Month: September 2025

Rose, Who Lived By Another Name

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

About 20 years ago, I was seated next to a quite elderly woman on a flight to Las Vegas. Her name is lost to my memory but I’m going to call her Rose, which I think she would have appreciated. 

Rose had that terrible middle seat in a full plane. Everyone hates that seat, of course, but she was okay with it. We hadn’t even taken off when she started talking to me. If you’re anything like me, you have your in-flight entertainment prepared in advance. You’re working or reading or napping or watching something on your device. If you’re anything like me, you’re not chatting with your neighbors, except for the usual “excuse me; I need to visit the restroom.”

I was not delighted but Rose drew me in. She introduced herself to me by saying that she was fighting cancer. Obviously, I’m paraphrasing but here’s the gist of her introduction: “I don’t have cancer,” she said. “I didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it, would give it back if I could. It’s a demon that I’m fighting. I won’t ever own it but I’ll fight it for the rest of my life.” 

She was on her fourth fight and untiring in her objective. It was daunting to me at the time, to think about that fight. I didn’t understand, hadn’t had much experience with cancer yet. My paternal grandmother died within a month of her cancer diagnosis, long before the treatments that exist today, long before I met Rose. 

I could see how fierce she was. And joyful. She laughed often on that flight, telling me her story, asking me about mine–though, to be honest, mine seemed very small compared to the very big and important life Rose was living. She was a tiny woman, you know, whose spirit was the size of a dragon. I can still picture her, sitting to my left, a neck pillow around her neck, a book in her lap that she never opened and occasionally handed to me while she dug something out of her purse. 

Her hair was short and curly, more salt than pepper, her eyes brown, marked by laughter. It lined her cheeks, too, curving around a big, wide smile that, you might say, she shared generously. Her laugh was bigger than her small frame but suitable somehow. 

I think about her strength, her determination often and I believe, though I only knew her for five hours some 20 years ago, that she’d be delighted to have made an impression. Even if she won her battle with the demon–something that I’ll never know–she’s likely gone. But like all of us, she’s left memories that keep her alive. And for me, they’re good ones. 

Much love.

Rose, Who Lived By Another Name

Weed Pens and Pompadours

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

One of the great delights of sitting at the window of the coffee shop is the bakery across the street. There is steady traffic through the disappointingly ableist entrance, not surprising here on Walnut, where accessibility was an after-thought. The view of the interior is blocked by the seasonally appropriate decor at the front window, currently big red and orange maple leaves. Patrons leave with boxes, bags, and occasionally a treat folded simply into a piece of bakery paper. 

Sometimes, they sit on a nearby bench to peek into their treat container, a likely event when they shop in groups. They lean into each other so they can peer together into the container and gently select their preferred treat. Just now, a couple leaves the store, holding a plastic container filled with orange jack o’lantern sugar cookies. She offers him a cookie. He reaches in, gingerly selects one, and takes a huge bite, nodding even before the cookie can have hit his palate. It’s going to be a good cookie. He already knows this. 

A heavily coiffed older man enters one of the expensive clothing boutiques. His hair is more salt than pepper, worn in a vaguely pompadour style. His jeans are black, with a thick, probably plastic, black chain clipped to his belt loop and, one assumes, his wallet. He’s wearing a leather vest over a short sleeved shirt and black Doc Martens. The man is feeling his style. If the Insta account, keeppittsburghdope, were here, there would be a photo shoot for sure. 

Three young men are standing on the street corner and are they ever trouble on two legs, the blonde in particular. He just took a “secret” hit of his friend’s weed pen. I watched and laughed when we made eye contact. Yes, my dear child, I saw the whole thing. He nudged his friend to hand off the pen and pulled him across the street. Hopefully, they aren’t running from me. I couldn’t give less of a damn what he puts in his body, though I do find his lack of discretion incredibly funny. It’s like that drunk person everyone knows who thinks they’re good at whispering.

There’s so much joy on the street today. It’s muggy but sunny; perhaps the mood is a result of the unexpected break from the rain. A young couple just sat outside, directly in front of me. Their pictures are probably on Merriam-Webster next to “young love.” It’s to be hoped they leave soon, though. They are staring at each other and awkwardly caressing acceptable-to-touch-in-public body parts. I love young love but I don’t really want to be looking directly at some aspects of it.

