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!

A Grand Adventure

Ten days, four airports, a walker, a wheelchair, and a couple of pick up rides later

boy do Auntie and I have stories to tell.

The plan was hatched several months ago when I heard my 79 year old aunt talk about how much she wanted to visit her cousins in Eugene, Oregon. I knew, with her advanced Parkinson's, she could no longer travel alone, and the chances of her getting to have another visit with her beloved cousins in her lifetime was extremely slight. I made a pledge to myself that I would help her get to Oregon one way or another.

Our first hurdle was her health. I had been waiting for several months to tell her I would go with her up to Oregon because she was having a lot of issues with pain, and doctors. Anyone dealing with Parkinson's understands there is a lot of complications from the disease. There are good days, and bad. Some days, she would tell me, she did not even get out of bed. I wondered how I could promise her something like this trip, get her hopes up, only to be thwarted because of her physical limitations.

When I finally told her of my scheme, she immediately perked up. "I can hurt just as well up there as I do right here. Let's go!!!" I was still concerned, and we had lots of talks about exactly how we would travel. She decided to fly. I am not sure if anyone who has never flown from Bakersfield, California, through San Francisco airport, then on to Eugene, Oregon can really appreciate how hardy a passenger needs to be in order to complete this pilgrimage.

For truly this was a pilgrimage.

After several weeks of eager anticipation, the first leg of our adventure was upon us. We each had one bag to check, and one carry on, excluding Auntie's walker. I was worried about getting through the security screening, but it turned out to be relatively easy. Just slow. I had heard the horror story of an elderly woman who was humiliated during the security screening process in the name of national security. I prayed no such incident would happen to my beloved Auntie. I am happy to report that all security checks were done with a great deal of compassion.

The issues we had while traveling were not even things I had remotely thought about. Every traveler has experienced weather delays, and mechanical problems with planes, but this trip took the cake for me. And I have traveled quite a bit.

I worked very hard to get a flight through to our destination that would minimize the discomfort to my frail Auntie. For a while, I did not think we could actually get decent flights to our destination and return. When I did, I realized we could fly to Hawaii for less dollars. Auntie assured me that her priority for the adventure was spending time visiting with much loved, and missed family members, and not simply the journey itself. If the journey was part of the experience, we would have driven. It would have saved lots of money, and as it turned out on our trip up to Eugene, we could have driven faster than flying! Go figure that one!

After the harrowing walker climb up the ramp to get into the tiny turbo prop plane in Bakersfield, and getting ourselves situated in the puny plane, we congratulated ourselves on how easy this first leg of our journey was. All hour and 15 minutes of it.

I had wheelchair assistance when we landed in SFO. The courier was a pleasant Asian man, and even gave Auntie a sort of mini roller coaster ride up the ramp into the terminal from the tarmac. We were first greeted with "Flight **** has a one hour delay." Okay, no big deal, we will have an airport picnic because we had already purchased Subway sandwiches. I thought we were very smart, and we could just eat our sammies on the plane as we traveled. The total flight time was supposed to be four hours. SURE.

Approximately 30 minutes into our hour delay at SFO airport, the monitor flashed the dreaded "flight canceled. see customer service agent." WTF???

Luckily, I had already finished my sammie, and we had made potty run number one, so I promptly headed to the customer service line. Of course, this is where the story gets really interesting. I leave Auntie guarding the bags, and before I can calculate which customer service place has the shorter line, I am flight canceled customer number 999. And all but one of the customer service representative disappear.

Really??? One representative to handle the rabid line of customers, each with a more desperate story than the next one as to why THEY need to be on the very next flight out of Dodge.

The woman behind me began calling a spouse and demanding he book her on the next flight out of SFO. I listened to a patter that made me so anxious for her to get the hell out of there. "I HAVE to be there by 3 p.m. TONIGHT!!! TONIGHT!!!! YOU HEAR ME????"

Dahling, everyone for three terminals around heard you.

I practiced Zen and the art of standing in line. It was either that, or I would be arrested for homicide. Thankfully, the sight of my little Auntie sitting there so calmly, and people watching gave me strength.

That and a call from United Airlines telling me I had already been rebooked on a flight TEN hours from now.

Ten, really? I decided to wait in line to talk to the only agent within ten terminals. I swear when planes get canceled, the airlines have a duck and cover drill for all available agents. 

