old people on bikes and other tourist stuff

 

 

When I was at work last Sunday (home decor retail), I saw an elderly man on a bike get hit by a car. Swear to heaven, sure as I was havin’ a smoke on the sidewalk. The gentleman was okay—meaning he may have a broken arm or shoulder, but his legs were working and he was helped to the sidewalk. Sunday night is a big trash night, and big trash cans teeter at the edge of the curb. The gentleman rider, following a much more agile and experienced, female biker, was unsure of his turn and hit the trash can hanging over the street. He fell into a car passing him on the left.

In the first split seconds after the impact, I remember the sounds, louder than I would have thought, brakes and metal on metal and an unequivocal thud and what I’m sure was myself and others gasping. And I remember the SUV that was stopped at the red light between me and the accident on the other side of the street. The woman sitting on the passenger side of the large vehicle turned her face to me and we both held our palms to our faces Macaulay Culkin style, frozen in that stupid pose for what seemed like a very long time. The offending driver stopped immediately, many people ran to the fallen man who was badly shaken but refusing an ambulance. Traffic was a bit of a mess and some drunken woman in a golf cart starting cursing a blue streak at another driver for no good reason that I could figure out, and the biker limped away with a small following. It’s high season, it’s busy in town, restaurants are full, white hair is everywhere. Old people and inexperienced bikers, please stay off of the heavily traveled streets. It’s bad, seriously, I dodge these folks like stray bullets.

And speaking of high season, in the past thirty-four days, I have had company for 24 nights. The quip of the island: fish and company—after 4 days they both start to stink.

 

photo credit: chicksandfixes_wordpress

 

 

mood ring

 

 

I have a mood ring, perhaps the same one as pictured above. I know at least 7 other women who also have a mood ring because I gave it to them. Ladies, if you’re reading this post, I hope you know where your rings are. There’s a great deal of significance in this dime-store ring—it’s a conversation starter, it’s entertainment, it’s taking your pulse at any given moment with the option of not taking it seriously. It’s a symbol of friendship and a metaphor for my bohemian side. Consider a mood ring next time you’re on ebay or etsy or wherever you go to shop. Cheap and delicious—kind of what I aspire to be.

Text below is from bestmoodrings. I’m not divulging what color my ring has been sporting as of late.

 

Here are some of the most common mood ring color chart meanings and the associated emotions.  The most common color for a mood ring to turn is between green and blue.

Black

Fear, Nothing, Angst, Serious, Overworked, Stormy, Depressed, Intense

Yellow

Anxious, Cool, Cautious, Distracted, Mellow, So-So

Orange

Stressed, Nervous, Mixed, Confused, Upset, Challenged, Indignant

Green-Peridot

Mixed Emotions, Restless, Irritated, Distressed, Worried, Hopeful

Green-Light Green

Normal, Alert, No Great Stress, Sensitive, Jealous, Envious, Guarded

Blue-Green

Upbeat, Pleased, Somewhat Relaxed, Motivated, Flirtatious

Blue

Normal, Optimistic, Accepting, Calm, Peaceful, Pleasant

Indigo-Darker Blue

Deeply Relaxed, Happy, Lovestruck, Bliss, Giving

Violet-Burgundy

Love, Romance, Amorous, Heat, Mischievous, Moody, Dreamer, Sensual

Pink

Very Happy, Warm, Affectionate, Loving, Infatuated, Curious

 

Mood Ring Color Chart Meanings

photo credit: hippieshop.com

 

a political background, kinda

 

Many of you have read the post and re-post on my father, but if not, consider starting there for a better understanding.

 

 

Up until this point in my life, I’ve felt that I’ve only danced around politics; meaning that I’ve voted in every election, and that I’ve kept one eye on the news and the other eye on my candidate’s and my party’s platform. That’s it. But that’s not how I was raised—being political meant being involved, politics was hands on. My father was a Federal employee, a manpower specialist for the Department of Labor, a bleeding-heart, a do-gooder. One of his many passions was public service, and working within the provisions of the 1939 Hatch Act, won several local government seats during the late 50’s, early 60’s (the Hatch Act in essence prohibits certain federal employees from running for office and did apply to my father’s position). This was the era of “koffee klatches,” when my parent’s seldom used living room opened up to the local movers and shakers, to the hoi polloi, to those who took the business of election seriously. My mother ALWAYS worked the polls. This was the era of Kennedy-kool, when Democrat was not a dirty word, when hope existed, when a rich family was not scary, when we excused their indiscretions because of politeness and beauty, when there were far, far less talking heads and no tweets. My parents were Kennedy groupies—they played Kennedy inspired touch football with their friends every Sunday after church, for cryin’ out loud—go Democracy!

