Poemy Sunday Bonus


Ending my slicing adventure with some spine poetry of sorts. 31 slices. 31 titles. A collection of poems.

Those Slices

Slice a lot,
the backstory,
spring loading.

One day,
at home,
may the stories carry us.

Construction messy,
pluggity, plug, plug, plug,
the laundry scores,
bad neighbors,
frustration erased.

meowy dreams,
enter pug?!?!
NO time.

Ring of bravery,
nope nope nope,
the absent ring,
polishing her edges.

Magical sentiments,
anti Potter,
silver sisters.

Stealing my own child,
discarded memories,
light in the hard rock.

That day,
that house,
that silence,
that hurt,
just don’t think about it.




Bad Neighbors


I positively can attest that we are not in fact crabby old people who don’t like people.

We are not bad neighbors.

Despite the padlocked gate at the back of our yard.

Despite recently installing a Ring doorbell.

Despite that camera we are currently installing above our garage door.

Despite the gate that is being placed across our driveway as I type.

What we have taken issue with is the incessant thumping of basketballs. That fits in the crabby column for sure.

What we have taken issue with is the nonstop and deafening vulgarity that should not exit a middle schooler’s mouth in the presence of adults or young children.

What we have taken issue with is the total destruction to a flower bed, a bent mailbox, trampled grass, and scratched cars.

What we have taken issue with is the mistrust that permeates the block in spite of attempts to be friendly, outgoing, and respectful while in return all we receive is the bird.

So I can positively attest that we are now in fact crabby young people who don’t like people.

Frustration Erased


She was standing in front of me when we raced to the back of the store to get those drops and get out.  I admit I took in the picture of her standing there and I was frustrated. This is going to take forever, I thought to myself.

She was barely taller than the counter and the exchange was a beautiful symphony of not English. Three plastic shoe boxes appeared  and a stack of slips placed in each one. Oh man, I thought to myself. We’re never going to make it.

Three littles crowded around her, not a one higher than her waist. Their sniffles and coughs reverbrated through their little bodies. The littlest one kept reaching out just one finger to touch the toys hanging as temptations to all the pharmacy visiting kiddos.

The exchanges continued, as pleasantries, I could tell. This mom was straight up worn out. You could see it in the weight she carried in her own shoulders, yet her face shone and her voice just lilted through the air, as if she had not a care in the world.

The pharmacy tech pulled out plastic bag after plastic bag and collected what seemed enough bottles and boxes to medicate a small country or least build a respectable toy castle.

By this point, the hanging temptations got the best of the littles and they were sitting around her feet now rolling toy cars on the threadbare carpet. I began to wonder how many others stood in that spot wearing down that carpet. I watched her gather up her brood and bags and start the trek toward wherever they were going.

Drops in hand, we raced to get some coffee before racing to meet the ferry. My phone rang and I heard a panicked pharmacy tech explain I might have received someone else’s benefit card. I quickly check and recognize the name that rode across the space from the pharmacy tech’s mouth back in that store.

So back to the pharmacy and the mom coming from the other direction, walking quickly despite the weight of the boxes and bags and littles. A thank you from the tech and a relieved Gracias later, we were on our way.

My frustration had long since dissipated. Somewhere around that finger reaching out to spin the wheels on a toy car.

No Time


I roll over in bed and as soon as I open my eyes, I feel that familiar feeling.

No! It’s 7:30 am and we have a full day planned! No time for that feeling.

I carefully let my lids fall down around the sand and move them to the right. More sand. Move them left. More sand. Up. More sand. Down. More sand. We aren’t evening heading to any beaches today.

I sneak past the snorer sleeping off his Devils’ win after a stein too many and get to the bathroom mirror. I lean against the sink with my head hanging in resignation. I feel the heaviness in my shoulders that I am about to make this day much more hectic and difficult.  I know what I will find when I look up. The sandy tell gave it away.

I’m just mentally running through my options. Of which there is only one.

So we race to the closest urgent care for confirmation, race to the pharmacy for drops to banish the pink, race to the Dunkin for life, race back to the pharmacy to return a misplaced card, race to the hotel to get ready, and race on to our day.

We collapse on the ferry, out of breath and missing a hat. We’ve got double pink eye on one end of the bench and a stein too many hangover on the other.

Yet with copious hand washing and a handful of Excedrin migraine, we are ready to take on the day.



One Day

Millions of steps before you tread up and sometimes down those stairs. We had the luxury of admiring the architecture. Did she even get a chance to do so? We saw some of what she went through. We missed her name on the banister outside.

Billions of people have looked up from the ground appearing as tiny specks to those above. We marveled at the size and trekked our way up to the pedestal and marveled at the skyline so changed.

There’s no count to the people who have thought of that day. There’s no way I can describe the feeling of standing in those spots remembering all those images in my mind and looking around knowing that people around me experienced those.

It’s beautifully heartbreaking seeing the pieces that survived, although beaten and broken, alongside all those that were lost to this world on that day.

It’s overwhelming and somber. It shouldn’t be there. It is. It has to be.

People need to see it. Even if they don’t have the words to describe. It’s the internal conversation. The hand that reaches out to grab yours as you take it all in. The overwhelming sense of loss that encompasses you.

It’s seeing New York as a great granddaughter of an immigrant to Ellis Island, as a tourist to The Statue of Liberty, and as a human being at the 9/11 Memorial and Museum.

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.

Poemy Monday the Fourth


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


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


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


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.