Back in line, I came to and decide to pass the time interviewing folks in line. The young hunk of a man in front of me was on the last leg of his journey from Europe where he had been playing professional football. He lived in Eugene. He told me he had been traveling for two days. We started to plan the demise of the woman behind me when a mother of three, traveling with her mother and father, decided to go off like the fog horn on a tug boat. "I haven't had any sleep in 18 hours. I want to get HOME!!!" yadda, yadda, yadda. Good gawd I love entitled Americans.

The young football player did not even have an American phone to call home. It was sweet to hear him talk so calmly to her (I gave him my phone and told him to call momma). He reminded me of my son, Jared.

I could go on, and on, and on about the line I stood in for over two hours to rebook a flight out of SFO, but I think you get the drift. After several frenzied calls to waiting relatives, I was down to two bars on my phone. Bad girl me, I was thinking it was such a quick flight, I could go as light as possible. I packed my charger in my suitcase. What a dummy.

All I can say is Auntie and I ended up spending the entire time in the airport people watching, and towards the end of hour number eight or so, we found some kindred spirits.

For several hours we had watched a young, barefoot African American child wander about climbing on chairs and chatting with people. She had the most infectious smile. I observed her mothers as they took turns following her about. Each looking more tired than the other. Finally, I got an opportunity to chat with one of the mommas. She was tall, lanky, and wearing dreads. I had heard her speak to another stranded passenger and told my Auntie, "I think she is South African."

"How do you know?" she looked quizzical.

  

"Because I have a friend living in South Africa and we have Skyped several times. I recognize the accent. I am going to go over and ask her."

Auntie looked on as I had an animated talk with the young woman. Turns out I was right, she, her partner, and their adopted child were from 'Joberg.' At first I did not understand what she was saying, then she pronounced the whole name, Johannesburg, then I knew what she was saying. She explained to me how there are so many children in that country that are orphans, and she and her partner wanted to adopt. Turns out the child had grandparents in Oregon, and this was their first trip to visit them. I asked how in the world they got the child to fly so far and she replied, "She sleeps on the planes. She knows airports are safe, so she plays." Good for her, bad for mommies. They looked exhausted for sure. Their plane had been delayed as well, but they were soon to be on the last leg of their journey. Then sleep would come. I wished them well and thanked her for chatting with me.

When I got back to Auntie, I gave the report. She looked a little surprised that: 

1. I would go up to a complete stranger and interview them.

2. I was right about where they were from.

3. The child had two mommies.

Turns out there was another middle aged woman listening in on my report, and wanted more details. She had been playing with the child earlier and also wondered how the white women had the African American child.

That's when things got really crazy at gate 77A.

to be continued.......

Puppy Love

Yesterday, I was awakened by, "Get up. There are Yorkiepoos for sale in the paper!!!"

"What?"

"Yorkiepoos! Get up. We are going!!!"

The day before we dodged a bullet because we traveled to see standard poodle puppies,

and came home empty handed.

They were cute as all get out, but another Standard Poodle?

We congratulated ourselves for playing with the big babies for over an hour before deciding we should 

sleep on such a commitment before bringing a new member of our family home.

Thing was, we were waiting for a name. Before we get a dog, it has to have a name.

We never heard a name.

 Sunday morning arrived like a runaway freight train coming down wobbly tracks. 

When the command came, I immediately obeyed. I did not want to be run over by that train.

In my mind there is nothing cuter than a Yorkie baby. My partner plays dirty pool because

that fact was what was used to get my Sunday morning hiney out of bed.

Yorkiepoo, Yorkiepoo, rang in my head!!!

Inside of 15 minutes I went from being dead asleep to sitting in the car anticipating some puppy love

along with a promised Chai tea.

Ten minutes after getting the Chai, we were headed out to Palomino Valley, NV. to see the cuties.

My partner and I reassured ourselves the entire trip.

"I just want to look. If I get one it will be a boy. You can say no, and we will just leave," I was told.

Yeah, sure. Fat chance.

We found the place, about 35 miles from our home, called Model Farm.

It was quite an extensive operation. 

Dogs, horses, ducks and probably more than that which I couldn't see because I had tunnel vision.

We were immediately escorted into the house to view the puppies.
Three females and one male. All running amok.

I was afraid I would squish one, so I sat on the floor.

One little female, with precious Yorkie markings, (of course) came and plopped herself on my leg.

That was it. She wasn't moving, and neither did I.

Chaos was going on all around us, but there we sat, or in her case laid.

As my partner found the boy, and started sweet talking him, another couple came in to look at the puppies.

 "These two are gone. There are only two females left. Sorry."

I immediately wondered who had jumped into my body then informed the strangers we were taking two???

The other female puppy actually had cuter markings, but this little girl claimed me, 

and apparently I claimed her right back, in seconds flat.

