PINK SATIN PLATFORM HEELS ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD by OrB Weaver

~When the stars align correctly, Cronehenge receives a message from OrB Weaver.~

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PINK SATIN PLATFORM HEELS

ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

 

              It was a very long winter in Southern Delaware.  So, its early summer and I finally get out for a drive early one morning with no specific destination in mind: just to relish in the cool morning air after days of wet heat.  I leave the house at a relatively early (for me) hour, around 7 a.m. to beat the heat.  And oh, it’s Sunday.

              This is rural Southern Delaware in an area commonly known as Long Neck.  It is half way between Millsboro to the West, and Lewes to the East.  Now, I very rarely have the need (nor the temper for the tourists, those morons) to go to Lewes, and so my primary route of travel is on the same road, but in the opposite direction.  State Route 24 runs from Lewes to Millsboro, where it crosses Route 113 and becomes something else on the other side at some point.  Three years and I have not quite figured out the country roads.  Anyway, I run the miles mostly between Long Neck and Millsboro to 113 for doctors, my library, Lowes, Fulton Bank and lots of family restaurants.  It’s the best way to get from one side of the state to the other, but ... it’s two lanes, mostly passing restricted (which stops no one), but with quite a few areas that allow passing for brief sections.  As a result, it has the highest fatality rate of any Delaware state road.  That’s quite an accomplishment.  Misplaced, but notable.    

              On this particular morning there was quite a bit of fairy fog lying in the low field areas and in low-lying woodland.  The sun was shining, reflecting off the mist, and everything was covered in soft sparkles of light.  Just as I move into a curve into an area of woods, on the side of the road I see something ...  no, two things ... lying there, obviously discarded from a vehicle, two platform high heel satin strap pumps in what the ‘50s used

 to be called “Titty Pink,” and omigod, it was a note from the Cosmos.

First and foremost, now I know there is at least one other person as totally spontaneous and psychotic as I am.  Hooray for my side.  Bless you sister, I wish I knew who you are.  But it will have to be enough to know that at least one time, in an absolute fury of independence, I can see  you in my  mind’s eye, a word, a look, a ‘tsk’ pointed towards you, you took OFF those ComeFuckMe shoes and heaved’em out a car window, because you had come to the end of the line of ridicule, abuse, torture, hypocrisy, or because the wedding was such a flop, you  actually felt some blame, so you tossed them to restore some balance in your universe.  I threw my shoes out the car window at 70 miles per hour, bright forest green satin, the guy behind me in the semi was surely waiting for the body.  But that was my freedom gesture.  And shoes make a statement.  Shoes are like ... “I’d rather go barefoot than walk one more foot in these shoes that I wouldn’t wear if it weren’t for you ...”

              So to say I had an immediate kinship with the former owner of those magnificent shoes (think Joan Crawford, think early Bette Davis, or Lana Turner), because shoes say it all.  And she was certainly giving some man a big  FUCK YOU.  The only reason we wear those tortuous designs is because it is part of female DNA, programmed to believe that shoes actually sell sex.  And, yes.  They do.  And we allow it to continue, because even if we accept it’s bad for us, it’s always been fun to be bad.

              You go, girl, you of the pink platforms.  I almost went back and retrieved them, but I thought, no, that’s none of my business and I shouldn’t interfere in what was so obviously a very strong signal to someone.  So I left them there in the hope that everyone will wonder and everyone will have a story, but you have sent a clear message of being just plain fed up.  You get mad enough, anything’s possible.  Even something good.

              Or, of course, you might have just hated the shoes. 

 

Orb Weaver

July 8, 2015

BEACH BUGGY STORY, by Orb Weaver

 

 

 

I live at the beach.  Well, not precisely, but within a 15 minute drive to salt water, either bay or ocean.  The Delaware coast has a lot going for it, not the least of which is no sales tax, and a definite proclivity to catering to the many needs of all us geezers who have descended into Lower Delaware in lieu of Florida.  As the old Romans would say, ceteris paribus, it’s a good place to live and/or die.  Where else do you get to witness the annual mating season of thousands of horseshoe crabs, marine arthropods, whose physical characteristics and behavior have not changed for 250 million years?  It’s a big deal.  There are festivals celebrating it.  They are probably my all-time favorite ocean creature (other than sharks, of course, and the jellyfish that light up).  I have a couple of dried ones in my collection of beach stuff ... my dad always loved them, too ... he brought a huge one back from the beach (found dead at high tide line) and hung it up in a tree in the woods near their farmhouse.  He thought that over the fall and winter the ants and other offal eaters would have their way with it, and then he could varnish it and mount it on a piece of walnut.  But when he went to check on it, it was gone.  All of it.  Not even a claw left.  Some deer hunter probably came upon it, and knew no one would believe him if he simply told the story, so ... it’s sitting in someone’s basement bar, collecting dust.

 

But I digress.  One thing that becomes evident when you live at the beach is that you see family more than when you didn’t live at the beach, at least in spring and summer.  It begins with Memorial Day, and continues through Labor Day.  You learn all the back roads to everywhere, and you stay off Route 1.  In order to take better advantage of the lesser populated beaches, I bought myself an old Jeep, vintage 1994, with many, many miles on her, and purchased a Delaware Beach Plate so that I can drive onto the beach, bypassing all those frazzled folks toting coolers and chairs, kids and boogie boards, umbrellas and duffel bags full of all the stuff you have to take to the beach (and rarely use).  So this past Memorial Day, when my husband’s oldest daughter (the good one) and her husband came to visit, we decided to load up the Jeep and trek to the place I go that never has more than a dozen vehicles along its entire strip.  Usually there is a good space between vehicles, and folks set up canopies and grills.  Every 4-wheeler has a flag or three flying from 12 foot poles stuck in rod holders, heralding one or another sport, and the occasional Jolly Roger.  Flags seem to be de riguer, but I haven’t got one.  Yet.   

 

We arrived, however, way too late ... it was (in the vernacular) asshole to elbow the whole length of the beach, one Jeep on top of another, and the sand was really deep and chewed up ... I told my Mr. Wonderful that we had to let some air out of the tires, but no ... what do I know, after all, and so ... we got stuck.  And in the process of getting unstuck, I overheated the clutch to the point that it was smoking.  And a couple of rednecks who noticed my anti-tea party bumper stickers (mainly the one that says, “I think ... therefore I do NOT belong to the Tea Party) hooted and hollered that Tea Party members would be smart enough to let the air out of their tires, to which my husband’s daughter screamed in reply, “F**k YOU, you morons!”  And then two gay guys pushed us out.  I retreated off the beach and we went home.  Lesson learned:  do NOT go to the drive-on beach on any holiday when the sun is shining.  And ALWAYS reduce the tire pressure, no matter what your spouse says. 

 

On Monday we went to the beach at Delaware State Park (near Dewey Beach) and spent the whole day in the sun.  It was wonderful, and a good time was had by all.  On Thursday I took the Jeep over to my pal where I bought it, and he checked out the clutch and tranny and proclaimed her fit for duty.  Whew. I was so relieved, because I was going to fix her.  No matter WHAT.  Even if it meant going on a ramen noodle diet to pay the bill. 

 

And oh, yes.  I’ve ordered my flags.  A large gay pride rainbow flag, and a 12-foot Tibetan prayer flag.  Maybe I’ll add a Jolly Roger, too.  That should do it. 

 

 

 ~~ Orb Weaver, First Cousin to Right-on Maud