Waited in line an hour and a half small talk about middle schoolers bubbly volleyball girls giggle over who knows what on their phones slipping out of their slides into their court shoes more chats about precincts changes gasping "oh no!" as a voter is led to a QR code which reveals where her vote will count "all that time in line..." an attendant reminds everyone to make sure they're in the right place "stand behind the blue line, please" almost there "three more people" and another set of lines "should've voted early but it always sneaks up on me then I wind up voting on election day" I.D. is ready verbally confirm the address "paper" and the printer needs a refill one ballot is printed for curbside mine is next until it isn't printer insists it's out of paper when it's clearly full I want to kick it the next printout *fingers crossed* is mine bubble in, like in school just don't get a detention "I only went to the principal's office once do you know why?" I keep bubbling "I wrote love letters to my French teacher!" another line? not for me paper ballot is a fast pass to the feeder grab my sticker "thank you" I Voted
I’m one of those people who sometimes gets up early and winds up running late. It happened today. This morning, I beat my alarm by fifteen minutes after trying to recapture lost sleep when my daughter loudly pokes around my bathroom stealing more of my makeup wipes. She forgot to take off last night’s makeup. Again.
After getting dressed, I pack a proper lunch rather than flinging random items into my bag. There is time for toasting a slice of cranberry walnut bread without burning it. I slather it with butter. My coffee doesn’t get left on the counter.
Today, I’ll have the computers and lights on before the line forms outside the library doors. I’m in a great mood because I’m not rushing.
On the radio, the host discusses books. Audio, e-books, or physical? I’m stuck at the tail end of a car line waiting to go. She announces the phone number. Should I try to call? It’s hard to get through. Nah…
I call.
Thank you for calling, all lines are… I try again. Nope. One last time and someone, a human, picks up. I give the screener my information and hold on the line. In all of my years of life, this is the first time I’ve made it through. Twelve year old me is flipping out as if my letter made it on Casey Kasem’s long distance dedication.
I have plenty of time as I settle in for my commute. I’m ready. But there’s another caller in front of me. I listen intently so I don’t repeat anything. Next caller. I’m nearing my school as I turn off the highway. 7:25. 20 more minutes before my official start time and I’m almost there. I should leave at this time every day.
The next caller is on. I turn toward my campus. They’re discussing book fairs and scrolling on e-readers and annotating and listening only to fiction audiobooks rather nonfiction because one must take notes. Another caller discusses purchasing only the classics and noticing how the books one reads as a kid often shows up as a career. Yes! I agree with you, but I can’t say anything because it isn’t my turn.
How long do I need to wait? Patience is not my thing. I snag my favorite parking spot. 7:35 and I’m still waiting. I have 10 minutes. This guy keeps going, but I want to rush him off the line because I need to get to work. I debate hanging up. I’m still waiting, you can hold out! I decide to end the call if there is someone else after this one.
Hi, Alice from Texas!
Finally. I almost have a Cindy Brady TV quiz show moment where she freezes when the camera light signals they’re on the air. I share how I avoided chores as a teen because I hate stopping in the middle of a chapter. Thirty seconds of fame. I figure I’m the last caller for the segment since the host commented, thanked me, and my phone gives me the call ended beep.
I gather my bags, loop my badge around my neck, and head toward the building. 7:47. Two minutes late and there’s already a line of kids waiting. All of the waiting to talk about books.
How’s it going? I wasn’t sure I’d slice this year, but I’ve neglected my writing and I NEED it, so here I am.
Tuesday slicing tapered off for me, not for lack of ideas, but lack of follow through on my part. I’m not the morning type, so by the time all of the things that need doing get done, I’m the one who’s done. I’m hoping this helps me course correct.
Do I have a plan or strategy this year? I’m still mulling it over. I don’t want to say what it is yet-I don’t want to jinx it, even though I’m not the superstitious type. Except maybe I am, just a little.
I started my fall posts-when I “started” posting on Tuesdays again-writing about the last time I did something for the first time. I started (actually, my brain did this) overthinking and arriving to at the conclusion that it’s impossible for me to keep up with the last time I did something for the first time because something else would knock it out of place. However, the real me just said-NO ONE CARES-pick one of the many on your list. Perhaps those will be revisited for future slices.
I like to see where the writing takes me, if I let it. (Still working on that one). Last year was tough for me. I can’t figure out why. Here’s to LUCKY #7! I’m okay with not having a plan. Why change what’s worked for me? As me this on Friday and I’ll likely have a different answer.
One thing I’ve been up to is writing a letter every Sunday (except I skipped one already, so today I’ll write two. I found the Sunday Letter Project some time in December. I’ll sign up for the reminders as if I need reminding that Sunday is coming. Its’ the only solid day of structure I have (ooh, didn’t see this one coming-saving it for a poetential slice). The point is to write a letter to someone-anyone, even yourself, on paper with a pen or other writing stick. Mail it or keep it. Do this for a year. Slicers, you get #8. #9 has a yet to be determined recipient since I skipped a week.
