Tallsharon's Extraordinary Adventures

The Rite Aid near my house has a new banner.  The garden section didn't work.  No one was ever out there, people probably stole stuff, half of it wasn't marked, and the plants they offered were never that great in the first place, definitely not worth trying to find an employee to find out how much it was. The new banner says "Check out our new expanded wine section".  I knew they sold wine, have always thought it was bizarre that a drug store sold wine, but now it seems every store is trying to sell everything, and in my view, that's shooting yourself in the foot. With the move towards farmer's market, and locally grown food, why would you buy groceries at Target or WalMart?  For that matter, why would you buy produce at a supermarket?  The variety maybe?  But if it isn't in season, it came a long way on a truck to get here.  And food in a gas station?  I'm still trying to get my head around that one.  It's not like it is your only choice. A

Listen when I say we have nothing in common Listen when I say we are not a fit Don't play to my nicer nature It will eventually turn mean When I get tired of the guilt of trying to be nice. Let's shake hands and walk back to our corners. Get out of the ring, and find a new partner. Someone who perhaps isn't an identical twin but has the same basic values. Time is precious. That is the most important thing I could say to someone younger. That and travel is addicting. Get out of your box. Try not to call people names. Try not to ruin people's days. But be true to yourself, always. Sometimes we are our own worst enemies. Not an original thought, but worth repeating, reminding. Listen, I never hide my thoughts, just try to cloak them in manners. I don't want to smother anyone. I don't want to tell a friend, don't talk about that stuff around me. I don't want to say, I have no interest in an hour long, or even a half hour long politi

Again I spot a whole herd of them rolling up from behind, approaching the intersection of two busy roads at full speed.   The alpha male yells rolling, and the group shoots through the red light barely missed by a woman in a car trying to obey the traffic laws. I’m sick of the arrogance of bike riders.   I’m not going to call them anything else.   Anything more sophisticated.   How can the guys look in the mirror in those little tight pants and stupid shirts advertising some brand?   Did they pay for that?   And watching them walk when they manage to detach from the bikes, little mincing steps, a funny gait, funnier even than my halting limp when my hip is acting up. You hear complaints all the time from these guys.   I know there are girls too, but most of what I see is guys or girls with too much testosterone who wants to be boys.   That asshole, they say, opened his car door right in front of me, almost nailed me.   No, I wasn’t in the bike lane; I don’t have to stay in the b

Caravane du Livre 2012 My path to this journey began in 2004.   I was on my way to work in San Diego, California on a commuter train “The Coaster”.   I had noticed a girl sitting in the same car as I normally sit, and as many of us do, we smile hello each afternoon at each other.   On this day, it was crowded, and I selected a seat across from this girl.   She told me her name was Jamila, and she was a traveling bookseller from Marrakech.   She was here studying English, and today was her final day before she returned home.   She told me about her book project, and as she departed the train she handed me her name on a piece of paper and said “Google me”.   In the days or months ahead, I did just that.   I found many articles about her in many languages.   I looked at her website, I told my friends about my encounter with a girl from Morocco.   I had lived in Sydney Australia from 89-94.   One of my boyfriends during this period was a Moroccan man named Omar who was a wonder

It’s the beginning of my second visit to the Ranch, and the world is outside the fence where it should be.   Telephone reception is spotty at best, and the computers are slow in the computer lounge.   Some people have telephones in their “suites” but I am happy to live without all of those electronic links to the outside for a week.   I do use the alarm clock, however, or I’d probably never get up. The rooms are so cozy and the bedding so deep and warm and soft, I sleep like a baby, and dream wildly in color every night. Every night.   It’s still dark and the heater is cycling on and off.   Do I get up for the hike or go back to sleep.   It’s colder than shit Christmas Eve.   My little casita has heavy curtains, drawn tightly closed against the night.   I get up and pull on my long underwear, thick wool socks and hiking boots.   Where are my bloody gloves and hat?   I wash my face, or rather splash it with cold water, grab some chap stick and my heavy jacket and head out the door.   I

I always manage to slip out before the other shoe drops, before the point of no return, before I get too deeply involved.   Is it luck or fear?   I’m not sure if this qualifies as “in bad company” when I leave before the bad is obvious- only when it is sensed, or early on, when things appear to be going bad.   I had a mad crush on a guy, back in my 30s.   He lived in a small trailer in a park in Solana Beach near the Belly Up, come to think of it; I probably met him at the Belly Up.   He was very handsome, a building contractor (unlicensed) with a black Labrador retriever.   In public he’d treat me like a queen but the minute the others were gone he would be mean, and disrespectful.   I knew it but I was absorbed with his looks and also one hundred miles from home so I didn’t really want to drive in the middle of the night on a weekend either.   I know these thoughts were going through my head but I deleted them almost as fast as they appeared.   And then it happened, the words tur

Pop The bubble deflated, attaching itself to my left ear sagging from the tip of my nose to my chin. I reached up, using my pinky cocaine nail to pick at my ear, detaching the pink blob from its perch and returning it to the center of my tongue.   I looked around; no one even looked up and prepared for a second try. There we go slow massage those lips together let the air seep into that sticky gummy mess and float unanchored into the air like a soap bubble.   Oh shit, pooooooppppp, this one collapsed even sooner and even more quietly despite its size.   I should’ve kept- my head up, tied my hair back, and moved behind the stacks so the librarian wouldn’t see me.   Holding the book in front to hide the bubble was a bad idea, in retrospect and now I’ve got to get it outside, or have to pay for damaging it with my gum.   It’s all over page 48 and it will stick to 49 the minute I closed the cover. And it'll leave a gap visible to everyone, especially the volunteers that restock th

I have lots of shoes and footwear.   I also have lots of very expensive glass frames from old prescriptions.   I’m going to take a wild guess and say I have about 30 pairs of black shoes of one sort or another.   I know I have 1 pair of tall black boots, two pairs of short lace up boots, one with a zipper on the side, 1 pair of traditional loafers, 1 pair of kitten heel pumps with oval stitching on the toe bought at Nordstrom in Indianapolis, 2 pair of OJ Simpson   open toe sling back 2” heels- black & red (Bruno Magalia), 1 pair of crocs ballet flats that look sort of like suede but aren’t, 1 pair of sporty loafer type slip-ons with contrasting stitching and a toggle, 1 pair of t strap sandals, 1 pair of open toe strappy black sandals, 1 pair of Akko gladiator sandals, In the garage I have two pairs of raggedy really comfortable keen flats that I’ll never wear again, I have   ankle strap leopard look flats bought at Nordstrom Pentagon City,   A pair of brown Keen maryjanes,

Tomorrow is the day he thought the day I break my record in the ring the weather is dark, the stone cold, my mother and father will sit on the narrow benches heads held high dignified proud but humble. The picadors lead the parade from the tunnel, tight pants and tiny vests, hats with wide brims, almost effeminate in this arena, the bull the testosterone raging silently ominously from behind the fence their torsos thrusting themselves sideways bouncing off the hard stone wall, adding another crack in the gates.   The music, the crowd, swaying forward to see the beginning of the dance, and back again. To neutral when the strain becomes too much. Adrenaline racing around and around row by row forward backward, the first bull is freed, suddenly surprised by the absence of a barrier where there once was resistance. Shaking his head from side to side, scanning the ground, nothing the positions of the picadors, and smelling the sweat the dirt and the blood of centuries baked into the wa