Earlier this week, I was talking with someone about Frida Kahlo as we studied one of her many paintings, the particular one of Frida in a vibrant red dress reclining in a verdant tree from the Mexican Museum of Modern Art. He kept saying Spanish and I kept saying, Mexican. Finally, he turns to look at me and says, “I do know the difference.” Clearly, he doesn’t know the difference if he thinks Frida Kahlo was Spanish. Yes, her mother was Spanish but Frida was extremely clear, her entire life, about her commitment to Mexico. She even changed her own birthday to coincide with the Mexican revolution. I’m sorry to have to report that my shovel slipped and knocked him into the six-foot hole I was just randomly digging in the middle of [REDACTED] forest. Hopefully, none of you needed anything from him.  

You’d have to be here to experience the joy I just felt watching someone ride a scooter down the street while wearing a stuffed turkey hat over his helmet. At the exact same time, two young Jewish men are walking by, saying “Shana Tova” to the people they pass, including the young woman wearing a baby on her chest and carrying a cold drink. They’re so busy sharing greetings that they completely miss turkey-scooter. 

A large “off road” pickup truck has just parallel parked in front of the coffee shop. He only backed onto the sidewalk twice. Don’t judge him; trucks are tough to park. I don’t think he’s a contender for this weekend’s parallel parking contest. Yes, the contest is real and the winner gets, among other things, a gold (painted) parking chair. Also on this weekend’s agenda is Johnny Cash Day at the Elk’s Lodge, the same location as the Banjo Club nights. Johnny Cash Day usually sells out pretty quickly; if you don’t have tickets, you probably aren’t getting tickets. 

Ran out of battery power and am now working in the back of the coffee shop, attached to a wall by a cord. I’ve been writing for hours and am taking a break now, by writing something else. Hmm. Perhaps I should take a break by taking a walk? A better idea but one I’m not following up on until I have finished editing Chapter 12 of my manuscript. It’s a…um…it’s an intimate scene, let’s say, which is a bit awkward because my screen is not currently facing a wall. Anyone walking by could potentially see some references to body parts and dangly bits and…well, it’s awkward when I’m plugged in. (That’s what she said.)

A cute guy MY AGE just sat down next to me, making this even weirder. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible but then again, ten years ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d write what I’m currently writing. I’ve turned a little on my chair to hide my screen. Today-me would like to travel back in time to suggest one of those privacy screens to a-week-ago-me.

Much love.

Weed Pens and Pompadours

Red Cardy For The Win

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

It’s days after the Charlie Kirk murder and my daughter just went to see President Obama speak. I was nervous about her attending. We assert that we won’t be silenced by rhetoric demanding our silence but it’s another thing entirely to have one’s child in a place where political violence is a possibility, if not a likely event. 

I read an article recently that cautioned against suggesting that one “side” is violent but the other “side” is not. I understand the argument, though the data shows clearly that one “side” IS literally responsible for the vast majority of political violence. To suggest otherwise is a little disingenuous, isn’t it? It’s not that liberals are incapable of violence. Everyone can be pushed beyond rational into irrational behavior. Perhaps liberals are just generally more accepting of difference. 

Anyway, I was walking into Shadyside yesterday when I saw an elderly couple coming toward me. She was petite, with long white hair. He was tall, wearing a ball cap. He said something that made her laugh and then smile at him. She reached up and curled a lock of her hair between her fingers and I saw, just for a moment, the young woman she used to be.

Today, I am at a body shop. My car was sideswiped again, this time taking out only the driver side mirror. The actual mirror wasn’t damaged but the casing was cracked beyond repair. For several weeks now, my car has looked like an orange terminator as his facade was being torn away. 

The car is a manual transmission which, I know, is a rarity these days. When I have to surrender it, I always ask the young people taking the keys if they can drive a stick. I don’t have to ask anyone older than me because they, too, grew up with manual being the standard. Not long ago, I had to back my own car out of a big garage bay because the only worker who could drive a manual left early. When armageddon occurs, I’m golden, except that I won’t be able to get contacts or replacement glasses. That will suck.

Joel, owner of the body shop, just popped his head in to ask me if I can stay a little longer. He waved the new casing at me. It’s the wrong color. They’re going to have to paint it. He asked if I was okay with it being the wrong color. Friends. My car is ORANGE. Pumpkin orange. Not pumpkin spice orange. Not rust orange. Not peach. It’s ORANGE. Do I mind having a gray side mirror? Uh, YEAH. If I wanted a gray car, I’d have gotten a gray car. Honestly, I have moved through the world quietly, with little color in it for too many years. So, I’ll be staying at the body shop a wee bit longer than I’d planned.