There was no hemming and hawing around. No thinking. No name either. Just Sweet Little Girl.

I wasn't really sure my partner wanted the little boy. He was the only male and there was no choice

as far as personalities, or markings. 

"Mad Max. That's his name. Mad Max." So the boy had a name.

Each sweetheart weighs somewhere around a pound. We can't even weigh them because they are so small.

The mom was a creme colored poodle, daddy a Yorkie. Each dog weighs around five pounds,

so Max and Ruby should be no larger than their parents.

On the way home, Little Girl got named, Ruby. It's official, she really is mine.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRjviO8negQ 

We got the necessary things from the pet store.  I even made a doggie playpen out of cardboard boxes.

Even though they are tiny, this enclosure won't hold them for long. They love running on the patio,

and playing rough and tumble in the backyard. 

I forgot how much like two year old children puppies are at six weeks of age.

Granted, we have a lot of work ahead of us because the standard poodles do not know how BIG they are,

and the babies don't know how little they are, yet.

My female standard poodle wants to drag the wriggling little puff balls off to a nest somewhere,

and big boy Tito's inner puppy wants to play with the two of them when they are being frisky.

I am sure we all will get it together, and figure out where each one goes in the new pack,
including us humans, in the coming weeks.

Our household is a study in contrasts.

It has always been this way.

"No dad, I don't think I am building an ark, and I don't think I need therapy.

We are all gonna fit just fine, just you watch and see!"

Just you watch and see.

A Quiet Moment

Today, I remembered my gratitude for the first rose bud of the season

for it is now time to barber the faded flowers.

I went busily about my way, 

trimming and thanking each bloom that stayed.

Raining upon my feet came single petals

escaping withered blossoms,

then all scattered about.

Fallen as if dead soldiers.

I felt my thoughts go with each one,

traveling and rolling,
as they floated to the ground.

  

My eyes inhaled 

a fragile beauty 

from all that scattered around.

I paused,
a single breath,

and the reverie began.

My garden is no battlefield!

I challenged my musing.

Then came a sweetly mirrored reply,

Or is it?

It is me,

I suddenly saw.

I am the soldier

who lies wounded in the field,

withered, and decayed.

My soul is weary, 

and tired,

and ready to retreat today.

Mother Nature, gave me her sanctuary.

Then wrapped me in growing.

I gasped, and breathed deeply 

of the color of knowing.

 

Welcome mid month of July,

a place to rest.

A lazy, warm feeling

glowed deeply in my chest.

A Salmon Cake Kinda Day

It is getting to be that lazy time of summer. Things are starting to wind down a bit, and I am getting restless.

What's a girl to do?

Head straight for the Food Network channel.

That is exactly what I did a couple of days ago.

I surfed through some old recorded shows of Giada De Laurentis.

One particular episode was great. It was all about Greek food.

I snagged a couple of recipes from that show then I went to live tv.

Rachel Ray's 30 Minute Meals was on.

I got sucked into watching her, it isn't hard because she is so charismatic.

She was making Salmon Cakes with Agrodolce Relish and Arugula.

As a rule I am not too fond of salmon these days. I lived in Washington state for eight years,

and I ate lots of the red fish. Frankly, I got a bit burnt out on it.

But Rachel's infectious laughter, and ease in the kitchen seduced me into trying her recipe.

I wanted a new delicacy, and I thought this could be it. 

I was supposed to host another luncheon today, but my lunch date had to cancel due to illness. 

I decided I had hunted and gathered all the appropriate ingredients,

so I must trudge on, with or without my guest.

The recipe turned out to be delicious, and as easy as RR said it was. Check it out:

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/rachael-ray/salmon-and-sweet-potato-cakes-with-agrodolce-relish-and-arugula-recipe/index.html 

It definitely needs the relish, and it has a tad bit too much dill for my taste, but other than that, a delicious meal.

I followed up with a Giada delicacy, Orange-Scented Almond and Olive Oil Muffins.

This one was a big hit, and it should have been.

Who knew that Almond flour is $11.95 per pound? 

With that investment, I will not let that little bag go to waste.

I plan to make a lot more of these little cake like muffins.

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/giada-de-laurentiis/orange-scented-almond-and-olive-oil-muffins-recipe/index.html

I did have to cook the muffins longer, so watch yours.

Fragrant and tasty as a light dessert on a summer evening.

If you get bored, try a new recipe. I guarantee it will get you out of a rut.

I think cooking is the new creative frontier for me.

Lord knows I like to take pictures of my creations,

just ask any family member.