Thing #2: I randomly chose The Correspondent by Virginia Evans as an audiobook read. It’s an epistolary and enjoyed peeking in on Sybil Van Antwerp’s life. Chick it out, you might like it. This book, paired with The Sunday Letter Project led me to listen to the nudge to get back on track with writing. I signed up for SOL’26 and here I am, writing letter #8, giving a nod to a book I finished, and writing my first slice. Cheers to year 7!
(This is where I raise my glass to to toast with an orange mimosa)
Sincerely,
Alice
P.S. I’m currently reading I See You’ve Called in Dead, by John Kenney. What are you reading?
One of the last things I did for the first time, aside from riding a train to New York City, was making a paper doll. One of my sisters, we call her Spidy, wasn’t able to join us on this trip. Disappointed, she made a suggestion that could work.
“Maybe you can turn me into Flat Spidy!”
So we did.
Angie brought construction paper and markers. I planned to make Flat Spidy the night before departing, but it became impossible. So there I am at our Airbnb scrawling out my most second grade looking drawing of Spidy, flattened so she could join us while riding in my bag.
Join us, she did. At the train station, Danny, our funcle asked a guy named Eddie about tickets. He tinkered on a machine others were grateful he was fixing while he gave us travel tips. In Texas, we pretty much only drive everywhere. We chatted about visiting places that aren’t conducive to urban hiking and public transportation. Great guy. Once I pulled Flat Spidy out of my bag, he about lost it.
“Whaddya mean? Of course I’ll take a picture! This story just keeps getting better. I’ll even let her wear my hat.” A die-hard Deadhead, that’s exactly what he did.
Her company added an element of playfulness we didn’t expect. Taking care not to get her soggy in the rain, we missed some photo ops, but it was one of the best ways for her to be present. In the evenings, we sent updates of her travels. Next time, we hope none of us need to become flat versions of ourselves to take that sisters trip we’ve been trying to make happen.
Here we go!Grand Central StationEmpire State BuildingCentral ParkTimes SquareSullivan’s Country MarketThe gazebo in New MilfordMystic
I happened across a great little book by Irene Smit & Astrid Van Der Hulst called Know Yourself: A book of questions. Actually, I’ve purchased copies of their other books, chock full of hygge: paper crafting, letter writing stationery, mini-notebooks, book marks, postcards, sketching ideas, tips for relaxing and self care. My Amazon feed suggested it. I bought it. One night I popped it open, you know, to relax and perhaps learn more about myself. I answered the questions without writing anything down and realized these are fantastic writing prompts.
Since it’s cozy season (anywhere else but in central Texas where we’re still at 90+ temps), I’ve decided to turn down the AC and attempt to create cozy fall vibes.
It starts with Gilmore Girls. Last fall, I started watching the series for the first time. My thoughts on Gilmore Girls can be an entirely separate set of posts I’m saving for later–yeah, had I written more consistently I could’ve knocked ’em out by now…
My sister, Angie, is a die hard fall girlie, Gilmore Girls fan, and has dreamed of visiting New England in October.
“So, what’s the verdict?”-Rory
“I am an autumn.”-Richard
I am a summer. I’ll take the heat. Until it’s almost November when cool weather should be the norm. We chat about making a trip happen. Inspired by Gilmore Girls. My niece, her oldest daughter, joined us. Last week, we finished up our first trip to Connecticut and New York in all of its fall foliage glory.
We arrived on Friday, October 10th. We decided to visit New York on Saturday because we’d soon experience our first nor’easter. A guy named Eddie, who worked on a ticket machine at the train station in Milford, assured us we didn’t need to panic. Cold rain and strong wind. He gave us tips and great conversation while we waited.
The one thing I had to see was NYPL. We walked over and noticed a demonstration. Banned Books Week! I had finished out my work week leading up to this trip teaching all of our eighth graders about intellectual freedom and censorship. I asked for a picture with someone wearing one of my favorite childhood books. We chatted about my work as a librarian.
“Better yet,” she suggested, “would you like to wear it?”
How could I refuse? Bonus points for the last time I went to NYPL for the first time. I also got a library card.
When was the last time you did something for the first time? This question taps my shoulder on days I feel myself falling into the mundane. It also guides me when I-don’t-know-what-to-write-itis strikes.
Last century, in Tiny Town, Texas, our local newspaper regularly featured the photo of a home cook and three or four of their favorite recipes. Most were the sort you’d find in a local ladies’ auxiliary plastic comb-bound publication. Some were off if you followed the recipes instead of only reading them. Misprints or typos like 1 cup of tea instead of a teaspoon of instant tea mix. 1 c. of lard instead of, well, what kind of recipe might one need with a full cup of lard?
