I have been in the blue room the last few days

Nothing like the green room into which celebrities are ushered

Lavishly furnished room filled with expensive goodies and drink

For their pleasure and comfort

In which they relax

Before they stride into the limelight

Of some venue

My blue room is nothing like that

Sparsely lit and furnished

A table in the corner in the back in the dark

Yeah, that’s my spot

Head in hand

I sit and muse over the vicissitudes of life

The vagaries of life

Ala King Solomon

Vanity, vanity, all is vanity


Senior sighs swathed in melancholy

Time to regroup


Move out

Shake off the ennui

Think on goodness

The grace of yesterday

Forge through today

Tomorrow is always brighter


When it’s not wrapped in blue









LOVELY DAY: Another Flight of Fiction

She thought the rain would never end.

Day after day after day of rain, rain, rain.

She even tried her childhood chant,

“Rain, rain, go away; come again some other day.”

It didn’t work.

The rain continued.

Day after day after day of rain, rain, rain.

“Catch some of that rainwater, gal?”

Her grandmother’s voice spoke to her from the past.”

“Nothing like rainwater for a hair softening shampoo. It’s God’s fresh water gift to us and the earth. It’s just downright refreshing!”

God’s fresh water gift did not enthrall her now as it had all those years ago when she had gleefully run out into a rainstorm to try and catch it all in her little metal bucket.

She stood and peered out the window.

“Rain, rain, rain, here to stay; I came outside just to play.”

The little girl wore a black and white polka dot rain coat with matching hat. Her rain boots were bright red.

Her round little face was turned upright, mouth wide open as though she was trying to catch every drop of rain before it hit the ground.

Her mother walked behind her, a smile on her face as she watched her little one celebrate the downpour.

When did childhood joy turn into adult angst?

Her husband was more than a little surprised to look out the upstairs window and see his sixty-five year old wife in a black 30 gallon garbage bag and a supermarket plastic bag on her head wearing her old cowboy boots splashing down the street in the rain.

So were the neighbors.

She did not care.

“Rain, rain, here to stay; I just came outside to play!”








INTELLIGENT: A Flight of Fiction

They never said she was smart.

“She is intelligent,” is what they always said.


She hated being called intelligent.

“Sounds like something you order off the menu of that trendy restaurant in SoHoBoHo,” she once said to no one.

She wanted to be smart.

Razor edge smart.

Dorothy Parker Algonquin Table smart.

She wanted to be smart perched on a grand piano in a ballroom swathed in a red hot dress while others crowded around her waiting for the next bon mot to trill from her sultry tinted lips.

Yeah. She wanted to be that smart.

“Intelligent,” she muttered as she grabbed the take-out order from the waitress, adjusted the straps on her backpack and walked out the diner door.

Sitting on the park bench, she took a bite out of her tuna sandwich with the huge red onion slices she added to her order because she loves red onions.


She did not have an appointment today so the onions were a no harm no foul decision.

“Hey,” Tom said as he plopped down beside her on the bench.

The Tom who was smart and witty and longed for by every woman who ever laid eyes on him if only for a moment.


“Mmph,” she muttered as she did her best to talk and swallow at the same time.

Red onions, so not a smart choice!

She hated being called intelligent!










“Your password will expire soon; change it now.”

I didn’t.

Three days later.

“Your password has expired. Please reset your password.”

No worries. I now know to keep a password record for those memory lapse moments.

“Incorrect password. Please input correct password.”

I guess I did not record the most recent password.

Two hours later. . .

“Incorrect password.  Yada, yada, yada!”

I believe in prayer.


That night. . .

“Please help me remember the correct password.”

One day later.

“Incorrect password! #*!#*”


Two days later.

Hello Geek Squad!



What is that new password?



Confession Time:

I go to bed with the same man every night.

The same man.

I climb into bed.

I turn him on and eventually I turn my back on him.

I fell in love with him last year.

I cannot get enough of him.

Every night.

He is not my man.

But I go to bed with him every night.

No, he is not my man.

He belongs to another woman.

He would be nothing without her.

No one would know his name were it not for her.

She is responsible for his style and all those eccentric mannerisms that I find so endearing.

Yes, I go to bed with him every night.

Although he belongs to another woman.

Who grew to despise him.

But I like him . .. . a lot.

And every night . . .

Yeah, you know . . .

What’s his name?

Hercule Poirot!

Yep, that’s right, Agatha Christie’s man from Belgium.

That figment of her imagination.

netflix-logo  brought us together.

All thirteen seasons!

Until boredom do us part.










What were you thinking?