Yesterday, I had the fright of my life, thankfully it lasted .02 seconds but I’ll be honest. My heart stuttered. I was walking up the sidewalk to my house, carrying one of our cats in a carrier. My 97 year old next door neighbor was walking down his steps. I may have mentioned that this man is the single nosiest human being to exist in this or the last century. Yes, I know. You think I’m exaggerating. Well, here’s my proof that I’m not: he was so busy rubbernecking what I was carrying that he forgot he was walking down his steps. He stepped forward and landed ON HIS FEET two full steps below where he’d just been standing. He Danny Kaye’d those steps like a boss. I’m kind of proud but also it’s a miracle that he didn’t break his hip. 

A brief public service announcement: someone has just joined me in the waiting room at the body shop. I briefly looked over as he sat down and got an actual eyeful of bare man butt. Do men 1) not care; 2) not notice; 3) not wear underwear? Now I’m afraid to look over there again, though I have a weird compulsion to keep checking whether he’s fixed the issue. But I’m not going to check because I don’t want to see anymore buttcrack.

If you live in the area, you might have heard about the four alarm fire in Squirrel Hill last week. I was with my son and completely unaware that there was a fire. Here’s me, all righteously indignant as that strong burn smell permeates the car, making me cough: “we’re in a drought. No one should be burning leaves right now.” My son looks at me like I’m crazy. “Mom, an apartment building is burning down two streets over.” OH. 

We headed to the waterfront and watched the dark, billowing smoke, the arcing jets of water from the firehouses. The building was a total loss but everyone got out safely. I drove by today, on my way to the body shop. It’s in the process of being demolished because part of the roof collapsed on the day of the fire. The smell of smoke still heavily permeates the air. The front wall is partially gone. The second floor reaches for the ground like Michael Jackson’s anti-gravity lean but with grief instead of beauty. People at the Levin Clubhouse down the street took the residents in that morning, gave them drinks, held them while they cried. I heard that the firefighters went into the engulfed building after pets and important papers, helping, risking their lives for others, as they always seem to.

Two weeks ago, my eldest and I were eating breakfast at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. Four firefighters, heavily muscled, their hair cut short, sat at a booth in front of us. The youngest was younger than my thirty year old son. The eldest was probably a few years older than me, grizzled, his bald head shining in the morning sun. We stopped at their table as we were leaving. They looked up from their seats and smiled at us as I thanked them for the work they do and wished them safe passage. We also bought their breakfast, which caused two of the men to blush. I’m rather disappointed that they don’t always eat for free. 

The current leader of the “Free Our Butt Cheeks” (FOBC) movement has addressed his body… no, no, um…has finished his business…hmm…has cracked the…not that…has wiped…. Wow. He’s not here. He’s gone. He sat in the only chair in the shade, which now has bare butt (bear butt?) (bare bear butt?) (bear bare butt?) on it so…I’m just going to roast in the sun. I have more cheeky jokes but(t) I’m going to grin and bare it instead. (No, I’m not)

I’m at the coffee shop now. I’m “supposed” to be waiting for a dishwasher delivery (not my dishwasher) but the wifi there isn’t sterling. Thus, with the hubris of a middle-aged white woman, I’m counting on my ability to arrive before the delivery truck when I get the warning call. Will I make it in time? We’ll see. Given that I am late for everything, even my liver surgery, I wouldn’t bet on me.

An older couple just crossed the street. They’re holding pinkies very casually, their hands swinging gently as they walk. My husband hated holding hands with the fire of a thousand suns. I was slightly taller and he complained that our height difference made hand-holding awkward. But I’ve always wanted to hold hands with my partner. I think I missed out, to be honest, but perhaps that’s just my desire for companionship.

An employee from the bakery across the street just tried to negotiate a pastry swap with the coffee shop, without success. I almost offered to participate but I don’t actually have any pastries so it would really just be me asking the bakery for free treats. That works for me but I don’t think he’d agree.

