Month: October 2025

Happy Hallowe’en. Now, Get Off My Lawn.

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

Just watched a couple purchase coffee and pastries, get into their car out front of the coffee shop, and light up their…er, weed stick. They passed it back and forth, back windows cracked, until they’d finished it. They got out of the car and walked to the Sephora, I think, though they pretty quickly returned to get her coffee out of the car. They walked on, out of sight, for a bit before he walked back toward the construction site down the block from me and she drove off.

The this-is-your-brain-on-drugs-propaganda version of me wants desperately to be all “you’re both impaired” blah blah blah. The version of me that watched a likely sober elderly driver nearly kill a pedestrian (by nearly I mean the pedestrian leaped backwards to avoid the car) in a crosswalk yesterday thinks the propaganda version of me should sit this one out because we have WAY bigger problems with driving than a young person toking in their car. This is not an attack on elderly drivers either. I nearly got killed recently, also in a crosswalk, by a young man in a mustang who just didn’t want to stop. Last week, I stepped off the crosswalk and stopped because there was a car approaching the intersection that was absolutely not going to stop for the red light. He didn’t stop so it’s a good thing I did. If I’d kept walking would he have stopped in time? City life is not car versus pedestrian but some days it feels like it.

There is significant non-automotive vehicular traffic in Shadyside: bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, unicycle ebikes, hoverboards. Just now, I watched someone ride a bicycle one-handed with a tray of hot drinks in his other hand. This seems somewhat of an over-reach in terms of balance, braking, steering, but I’ll never know the whole story. He passed the window in slightly more than one second and is long out of view. 

I listened, today, to the Oklou Tiny Desk Concert. Their debut album is not acoustic but this tiny concert is and, my friends, it is a delight to hear. I am left wondering if there are any instruments lead singer Marylou Mayniel can’t play, as she demonstrated fluency on the acoustic guitar, recorder, piano, and marimba over the four-song set. The songs, in this form, are gentle, melancholic, and tender. Give it a listen when you would otherwise spend 20 minutes doomscrolling. 

The shout-motivating runner is back. I haven’t seen him for a bit, kind of thought he’d changed running neighborhoods but he just gave a hearty “Woooo” as he ran by the coffee shop. Gave me a bit of a jump scare, if I’m being honest. Haha

It’s the end of the school day. A grandmother is walking with her 10 or 11ish grandson. They’re the same height, looking each other in the eye as they walk. I wonder if she thinks about how it will feel some day to have him reach down to hug her. 

What is going on today? A man on a bike–a large storage container attached to the back–just rode by holding another, empty bike, in tandem. How does he steer the second bike? This, too, seems like an over-reach. He has also passed by in a second and the story goes on without us.

I know. I know. It seems, again, as though I’m just staring out the coffee shop window, documenting what happens. Not true, though. In fact, I’m doing some research for a project at the moment and occasionally look “off into space,” and by that I mean out the window, as I consider the approach I’m taking with this new and rather epically different story.

I looked up just as a woman walked across the street and dropped a long metal chain very deliberately. It fell to the ground as though it was heavy, though I can’t tell you why I think that. In my head, I heard the sound of it dropping but I’m across the street so obv I didn’t hear anything.

A teenager just walked into the coffee shop with her friends and said (too loudly), “Oh, this is aesthetic.” After that, she was thoroughly shushed. Lol Also, she definitely picked that up somewhere–I’m guessing tiktok–because…what does she mean exactly? It’s rather like she walked in and said “this has a floor.” Yes, yes, it does. Only she said this IS aesthetic. Pause for research…. My friends, I asked the interwebs for help. The yoots and AI seem to think “aesthetic” means pretty. It does not, in fact, mean that. I believe that it is entirely possible we’re raising generation after generation of people who have not learned any critical thinking skills. 

I get that English is a fluid language but there’s a difference between “windshield” changing from “a shield from the wind” to “a window in your car” and just flat out misunderstanding what a word means. Now, get off my lawn. 

A woman is standing at the coffee bar talking on speaker phone to someone who clearly does not know she’s on speaker phone. The volume is all the way up. We are IN this woman’s business. I’m listening, of course, because 1) I’m nebby; 2) she’s standing beside me; and 3) it’s so loud I can hear the discussion over my music. I’m also a little concerned, at this point, that this is a spam call. We can check in with Angela (the woman on the other end of the call) tomorrow, though, if we haven’t received the very suspicious bill that she has just sent via the email address that she didn’t have until the woman beside me gave it to her after not receiving the paper bill because they totally had the wrong address for her. 

Not my circus. Not my monkeys. I have enough on my plate with the spam-vulnerable person (genderless and nameless for privacy yo) who, at one point, tried to text their license plate number to someone who texted them that they were at risk of losing their Alabama license that they definitely don’t even have because they live in Pittsburgh. 

I hope all scammers have not just the day but the whole-ass life they deserve.

