with my dad. Kindergarten and first grade at Cleveland stick out to me though because I loved faculty meetings so much. Now, most teachers' kids dread these days because it means staying in that dreaded building for even longer.

Not me. Not with an arsenal of movies at my fingertips. See, like me, my dad is a lover of fine films, and he cultivated this love in me from a young age. On faculty meeting days, we'd walk down to the library, and I'd pick out a movie: Ricky Ticky Tavvy was common but it scared me unless my brother watched it with me, Cinderella was, of course, highly favored, and then there was Peter Pan.

Anyone that knows me can tell you that Peter Pan is my all-time favorite anything: the book, any adaptation of the movie, the play (my fabulous parents took me to see in Atlanta, and ohmygosh, I still remember when Peter took flight right in front of my very eyes), and even the ride at Disney World.

In fact, I found out today that someone had just returned from the Happiest Place on Earth. First question out of my mouth: Did you ride Peter Pan?! 

Here's what you need to know about Cleveland Elementary's copy of Peter Pan: this is not the Disney classic that you're familiar with. No, it's possibly better. I can never decide. The 1960 version of Peter Pan starring a 47-year-old, but ever-delightful, Mary Martin. From "I Won't Grow Up" to "I've Gotta Crow" (favorite line: "Oh, the cleverness of me!") to "Ugg-a-Wugg" my five-year-old mind was captivated by J.M. Barrie's fantastical universe: Neverland.

Sidenote: this version of Peter Pan includes the California Raisins as part of the previews; consequently, I crave Raisinettes to this day whenever I watch Peter Pan.

Today on my way home from work, Mary Martin's 'Never Never Land' came on my iPod.

Y'all, I nearly cried. The lyrics are perfection. The story, unparalleled. It's not like I didn't pretend to live in a castle and daydream about Prince Charming, but when it comes to favorite fairy tales, Cinderella can keep her glass slippers. Ask me for my favorite story, and my mind goes zooming to the "first star to the left, then straight on til morning."

you're never too old for summer camp.

During the school year, on top of being a substitute teacher and graduate intern, I started working for the school's extended day program. Mostly, we helped kids with homework, had snack, watched the kids play on the playground, and facilitated the occasional dodgeball game. In the summertime, extended day turns into a full on summer day camp: 7 am - 5:30 pm. And that, my friends, is my summer job.

At first, I was bummed about a 7 am job in the summer. I am, after all, an educator, born and bred to take the summers off after 9 long months of being a prison warden. But let me tell you: best. job. ever. And don't let anyone tell you different-- because the teenage aides my try to, but they don't know how good they've got it.

First of all, there are field trips. Hello, Birmingham Zoo and McWayne Center. Second, free movies (saw Madagascar 3 today-- very cute) at the Rave Theater. Third, afternoons at the pool every other day. In the downtown, we put the gymnastics mats out and watch a movie in the gym floor. I won't even mention the Oreos and lemonade because I'm trying to ween myself off camp snacks.

Now, if that doesn't sound like two tons of fun, I don't know what does.

Sure, I have to keep up with 17 fifth graders at every second of the day. They can get a little froggy, try to escape the playground from time to time and whatnot. And sometimes the girls yah-yah and the boys tussle. And sometimes there are tummy aches and skinned knees. But it's nothing I can't handle, and mostly it's a lot of fun.

Camp Lot A Fun.

Even on rainy days, it's fun. There's lot of coloring, and I've spent roughly 24 years perfecting my bubble letters.

In Sickness and In Health

You say that in your vows. You picture it years later, possibly decades.

But every now and then you're just lucky enough to have a husband who gets tonsillitis less than a week after the honeymoon.

Thursday morning, Alex got up at a most unattractive hour to get ready for work. Those of us that are working summer programs for the school were still in bed because programs don't start until next week. He fumbled and he mumbled and he woke his wife up. So I said my piece and went back to sleep, none too happy.

Later on Thursday, I get a text from my husband saying that he was sorry for his lack of consideration that morning but he was just feeling really groggy and kind of sickly.

This text was followed by several more expressing that he might have a cold and a fever. I had a job interview that afternoon, but when I got home I found a very sad sight on my couch. A grown man, huddled under a down comforter, decked from head to foot in sweats, and shivering to boot. I immediately went into nurse mode-- I've seen my mom do it many times as a result of my traumatic relationship with my sinuses.

I started with leftover wedding cake, which was received with pleasure. But the night just got darker.

By Friday morning, it was firmly decided (by the wife, not the husband): a doctor's visit was in order.

He screwed his face into more pout faces than I knew he had in him, and Friday morning I watched my 25-year-old husband regress into a grumpy 4-year-old. Women across the board say this is a common symptom among sick men. My high energy, quick witted man turned into a belligerent toddler overnight, refusing to eat or drink and throwing in a magnitude of grumbles and pout faces.

The first diagnosis was strep throat. When his fever still raged on Saturday morning, we headed up to an Urgent Care for a second opinion. This time around, the doctor thought that strep was a plausible diagnosis but the more likely culprit was tonsillitis. He offered a shot to quicken the antibiotic and for a brief moment my husband was back, manning up for a very painful couple of shots of antibiotic and steroids. And then, right back to four year old Alex.

By that evening he had briefly reached a fever break, so we thought we'd brave Erica and Dee's tool & gadget shower. We had already missed another friend's shower that afternoon, and Alex was bound and determined to make one of the two. So out we went. And within five minutes of being there, the chills and fever were back. The result: a multitude of people wondering what kind of monster would drag her sick husband out of the bed for a shower.

So... back to bed. There was some force feeding of soup and Gatorade: just picture a picky child refusing to open their mouth, shaking their head vehemently, accompanied by adamant "Uh-uh's."

But this morning, by some miracle, my husband is back. The magic of modern medicine! It's like the full moon is over and the werewolf has returned to his human form. We've even gone to Lowe's to pick out a mailbox and painted the post in our garage. Back to productivity and back to happy, healthy Alex!

Luckily for me, Alex only gets sick once a year. Unlucky for him, he'll have to deal with Sick Lindsey ten times over before I encounter Sick Alex again. And I give him full license to complain about it when he has to be Nurse Alex.