There’s an elderly lady sitting outside, on the opposite side of the big garage window from me. She has beautiful iron-gray hair and well-manicured nails that she is assiduously filing and has been since I arrived. In my life, I don’t think I’ve spent as much time on my fingers and toes, which may be why I just described her nails as well-manicured. 

Have you ever–even as a child–been hugged when you really didn’t want to be? Perhaps you didn’t know or didn’t like the hugger or maybe you just wanted to maintain your personal space, undisturbed. Once, I worked with a man who hugged and kissed all the women he worked with. He was in a position of power. Our options were limited unless we (by we, I mean women, obviously) were willing to be labeled “difficult to work with” by leadership. In a world where it was incredibly difficult to get ahead, being labeled difficult was tantamount to blacklisting. Thus, we kept silent. 

In my private life, I began addressing this imbalance, particularly with children whose voices are often less heard even than women’s. I was talking with someone today about that. She complained that her child relatives don’t like hugging her. I asked if she asked those children for permission and she told me that they have to hug her. She MAKES them. Hey, guess what?! I may have figured out the problem. Making anyone hug you is a violation of the very boundaries we try to teach children so they don’t have to put up with the creepy hugs (and kisses) we had to endure as children. And even as adults. So, just ask. And gracefully accept “no” if it’s given. You could even offer a high five, a fist bump, hand shake, wave, as options. When we teach children boundaries, those boundaries need to apply equally to us.

The men’s cross country team just ran by. I didn’t gawk at their young, fit, shirtless, tattooed beauty. I’m no creeper ogling young men my children’s age; but all of my young coffee shop neighbors did some very serious ogling. I watched the heads swivel from left to right as the runners passed in front of the window. Hehe 

My computer ran out of juice. I have moved to a squishy chair beside an outlet. There are two people sitting on the sofa next to me, chatting about things that mean nothing to me. Since I’m supposed to be working, I’m trying really hard not to let their conversation distract me. Nonetheless, occasionally, the man laughs aloud and I wish you could hear it. It’s delightful, a deep belly laugh that makes the listener want to share his mirth. 

The work day is NOT over. I have an article to finish and I cannot sleep until it’s done, which is why I’m now finishing this blog…wait. 

Anyway, before heading home, I walked across the street to our favorite pizza place to order take out and then sat on the bench outside to wait (and to continue working on my article). I was there for about 10 minutes when a young man and his date, a young Asian woman (we’ll call her cute shirt because she was wearing a cute shirt), left the pizza place with cups of gelato. They passed me on my bench just as a scream issued from across the street. Naturally, I turned toward the sound and discovered another young Asian woman (we’ll call her red cardy because she was wearing a red cardigan) watching the white dude and cute shirt approach. Red cardy screamed, “WTF? Another Asian girl?” Her use of vocal emphasis was perfection, by the way.

The white man ignored her, walked by with cute shirt. Honestly, a rather bold move, I thought. Red cardy followed them, yelling. Sadly, I could not hear her exact words, though I suspect them of being quite righteous. Certainly they were fueled by rage. He stopped and turned around.

Cute shirt is now the third point of their triangle, looking uncomfortably between the two. She has stopped eating her gelato. As appearances go, she’s well-placed, standing equidistant. Better not to choose sides or make alliances until all the facts are out. The conversation, muted now, continues for several minutes. Cute shirt turns to red cardy who is preparing to walk away. Red cardy says something to cute shirt who nods agreement. Alliances have formed. I suspect that the young man, who appears to have been dating two Asian women, is now dating zero Asian women. 

And now, I promise you, I am returning to my article so my poor editor doesn’t feel compelled to kill me, even though I definitely deserve it. 

Much love.

Red Cardy For The Win

Updated: An Autumn Fall

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , Leave a comment

Hey friends, I deleted a few paragraphs about Charlie Kirk that made me uncomfortable. Period.

As I walked to Shadyside this morning, a large figure approached from the opposite direction. Initially, it appeared to be a bison walking on its hind legs. This seemed unlikely, though I prepared myself to have a conversation with the creature because who would NOT immediately want to greet a bison walking on its hind legs down a city street?! Sadly, it turned out to be a large man carrying a duffle on each massive shoulder. I did not attempt to start a conversation with the large man.

The diner is unexpectedly busy. A construction worker, probably from the project down the street, is gulping down a FULL breakfast. And I do mean full. He’s slender to the point of skinniness, his bald head a little dirty, like his clothes, though his hands are clean. 