They tend to groan when I yell, "Hey wait! I want to get a picture of that!"

My Picasa web albums are full of single pictures of meals I have made.

They say we eat with our eyes first,

I'll buy that.

Another Lazy Summer's Day

Today the grandkids and I took off to the park.

The kids road their bikes,

I walked with the 14 year old Yorkie.

We have lots of parks to choose from in our neighborhood.

We hadn't been to this one is quite a while,

but the kids chose this one today because they could ride their bikes to it.

At first they wanted me to go ahead of them because they forgot the way.

We turned the corner at the end of our block and started down the street

when Brenden suddenly remembered how to get to the park.

I was struck by how much they both have grown since we started visiting this particular park.

I used to have to pull Rachel in a wagon,

and help Brenden ride up and down the little hills between my house and the little park

(that's what we call this playground now). 

None of those things happened as we made our way. It was a smooth, quick trip. 

We even brought some bread to toss at a lucky duck or two.

Today, Brenden was even doing pull ups on this bar

all by himself.

We have devised several games while visiting the park.

One of them is timing B as he rides around the grassy area on the cement walkway.

His all time record is a minute and thirty,

give or take a few seconds.

Today, as he raced around on the sidewalk he apparently noticed something different.

"Hey grandma! There is a mystery we need to investigate!"

"A mystery?"

"Yes, there are some weird tracks on the cement over there. Come with me, please?"

Well, if there is a genuine mystery afoot, I am your man, or grandma as the case may be.

Both Rachel and I followed the boy as he led us to the mysterious spot of the sighting.

Sure enough, it was puzzling.

There were several human footprints, in black paint, leading out of the swampy area.

Then they stopped,

and became giant deer prints, still in black paint.

After about six sets of huge prints that look like prehistoric deer hoofs,

 the human foot print suddenly appeared again.

There were many theories posited.

"Maybe it was a horse."

After we discussed the logical explanation that the tracks actually looked like deer hoof prints

and not horse hoof prints at all,

we were, for a moment, stymied.

We noticed the direction where the prints were coming from

then heading to,

so we started searching our brains for other reasons the prints were there.

Suddenly, it all came clear to me.

"Well, I can tell right here is where the swamp creature walked out of the water.

See the nasty swampy water? That's why it is black.

Then, for some weird reason, the shape shifter wanted to become a gigantic deer.

Of course, it felt really weird for the creature to be walking on four hoofed feet 

instead of upright on only two feet.

Or maybe a dog came along and barked at him,

and being scared for his life,

decided to become the swamp creature that he was again 

in order to scare the barking dog away."

"Yeah, I think that is it," the kids chimed in together.

Eyes wide open.

"Well, another mystery solved. Are you ready to head on home now?"

"Sure, but let's keep an eye out for that swamp critter! Okay?"

"Swamp creatures only come out at night. That is why the footprints are black."

Brenden, the oldest replied, "I knew that."

 Of course he did, he knew it all along.

Biore

Sunday evenings are a great time to get beautified for the next week.

I came out of the bathroom,

thinking I could kill two birds with one stone

by writing my blog,

while simultaneously cleaning out my pores.

Simple, right?

We've all done things like this, haven't we?

Thinking we are safe in our own homes, with no one watching?

I had planned on writing about my obsession with creating bamboo art pictures.

I broke out of the thin 8"x3' canvas size today that I initially began making.

I went a bit wild, and created some BIG pieces.

Anyway, I was going to tell the tale of how that went,

when my partner saw me sit down to the laptop to write.

"What the heck is that on your face?"

"Oh, nothing dear. I am just cleaning out my pores."

"Where's the camera. I HAVE to get a picture of that."

"OMG no!!! I don't want a picture of me today. I don't think I even brushed my teeth this morning."

"Too bad. You deserve to be your own blog entry today."

Initially, I feigned ignorance when the sim card was missing from the camera,

but I decided to give in and dutifully pose instead.

GAWD it IS embarrassing,

but I think I will look much better without all those blackheads around my nose and chin.

Right?

I mean, I can't say how many times I have been trying to pay attention to a conversation I was having

with someone only to be so darned distracted by a dancing blackheads that all I could think of is

Get some Biore, will ya?

Thankfully, I was not discovered earlier today when I was plucking black chin hairs.

The camera couldn't capture that anyway,

could it???

This getting older is tough stuff.

I thought by now I would be less vain,

but as the years go by and things begin more and more to obey gravity

every attempt to keep looking the best I can seems to be more vital.

Maybe, just like in this picture, I should simply take off my glasses

and call it a day.