But nostalgia is not my point nor is my current political activity or non-activity. I have one of my father’s campaign brochures (in MD—will find and scan) in which there is a photo of me pouring my father a cup of coffee at the breakfast table. I have no idea why someone chose to use that particular, staged picture, but I never poured my father a cup of coffee at the breakfast table, or any coffee for that matter, in my life. My father’s breakfast was a belt of scotch on the way out the door to catch the bus. The alcoholic, bleeding heart. I wonder if I could have turned out any other way?

 

photo credit: getty images

 

family

 

 

My two sons left the nest some time ago and moved to states that were far from home. While I didn’t like their decisions to settle elsewhere, I was, and remain, extremely proud of their independence and their ability to create fulfilling and successful lives, to raise children of their own, away from protective, parental wings. But I can think of nothing, nothing, that tugs at my heart more than visiting family and their subsequent departure—an empty heart filled, and emptied again.

I cannot write sentimental pieces. I find that the words to express unconditional love are over-used or inadequate, that putting them to paper falls flat and insincere. Cherish your children, teach them acceptance and gratitude. They are solace in a disturbing world, they are hope, they are joy and heartbreak and the purest and perfect embodiment of love.

 

 

think pink

 

 

I wanted to put Pink on facebook—this photo has been my girl-power favorite for some time—but it was blocked. I didn’t know they could do that. Can they?

I’ve been busy writing fiction again (or trying to) and a third short story was just picked up by New Urge Editions for their New Urge Reader 3. “Odd and original,” is what publisher Norman Conquest told me. Feeling the girl-power. Thank you, Pink.

 

photo credit: rolling stone

 

jon bon jovi

Where’s bon jovi when you need him? Still doing Geico commercials? Sad. If you’ve got the time and inclination, check out the bon jovi images – movie-star good looks.

 

 

This ain’t a song for the broken-hearted
No silent prayer for the faith-departed
I ain’t gonna be just a face in the crowd
You’re gonna hear my voice
When I shout it out loud

It’s my life
It’s now or never
I ain’t gonna live forever
I just want to live while I’m alive
(It’s my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just wanna live while I’m alive
It’s my life

This is for the ones who stood their ground
For Tommy and Gina who never backed down
Tomorrow’s getting harder make no mistake
Luck ain’t even lucky
Got to make your own breaks

It’s my life
And it’s now or never
I ain’t gonna live forever
I just want to live while I’m alive
(It’s my life)
My heart is like an open highway
Like Frankie said
I did it my way
I just want to live while I’m alive
‘Cause it’s my life

 

photo credit: pop goes the week

 

 

true confessions or sleeping with the enemy

 

or Why I Really Broke Up With the Boyfriend, just in case I led you to think otherwise in the previous post

 

 

The upheaval in my life in the past year has been tremendous. The transition from married suburbanite to a single, self-sufficient woman in an unfamiliar town has found me crying in airports, has rendered me sleepless, has made me look at myself and others with confusion and conflict. Paradise aside, this has not been easy. I tap into courage and resolve on a daily basis, and as I peel away the dead layers, as intentions become more clear, I am addressing the elephant in my recovery-room—the fact that I’ve been sleeping with the enemy for years, living a lie, keeping as lover my right-wing, political-polar-opposite. I could pretend it didn’t matter before Trump, that our romantic love would save us—but divisive now stands directly between us, a tremendous source of anxiety, our love-making an image of whoreish behavior that I am ashamed of. I cannot be aligned with both my lover and myself. I believe it is in part why I have aggressively posted anti-trump cartoons, articles, etc., on facebook and elsewhere—to compensate for my hypocrisy.

I’ve said good-bye on my terms; with love, with concern, with an understanding of how important this person is, but with the same resolve that got me to Key West in the first place. This is a moving on post, an “enough of the whining” post. I can breathe.

 

photo credit: tumblr