An older couple is talking to one of the servers. They don’t notice that they’re standing in the aisle, blocking the way for the other servers, who are patiently–and impatiently–walking around them, hands full of stacked plates. One of the servers grumbles to me about it and then laughs. It’s a small frustration in a world of complex grief.

One of the line cooks is wearing a sun hat today. He is proud of his goofy look and grins at me when I gesture to the hat and give him a thumbs up. We both laugh and return to our tasks. He’s making (pan)cakes. I’m answering email.

Two young women of Asian descent are laughing as they press their cheeks together and take a selfie in front of Sephora. It’s a sunny, fall-warm day, the sky a clear, bright blue. They’re wearing nearly matching outfits, dark jeans and light-colored tops. Both have hoodies or cardies, it’s hard to tell which, slung over their shoulders.

After much energy unnecessarily expended, I have decided to cede “MY” parking place to my grumpy neighbor. She has a driveway but has taken to parking on the street in the spot where I have parked for the past 17 years. My other neighbors are chagrined about it and have counseled me to have a discussion with her about the inconvenience of parking far-ish from my house. Yesterday, I had Costco supplies to bring into the house and parked in that “usual” spot which was available solely because she had not yet arrived home. 

My friends, she blocked her own driveway to park on the street as close to my car as possible. It’s not worth my emotional health to continue this weird contest. I realized yesterday, when she smiled at me like the victor in a sporting contest, that she really cares about it. Refusing to fight with her about it is making me laugh. So, today, I moved the car. I hope she enjoys the spot. lol

A young woman in a bustier the same color as her skin–and thus, at first glance, topless–is sitting on the floor in a room of empty seats, near the sofa where I’ve been for several hours. It’s not the most comfortable sofa. It IS much more comfortable than the floor. The seat beside me is open, recently vacated by a young man who was working on a digital drawing–I tried to ISpy his work but it was difficult to do discreetly. 

She’s now singing to someone on a facetime call. Come to think of it, I’m glad she’s not doing that on the sofa beside me. It’s annoying. Her furry tail and terry cloth American flag short-shorts are fun, though. 

Much love.

Updated: An Autumn Fall

Rants And Rages And Pages, Oh My

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

I own a lovely letter written in cursive in the early 1900s, the spelling more phonetic than accurate. My daughter initially struggled to read it. She reads cursive just fine. The problem was the phonetic spelling. “Read it as though you’re from Oklahoma,” I told her, based on the postage cancellation stamp. She read it aloud then, with a mildly midwestern accent, and the metaphoric light bulb turned on. 

The letter itself, addressed to Will from his loving wife, tells about her finishing the “warshing” and starting the “peacin” for her quilt. She cautions Will to travel safely. He’s walking home but his location is unknown to us, obscured by damage to the envelope. She also encourages him to turn back if things become dangerous again. What things? Dangerous how? It’s unlikely that we’ll ever know. 

Beyond its delightful authenticity, its tenderness, it’s a reminder that all those old pictures–cabinet cards, daguerreotypes, tintypes–are real people who lived, loved, fought, and died, just as we do. The way we teach history is such a disservice to learning and understanding. Yes, I know 1066 was important and I even (sort of) know why but you know what else was important? Will and his journey back to his wife. Perhaps if we hadn’t lost the humanity of history, we’d understand it better. Would that help us not repeat it? I honestly don’t know. 

A couple weeks ago, I took a drive to Mount Pleasant, ate at a local diner (great server but overall a rather meh meal), and then headed to Blairsville before returning to Pittsburgh. The clouds were particularly puffy. I complimented them; but from their lofty perspective, I suspect they didn’t much care about my admiration. 

The trees appeared to be a monochromatic deep green. Perhaps this is an example of that saying, “Can’t see the forest for the trees” only in reverse. The view was of a broad swath of forest, oddly still, the trees indivisible from the whole. This is, unfortunately, a view the rest of the world has of us. More noise, less exhaustion, seems the answer but that’s hard, isn’t it? 

Will it encourage you to know that on my drive, I saw only two fascist symbols: first, a weirdly homoerotic image of the guy in the White House plastered to the back passenger window of a pickup truck. People around me were making the “interesting choice” face. I mean, it’s so cringy. Just why? I like Henry Cavill but you won’t find me putting a sticker of his face on any of my windows. SMH The second was an absolutely enormous sign attached to the side of a business. It’s been there for years now. I hope I get to see it come down, like the Nazi symbols burned by the Allies.

