Shoes, Boobs and Prudes
I remember that day, I wore coral gold-distressed leather ballet flats with cute little bows at the toes, and because I didn't wear socks, my feet were cold. I forget what clothes I wore, but that doesn't really matter. Shoes matter, and wearing those Leas on the plane that day marked a very significant event.
She, that day, wore a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps -- Engras. I had salivated over that pair for weeks when the collection had been unveiled, and I was very consciously reigning in that hungry fervor that threatens to take over all women and gay men when they see a truly lovely pair of shoes.
Just as unfortunate, for those of us whose budgets cannot afford as many pretty, pretty shoes as we'd like, that pair of Manolo Blahniks, size 8, narrow, handmade in Italy and totally haute couture, belonged to just another pretty pretty face with little to no brain. And that was before she began talking.
I'll be honest and admit that she didn't have that vapid, empty-headedness that most stereotypical platinum blondes with anorexic bodies have; she really was quite honest in her earnest blathering, but no one, and especially me, needs to know the entire history behind every single breast implant that one has had.
Good thing I didn't sit next to her. Heh.
Daddy dearest, a Mr. Oliver Black, has a surfeit of cash; at times, though, he is quite stingy and believes that all people, like himself, can fall asleep anytime, anywhere -- even twenty-five thousand feet up in the air, with a giggling bimbo hee-hawing like a donkey in your ear. With that mindset, he had booked a red-eye flight for my trip back home from Mum and LA, so I'd have a "nice nap on the plane" and then be all bright and chipper for a new day in Philly. Joy.
While I did not sit next to Boob Lady, the poor punked out goth man on my left failed to be affected at all by her chatter, and when she, two seats to my left, realized this after the first hour and switched her attentions to me, I instantly lost all sympathy I had for him. His eyes had been steadily fixated on the seat in front of him, and he hadn't so much as moved a finger since takeoff. The little white iPod earbuds were permanently glued to his ears, and he neither glanced in either direction nor wiggled, God forbid he look down and touch the clickwheel to change the song.
Normally, the flight from Los Angeles to Philadelphia goes by in a moment, but "normal" constitutes as having reasonably quiet, in Boob Lady's case, and somewhat mobile, in Goth Boy's case, neighbors. Goth Boy had obviously taken a vow of silence, and Boob Lady a vow of total insipidity.
As you can guess, with the way everything has gone so far, the possibility of that "nice nap on the plane" has totally deflated to a big, fat zero, unless I can manage to pass out in the few minutes we have left until landing. Boob Lady, yes, has kept up her long monologue, but it seems as if she's finally tired of hearing her own voice. Shocking, I know.
"So, why are you going to Philadelphia?" I so did not want to answer, but I have manners, so I did. Besides, it's not like I'm ever going to see her again, so why not? There is a good part to the whole "Stranger-on-a-Plane" scenario, and neither of us had learned the other's name. It's probably something lame and cliché, like Pamela Anderson, Jr.
"My parents are divorced but have joint custody. My mum lives in LA, my dad in Philly, so I just spend the school year with him. Holidays are every other."
"Oh, you poor dear. It's so upsetting to see so many broken families, ever more so as my husband died just a couple months ago. Of course, you just have to move on, so I've met a few people since then, and I'm going to Pennsylvania to move in with my new husband." Insert inane giggle by BL, insert silent gag, by yours truly. Display gigantic shiny rock on finger. "He's just the most darling man I've ever met, so handsome and tall and..." blah blah blah, quickie wedding in Las Vegas, blah blah blah. Down goes my IQ as the plane heads into a spiraling nosedive and crashes, erupting into a giant fireball and engulfing the whole area in flames.
I wish. But the plane did land without a problem, and Boob Lady finally stopped talking as she smiled and blew a teary kiss. "Adieu, dearest! Mmwah!" Wave. Tear. Kiss. Gone -- victory!
All right, so it wasn't all that and hooray. After the flight attendant refused to give me a bottle of vodka, everything kind of went downhill in the haze of a lecture on abstinence from alcohol and temperance. Damnit, you're not actually supposed to check ID on domestic flights.
Anyway, Boob Lady just turned around and walked out of the terminal, craning her neck on her Amazonian model-esque legs searching for her "Honey-pooh." Goth Boy, silent as ever, spared no glance for anyone as he walked behind her, and I was doing a happy dance inside my head as I looked for my dad. I spotted him waving, and, quite audibly, so did someone else.
"CHOCO-BUNS!!" Boob Lady squealed and clattered over to my dad, arms wide and tottering in her four-inch heels before she clasped him to her, shoving her ever-ample bosom against his chest, and exposing her barely-covered miniskirt-clad derriere to all present, and sickened, onlookers.
Damn I want those shoes. Since she's swinging her feet as she jumps up and down, if they fly away and I pick them up, they're technically mine, right?
In the event of a traumatic affair, I run for things to comfort me. However, airports shops generally don't carry half-gallon cartons of triple-fudge ice cream, and I had only six wrinkled dollar bills left in my wallet after splurging at countless shoe boutiques out West. So off I went in search of a Frappucino and that ended prematurely when the happy couple ended their snog just as I spotted that little shot of adrenaline heaven you can find around every corner.
Boob Lady's mad.
Wait a tick.
My name is most certainly not Theodore, and I am most certainly not a boy.
Daddy was frowning at me, and because he used my full name, I was expected to behave. Poop. Nobody uses my full name unless I've crossed the line, but honestly, all I did was attempt to escape from the horror of watching my dad, my dad, making out with some lady who's probably young enough to be my sister. You can't blame me for that, or well, maybe you can. But it's like witnessing a live of Internet porn -- it's not meant for sixteen-year-old shoe-addicted girls, it's meant for forty-something ugly men who can't get laid. Eww.
Boob Lady was glaring, her big, mascara-lined eyes squinched into tiny raisins and her nose wrinkled as she looked over my head. I turned around.
Goth Boy walked past me, Starbucks in hand and sporting a bored expression. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy Choos and all things holy, shit.
A/N: Long story short, my entire hard drive at the moment is indisposed; I've lost 6 GB of music (15,000 songs; yes, fifteen thousand), and my depression has relapsed as I mourn and try to salvage all my music and pictures and stuff. TT Thankfully, I had just sent this chapter off to my BETAs, so I had the draft saved. In the meantime, I'm off to work and hopefully buy some privacy with my wages by perhaps getting a laptop; it depends, though. We'll see. My flash drive also got trashed. Poop.
Leas belong to the company kenzie shoes, the Engras to Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choos to Jimmy Choo, iPods to Apple, Inc., and Frappucinos to Starbucks. Don't own any of 'em, although I do have the pair of shoes that Maddie wears during the chapter. They're very spiffy.
Many glomps to Wenjing and Kevin, my BETAs; it's taken three and a half years, a few prods from God, some begging and nagging from friends, a kick in the arse, yet again from God, and a high five for me to really start writing again.
Finally, THANK YOU for reading! squee I'm off to hug my teddy for comfort, but before you leave, don't forget to please review!