Grand Adventure .... part two

San Francisco United Airlines Gate 77A was where my Auntie and I parked our booties for nine long hours

after our scheduled flight was cancelled.

We had successfully completed only one leg of our six day journey.

Bakersfield, to Eugene, Oregon.

The day I left Reno in order to drive down to Bakersfield,

I stopped by my chiropractor's office for a quick racking and cracking.

"I don't think you can get from Bakersfield to Eugene on an airplane, can you?"

"I have tickets to prove it can be done."

Little did I know he was right.

Back to gate 77A.

After taking several short walks to get our joints lubricated,

eating a big cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream,

two trips to the restroom,

 being repeatedly disappointed because we did not see our name pop up as standby passengers on two subsequent flights to Eugene, 

I decided to interview other bored passengers.

It went something like this:

Blonde, middle aged woman who listened to my report on the African American child replied,

"I knew neither one could be the mother of that child, and somehow I knew she had two mommies."

After a few moments discussing what I had learned, she seemed satisfied with my intel.

Like the men on American Pickers say when they are trying to buy something from a hoarder,

"We have to buy something to break the ice."

In this case, just striking up a conversation with a complete stranger constitutes breaking the ice.

I can't quite remember the sequence of conversational exchanges, but after the woman got chatting, 

she was unstoppable.

In the course of 20 minutes or so of conversation we learned:

1. She was divorced, twice

2. Husband #1 was an alcoholic, and she had two kids by him

3. She eventually quit being an enabler, went to AA support meetings

4. Divorced him-but had a butt load of problems trying to get away from him and his influence

5. After years of being alone, decided her Prince Charming was in a wheelchair somewhere, so she planned

a fantastic new life for herself by accepting a job in London, England.

6. At her going away party, a female friend of hers invited a man to the party

7. He wasn't in a wheelchair, sparks flew, they dated a few times

8. She decided not to take the London job, and eventually married that man

9. Husband #1 died from complications of falling off a roof, we all agreed he was probably intoxicated

10. Her son committed suicide

11. She has one surviving child, who suffers from depression

12. She could NEVER paint her toenails red.

Not to gloss over points one through eleven, but the most pressing issue we talked about for several minutes

was the fact that she had ugly feet, her sister always told her that, and she should never show them in public.

When I looked down to see her feet,

I really, really couldn't help myself,

I discovered she was wearing boots.

Who wears boots in California at the end of July?

"Of course you can have red toenails. Anyone could wear red toenail polish!" I consoled her.

Auntie showed her that even she, with her crooked little toes, can enthusiastically sport red toenail polish.

"See, see? If I can wear it, so can you," Auntie reassured her.

"Oh, no. No one needs to see these!" She immediately began ripping off her boots, 

then a sock came whizzing past my ear in her frenzy to show us 

the ugliest feet west of the Mississippi.

It is at this point that I have to explain that there were other wayward passengers sitting close by us.

With each proclamation our lovely blonde haired woman made, more and more folks

began to listen in.

Immediately across from us sat a young 20 something woman, granola-ish, with yellowish, fuzzy, shoulder length hair, round, horn rimmed glasses, calmly, quietly reading her Kindle.

I caught her looking up and secretly smirking.

I winked at her.

She smiled and eyes went back to the Kindle.

Two seats down from granola, sat her polar opposite.

A woman in her fifties, very stylishly dressed, black capri pants,

gold, tailored blouse, with upturned collar,

sporting a sassy, modern short hair cut.

Her skin was milky white, and strikingly contrasted with her dark hair.

She wore red lipstick, and poking out from her Manolo Blanik type sandals were

perfectly manicured red toenails.

Annette was her name. I do remember that one.

Now, Annette sat mute with her companion large, gold, handbag filling the seat next to her

until the discussion about alcoholic husbands came around.

Then she too began chiming in on the communal conversation declaring she had a similar experience.

"Sociopath! Drunk, narcissistic, sociopath. That was what I married."

Annette's delivery of her vital information came lazily as a sarcastic, matter of fact, statement.

Complete with rolled eyes, and a harumph.

Back to red toenails.

 

When nice blonde lady unleashed her self proclaimed ugly toes on us,

all was quiet for a fraction of a second as we took in the sight.

By the build up she had given us before the big reveal,

I expected to see some gnarly, infected, stinky nubs.

 

At first I couldn't see what the big deal was all about.

Then she pointed out the hideousness of having the toe, next to the big toe,

smaller than the one next to it!

My mind reeled.

This woman had convinced herself that she was a freak of nature, and unless she wanted to be signed up

as a circus act, that under no circumstances should she reveal her abnormality to the general public.

Apparently, we were in an acceptable alternate universe at gate 77A

because she had her shoes and socks off so quickly

I thought her feet were on fire.

"There, there you see? I absolutely could NEVER EVER wear red toenail polish!"

Her face beamed triumphantly.

The four of us looked at each other in stunned silence after her proclamation.

Granola girl sneaked a quick peek as well.

I asked her if she wanted in on the conversation.

"Oh my no. That is quite alright. I would just like to read. Thank you."

She had some kind of accent I did not recognize. Maybe Norweigan? Icelandic?

As if I knew what that accent might sound like.

I realized I was dealing with years, lifetimes, of  "never show those deformed feet to anyone" fears.

"I don't see what the big deal is all about. I would paint them in a heartbeat. If you don't like red

wear hot pink, but liberate those toes!" I told her.

Personally, I live for summer and sandals.

I cannot imagine a worse sentence than to have my feet cooped up year round.

Right then and there I started the Red Toenail Women gang. 

RTW.

Granola girl declined to join,

Annette said she was in,

Auntie and I were obviously the ringleaders,

and I want you all to be on the lookout for our wayward

shrunken toed member.

She is probably in disguise,

wearing brown cowboy type boots.

But we would know you anywhere,

boots or not,

red toenails or not.

I beg you to let them poor little toes run free.

I bet there are laws governing against discrimination of women with pint sized second toes.

If you join my gang, the RTW's, we will have your back.

I told Auntie that I will begin my campaign to get more members when I get home.

So if you see RTW spray painted on a wall near you,

Shhhhh, don't tell the cops,

let them figure out who we are,

and what we stand for.

RTW's UNITE!!!

*the accompanying picture is of a box I got for my Auntie to hold all occasion cards we gathered from our journey. The box looked a little tired to me, so I took the opportunity to decorate it for her as a reminder of our fantastic time together. I just realized there are five paisleys. If you would like to join our gang, just let us know. I will be happy to design another paisley in your honor. We are equal opportunity gangstas!