At Home

When you’re home, you know it. For years and years he’s had the same colors and could pass on quick inspection. Yet the moment we are standing and cheering and are surrounded by sad and sitting fans, we’re outed. Devils’ fans in a Blackhawks’ world.

These last two days he is among his people. Every bar, restaurant, hotel room, and corner pharmacy has a logo within. He can walk proudly, toting every Devil scrap he owns.

We recognize the tribute to arguably the best goalie in history and get choked up taking it in.

We get lost in the fan store getting to touch every possible combo of Devil’s memorabilia you could imagine that we’ve only ever seen online.

We admire the sweeping images gracing The Rock. We marvel at the huge logo in the cement in the square, offset from the towering player statue seemingly carved out of rock.

We meander through an arena filled with new family and friends, even if just for a night.

We sit in our seats and take in the familiar sights and sounds and even colors. But those horns stand out and that camaraderie with fellow fans just can’t be beat.

Devil’s fans in a Devil’s world.

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Poemy Monday the Fourth

slice-of-life_individual

That Silence

The sound of silence,
in the quietness
of a winter morn.

It wraps you up,
envelopes you in its solace.

The sound of silence,
in the calmness
after everyone is slumbering.

It holds you close,
comforts your heart in safety.

The sound of silence,
in the stillness
of an empty classroom.

It offers decompression,
allows your heart to breathe.

The sound of silence,
in the peace of prayer
wherever you may be.

It offers a settleness,
to the chaos in your heart.

The sounds of silence,
allow your heart
to wash the heavy away.

 

 

Pluggity, Plug, Plug, Plug

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You’re not really a grownup unless you have a bin of cords and plugs taking up space in your house. You know, for when someone has to charge that Blackberry phone or maybe that’s the one for the clean air machine we no longer have? Who can tell?

We are steadfast in our resolve to not add anymore cords or plugs to our life. Outlets are at a premium in our house. Like for reals.

So naturally two new apps got installed on my phone and with those apps came plugs for the device attached to said apps.

Coinciding with the first, is the discovery that our quiet cul de sac with three empty houses is busier than a Nascar speedway. Notifications for motion needed to be turned off. Thankfully that plug only needs to be used every few weeks. As long as it’s in a place where we remember. Sigh.

The second new plug needed a devoted outlet so it can be charged whenever. This one was a freebie with our fancy new doorbell. This one made me roll my eyes when the husband took it out and had us set it up. We really do not need this. This is silly.

We had to take up an outlet. We can no longer say one of Maddie’s friend’s names. There. Is. Another. Cord. Sigh.

Well. Alexa has ordered me a book so, there’s that. She’s told us the weather. She has played our music and cracked the kid up when asked if she knew Siri.

Only by reputation, if you were wondering.

So two new plugs and a mountain of entertainment.

 

Just Don’t Think About It

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Just don’t think about it.
Has anyone ever said that to you? The odds are it has just the opposite effect on you as it has had on me. Telling me not to think about it succeeds in my mind not thinking of a single other thing.

You think about it as you reach over to turn off the alarm that is set for a weekend because you have so much do to since you’ve been doing nothing but thinking about it.

You think about it as you finally get up and make the coffee and forget to put in the sugar that makes it worthwhile because you’re thinking about it.

You think about it as you plan out your day and try not to plan time to think about it because you won’t be able to accomplish anything because you’re thinking about it.

You think about it as you make the piles for your trip that is supposed to help you not think about it. Well, it was planned long before you were thinking about it, so it’s not really meant to keep you from thinking about it, but that’s what we’re shooting for.

You think about it as you print your boarding passes and start to think about the touristy things you will do together for a whirlwind few days. You think less about it as you picture taking in that lady holding that torch. You think even less about it as you picture standing in the place your great grandmother stood when she was finished crossing the ocean.

It’s not going to go away and you’ll still be thinking about it. And yet, you’ve got mind room for some pretty amazing things that are coming your way in the next few days.

So just don’t think about it. 

Silver Sisters

slice-of-life_individual

Gray. Grey? Silver. However you spin it, it’s not a popular choice. Well, if you’re talking  cars, it may be. If you’re talking hair, holy sh*t, you best be talking about cars. The stigma that surrounds women and their strands of silver is so deep rooted in our culture it’s astounding.

I have never been, nor will I ever be the type to hit up the salon to get her hair “look” polished. Okay, once upon a time, I got highlights in a salon. I dyed it at home. Once. It turned orange. I went dark to save it. I got highlights to lighten it. That was the end of the road for me and when those first gray strands burst past the color, I ignored them.

At first people didn’t notice. They complimented my highlights. I laughed to myself and parted my hair a little differently to hide those pesky silver strands. Somewhere along the line, those pesky strands turned into a full on streak on the front end from roots to ends past my shoulders.

Sometimes I try to pony tail it in a way that they blend in and on a quick glance, they appear as bright highlights. I think. Outside the streak, there’s some recruiting going on and some friends are joining the ranks.

I’m okay with it. Doesn’t really matter to me. I had crazy blond hair growing up and silver seems a fitting way to round out my life.

My dark haired beauty of a sister, who is recognizable by her thick strands, has recently decided to actively embrace her grey and have the guidance of a professional leading the way. She’s tracking her journey and speaking of the confinement of constant coloring and how freeing it is to let go. About how many beautiful silver, white, and gray sisters there are out there rocking it on the daily.

I chuckle to think that by our fifties or sixties we will no longer be that blond hair pale sister and that dark haired olive sister.

We shall be silver sisters.

 

 

 

Ring of Bravery

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Parts of me. Parts of her. Parts of us. It doesn’t come out of the box often. Mostly when my soul needs a boost or a strong dose of bravery.  It’s like having it around my wrist grants me a direct line to my guardian angels.

I can feel the coolness of the silver when I feel my head getting heated. I can feel the angel’s wing and know that she is there. I can spin the cat and think of all the love we share for the furry beasts. I can see the new addition that helps to mark the me. I don’t have to look or feel to know the hearts are there. Hearts are always connected when the threads between you are strong enough. Even when the physical ties are severed.

As times goes on, it will grow and change and adapt to my lifestyle and interests. For now, it’s mostly her and that’s more than okay with me. When I’m ready to step off the ledge, she gives me the wings to soar.

 

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Nope. Nope. Nope.

slice-of-life_individualThis one?
“Nope.”
This one?
“Nope.”
This one?
“Nope.”

Dress after dress rejected and placed back on the rack. This once upon a time dress wearing aficionado was not having it.

Too flowery. Ok. Too pink. Ok. Too striped. Ok. Too crinkly. What the heck? Too bright. Ok. Too dark. Wait a minute!

Oh yay, I think to myself This is a precursor to the teen years when my opinion is dirt. Joy of all joys.

Then as if it was a honing beacon to her heart, she yanks off the rack a pair of cammo overalls, with a hopeful look in her eye.

“Not for the choir performance mom.”
Like duh.

Swallowing my shock (not cotton shorts AND overall buttons and clasps?!?!?) and carrying the three dresses she would even cast a quick glance at, to the dressing room she swipes the curtain closed.

We end up leaving the store with cammo overalls in hand and a dress that’s not a dress.

“Well she said we had to wear a dress and there’s this skirt around the shorts so if you look quick, it’s just like a dress. Mom.”

She’s going to look great with cammo dreams in her head and a dress that’s not a dress topped off with black boots.

I’m not sure her dad is ready for this.