I have more napkins in my car and backpack than the combined inventories of all the local ice cream shops. (A friend who reads this has a similar napkin collection habit. YES, my friend (whose name I will not mention), I am talking about you. haha) There is a man at the coffee shop who outpaces even me. He’s looking for something in the reusable bag he always carries. After a few minutes of escalating rustling sounds, he begins taking things out of the bag. Napkins, numerous very tidy piles of napkins. There are other things in there–a plastic bag, some notes that he reads and discards, several newspaper sections. It’s the napkins that are remarkable. If you ever spill anything or need to sneeze, find this man. Or me.

I arrived at the coffee shop early one day a few weeks ago and was clearly deep in my thinks. I did not notice ANY of the vandalism on Walnut. The coffee shop door was propped open and entirely without glass. The tshirt store down the street had a huge glass bruise. One of the bookstores had similar damage. Since I entered a store with no glass in the door, entirely without noticing, I clearly am not the appropriate person to report on any other damaged stores. Lol The baristas and I gossiped for a bit about whether someone was mad or perhaps a college student was drunk. Hard to say around here.

There are two white poodles sitting with their owner at a table next to me. I swear I didn’t call to them. THEY came to me. Now, they keep walking over to lick me, particularly my sandal-clad feet. It’s quite tickly. They’re very naughty. I love them. 

An older man, dark hair and a heavily greying beard, is reading a large pile of magazines and weekly papers at a table nearby. I didn’t notice him until I heard the distinctive sound of paper ripping. I looked up and he was tearing a magazine through. He tidily deposited both halves into a bag and returned to reading. A bit later, I heard the same distinctive sound. Just that man, ripping another bit of reading material, and again depositing it into a bag.   

The sound flashed me immediately back to a job I had in the early ‘90s. I worked for a graphic, interior, industrial design firm. It was both the most boring job I’ve ever had and also the most frantic. I lasted two years before they laid me off/fired me. It is the best employment thing that has ever happened to me. And I really, actually mean that. For years after that, on my job-loss anniversary (July 6, 1992), I contemplated sending a thank you note to the CEO, though I never did. Anyway, my boss there liked to rip paper. We shared a ¾ wall. I could hear the shshsh of paper ripping all day. Where did she find all that paper to rip? Into the tiniest pieces, too. Crazy. Would it surprise you to know that we did not have a particularly good relationship?

Honestly, in hindsight and as my own boss, I can acknowledge that I was not the best employee. First, I was terrible at “playing the game.” Absolutely terrible at it. Second, I said what I wanted to say and damn the consequences. And were there ever consequences. Even though I worked my ass off at all the jobs I ever had, I did not have the insight to realize that good work isn’t valued anywhere near as much as a penis. I was constantly judged for not dressing “feminine” enough. Even one woman I worked for – yeah, I’m looking at you NAME REDACTED – would say things like “more jewelry,” “you need to wear makeup,” etc.  I have a feeling “look more masculine” is not a performance recommendation many MEN have heard. 

Okay. Let’s talk pedestrians for a moment, in particular pedestrians crossing the street. Can we run them down? Honk at them? Bully them to hurry faster? NO. My friends, the answer is NO. We do not run over, threaten to run over, pressure, harass, or otherwise make pedestrians feel uncomfortable or unsafe in their shoes while we are in our multi-ton vehicles. EVEN if we’re desperately late for something excruciatingly important. 

Every once in a while, I hear someone start to say something about pedestrians not having the right of way and my answer always is, “So, you’re going to hit them?” Oh no, that person is jaywalking. Ten points for the pedestrian, right? NO. Let’s practice our empathy and humanity by being a little more zen in the car, my friends. But you’re late for that meeting, that doctor appointment, that interview, the Met Gala. Guess whose fault that isn’t? Yeah, exactly. It isn’t the pedestrian’s fault. And I promise, if you accidentally hit that pedestrian while you’re trying to hurry, you’re going to be a hell of a lot later for that ever-so-important thing.

Yes, this rant is the result of nearly getting killed while crossing the street at a crosswalk with a stop sign. 

Stay safe at there and look both ways before you step off the curb.

Much love.

Rants And Rages And Pages, Oh My