Now there’s one good thing about me technologically.  I don’t read booklets, but if someone explains it to me verbally—perhaps many times—I get it.  Yes, I stumble and things need repeating, but I’m not a total dunce.  My husband, who could become impatient with students who didn’t understand statistics—like who does!—was very patient with me.

In some families the children would band together to protect one another.  In ours it was each man/woman for him/herself.

This latest effort submitted to the WANKER poetry group might be a bit squirrelly.

Real housewives everywhere are being splattered across the tv screen.  First of all, are they real?  The plastic surgery seems to suggest otherwise.  Second, are they housewives?  Does anyone admit to being a housewife anymore—unless they’re on television?

Now I live outside what is known as the Windy City, and the wind is no fun anymore.  Winds here can lead to tornadoes.  My property has plenty of trees, and every season I’m left to pick up branches and even heavy limbs.  Yes, I do need tree service but I only get it once every five years or so.

I’ve reached the state in which so many of us older women dwell.  I married for better.  I married for worse.  Now it’s worse.

When I was young, from kindergarten, I would say, until seventh grade, my one great desire was to be a musical comedy star.  How I loved those Hollywood musicals, the joy, the romance, the songs!

While we at the WANKER like concise communication, sometimes it’s best just to let the mind wander.  Ergo, therefore, hence forth, and all that, following is a poem by a new, gifted wordsmith, joining the WANKER family of poets the world should hear from.  Get out your Tibetan singing bowls and ruminate on this one.

Waking to getting up:  I read all my news sites and find out the country/world is still going to hell in a hand basket.  Then I wonder about using that cliche.  After the news, I play games, Wordle, Connection, Crossword Mini.  Usually, I’m totally stymied on that one.  I’m not good at crosswords.  If I’m being lazy, I’ll play canasta on the iPad.

Joann’s has closed all its stores.  But wait.  Is it JoAnn’s, Joanne’s, Jo-Ann’s?  I could never quite get it straight.  However it was spelled, it’s now gone.  And we fabric lovers are left high and dry.

Growing up, when I wasn’t in Nanuet, I was upstate in Oneida. Not what the City considers upstate, but the real upstate by the Finger Lakes.  Maybe I idealize my time there, as it was the best part of my youth; and I think I would go back there in a heartbeat, if there wasn’t so much snow in the winter.  I would love one of the old Victorian homes with a wrap-around porch.  But maybe even Oneida has changed. I doubt it.

Nothing succeeds like success?  The WANKER poetry group is now receiving submissions from all over the country, so much so that we have become too immersed in administrative work, thus neglecting our own oeuvres.

In winter, windows to the outside world are essential because this woman is not walking outside on the snow and ice.  I know hip replacements are allegedly easy.  However, I’d rather not experience one.

More poetry from The Wanker poetry circle.

Color me a hypocrite.  But some cautions are just, pardon the expression, one toke over the line.

More poetry from The Wanker poetry circle.

I’m going to ignore 2025 and pretend it doesn’t exist.  I fear nothing good is going to happen this year, so I’m retreating to my inner convent, wearing my habit of corduroy pants one size too big and a sloppy fleece.

While cleaning up and out, deciding what to toss, what to keep, I found this.  Years have passed since I wrote this, but the sentiment remains.

Well, it’s that time of year when we have to think of the perfect gift for—sigh—absolutely everyone.

I hate the cold.  I know this is allegedly the season of good will, but I have no good will to give because I’m frozen.