People dressed up for their photos. Nothing like today’s influencer photos. These were studio photos with bad lighting in colorless newsprint. No highly styled foodstagram pictures either. Just the recipe and your imagination or actual ingredients and something to eat as a result.
Yesterday, in suburban central Texas, the hubster opened a last century recipe book hunting down an apple cinnamon bread recipe.
“My sister gave me the recipe. I think your mom makes it too,” he recalls as he flips through pages of handwritten recipes.
“My mom got the recipe from your sister when she was in the paper,” I announce.
“Were you ever in the paper?” he asks.
“Not for the recipes. Mainly for nerdy school stuff. Band, honor roll, the regular school activities everyone did because there was nothing else to do.”
“French breakfast puffs,” he mutters as he continues to search.
“Ha! Those were neither puffy nor Frenchy. They’re basically muffins doused in melted butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar. They’re good, but not French.” I recall getting that recipe from one of my friends who was featured when we were in high school. They were a hit with our family, French or not.
He finds the recipe, discovers we’re out of apples, pushes the recipe book aside and searches for one on his phone. Settling for cinnamon bread with pecan strudel topping, he begins mixing.
I wonder what my blurb would say if I were selected today? Impossible, since the newspaper is defunct, but it’s fun to imagine.
Better yet, hubster and I would be the first dynamic duo, breaking with a single person featured. Would each of us take a turn over two consecutive weeks or would we hang out together? He loves cooking, I prefer eating. He’s the cook, I’m the baker. Team Use Every Utensil (him) or Team Clean As You Go? Complex recipes or one pot wonders? Which recipes would we choose? Three each or three of our favorites?
Hubster’s recipes: Tx cheesesteaks on the Blackstone griddle, cinnamon rolls in an hour, carne guisada with homemade corn tortillas, refried beans, and guac.
Wifey’s recipes: Rotisserie chicken taco Tuesday extravaganza, blueberry smash margaritas, tub of salad with olive oil & balsamic vinegar-serving bowl optional. Oh, and maybe a batch of those French breakfast puffs for special occasions.
It has been a day! I haven’t had time to reflect on this year’s SOL because it came at me hard and fast. A blur of writing.
My late night posts continue. This one is short. Instead of reflecting on my process, I created a Slice of Life 2025 playlist. Not all of these songs may appeal to everyone, but I chose 10 that best portray 31 one days of writing. Starting with today’s Manic Monday and ending with a Celebration I imagine all of us raising our glasses (and pens, er, keyboards) and toasting, “Cheers to SOL Class of ’25!”
I’ve called for those check ins only a mom can make. Two weeks in and it’s better. Plans are made to move on. There’s a lilt to the voice that wasn’t there before.
Invitations to come home for dinner are still left unanswered, but home is here when it’s needed. We’re only a short drive away.
What do you do other than hope from afar that everything will be okay? We all know it’s a growing experience. It’s wading through the muck where the learning happens.
I once enjoyed shopping. Putting outfits together, trying them on, and finding a deal. Maybe busyness turned it into a chore. Styling clothing isn’t in my toolbox of skills nor is it my love language. Two kids and midlife later, nothing seems to fit. Unless frumpy counts as a good fit.
The skirt I liked? The top paired with the skirt on the rack didn’t fit well with no option to size up. I can’t figure out what top to add to make it work. Plus, the fabric is ridiculous for wearing in sweltering central Texas heat. Back with your friends you go, skirt.
I debated getting a functional and cute cream colored jean jacket. I’ll use it for conference week. The perfect touch for layering. Do I need a jacket? No. It fit. I liked it. It’s getting added to my wardrobe. Should last a decade, much like what I already own.
There’s an oversized t-shirt perfect for layering over a workout tank. 100 % cotton, what a nice surprise. Is it too oversized? I size down and choose green instead of washed-out coral. Meh. I keep my first choice.
Pants. Endless racks of pants. All made for people with long, willowy giraffe legs. Too short for regular, too tall for petite. Black athleisure pants make the cut, but they’ll get two or three wearings before the heat and humidity kick in and I switch to wearing loose dresses, skirts, and cropped chinos.
The checkout line snakes around and grows to extend past the middle of the store, a retail python devouring materialism and must haves. This many people shot at brick and mortar stores even with people shopping online? If you think retail shopping is dead, try again.
Swift transactions keep the line moving surprisingly quick. I politely decline all of the offers for discounts, credit cards, rewards programs and everything else designed to get me back in the door. Know what would get me back through the door? Clothes in my size that fit.
If I could have something named after me, what would it be?
Wine. It would be wine. It would be called La Mera Mera. The best of the best. The big queso. Or maybe it would be tequila. Tequila or wine, it would be organic. It has a spicy, unexpected kick you barely notice until the last swig.
Looks can be deceiving. It’s the quiet ones who surprise you.
Nerds Beget Nerds 