Battery ran out of juice and the only open charging space is being “saved” by someone. I could probably have been all “first come….” Instead, I’ve switched to the Starbucks. It’s very painful, as I strongly disagree with their labor practices. In an unsurprising karmic event, I immediately burned my tongue on my hot cocoa. Deserved. Also, I hate the music that they’re playing very loudly. The song right now is “You’re Dead.” Have I already said that I hate it? I really do. I can’t play music in my headphones loud enough to drown out their music without deafening myself. I definitely deserve this.

Much love.

Happy Hallowe’en. Now, Get Off My Lawn.

“It’s A Dangerous Business, Frodo….”

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

This morning’s adventures started, just as Bilbo predicted, with the opening of my front door. Our house…this is all connected; just trust the process…faces east. As soon as the sun is above the houses, the front garden gets full sun for several hours. The neighbor’s cat knows this. See exhibit A. 

Exhibit A: A cat sleeps in the middle of a late fall garden, a spot of white in a world of deep browns, greens, and reds.

Without disturbing the cat, whose name I have never learned, I began my morning walk. I am sans puppos currently because we went on a slightly too-long walk on Friday (just 2.5 miles but you would have thought it was a trek to the other side of the moon for all the post-walk dramatic sighs and groans as they SLEPT). I’m going to take them for a half-miler tonight but they’re sleeping in this morning (SPOILED!). 

After leaving my own yard, I bumped into my next door neighbor who was waiting for me so he could ask me about the huge shipping crate that was left at our house on Thursday. (I bought a 55” Itchzak Tarkay painting.) See exhibit B. While we were talking, another neighbor arrived with his dog, Max, who sang for us. That’s not 100% accurate. He sang for treats from us. Details. Details. Max has met my dogs. He loves all dogs, except my dogs. He’s afraid of my dogs who combine excessive interest in personal space with excessive barking. Max likes neither of those things.

After adoring Max the appropriate amount, I wished both neighbors an excellent day and continued my stroll. It really is a beautiful day, sweater weather, as some would say. The leaves, mostly fallen at this point, are dry and crunchy under foot. The colors are still bright, almost glittering in the sun. 

Exhibit B: An empty wooden shipping crate on the sidewalk, open side facing the camera. With its pallet, the crate is 5’6″ in height.

About half a block down the street, there’s a house with an Audubon-certified bird garden. They also have bird feeders. This morning, Woody Woodpecker was visiting. See exhibit C. Woodpeckers are commonly heard in our neighborhood but generally difficult to spot. The feeder is, I acknowledge, cheating but I play the hand I was dealt.

Less than a quarter mile later, I saw one of the neighborhood beagles. This one is the friendlier of the two. I bent to receive his usual dirty paw marks on my knees and slurpy lick to my chin. He couldn’t stay, though. According to his owner, they were headed to the college campus to soothe stressed college students. The beagle enjoys this activity immensely. The neighbor says that the college students are equally eager for his visits (the beagle’s visits, the man is merely the petting conduit).

Eventually, I decided to get breakfast at the diner, which was surprisingly busy for a Monday after what, I learned, was a Steeler’s loss. I don’t watch television, including football, and was unaware of the loss until a grieving server informed me. I tried to cover my ignorance with a “Devastating loss” comment and he rounded on me. “Infuriating,” he snapped. So, maybe, next time, I should go with the safer and more honest, “Didn’t watch the game.” lol

Exhibit C: Don’t let the bird decor fool you. The woodpecker is in the center of the frame, eating from the feeder.

After walking off a surprisingly mediocre breakfast, I arrived here, at the coffee shop. When I got here, it was staffed by a single barista who was working capably under tremendous pressure, though she confessed to me that she was internally overwhelmed. Since the line was eight people deep and growing, she was far more composed than I would have been. And so I told her. 

A very attractive man, wearing an unnecessary camel overcoat and jeans, just entered the coffee shop with a young woman in what my mother would have called a car coat. It is pink and lovely. They stayed just long enough to determine they were in the wrong spot. They stood outside talking for several minutes before walking down the sidewalk back the way they’d come. Sometimes I wish I had the Weasleys’ Extendable Ears so I could feed the nebby girl who lives inside me. (Yes, jkr is horrible and less clever on further readings. I like the ears though.)

Behind me, two young women are working, their computers open on the table. They’re talking, too, though I haven’t been listening in–I know! It seems like I always listen. When they started whispering, though, my interest was peaked. I turned off my music, the better to hear them. Disappointment awaited. It was dull gossip, not even worth their effort to be quiet. I learned something though. The whisper is what drew my attention. If they’d have gossiped in their normal voices. I wouldn’t even have noticed. 

Oh, dear. Two young people are standing outside fighting. She’s facing me, bundled up like it’s -5F. For context, I walked here in jeans that are cuffed above the ankle because they’re too short, a short-sleeved shirt, and a cardy that is now on the back of my chair. He’s wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a backpack. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s mad. She’s sad. It’s a bad day (I’m stopping the rhyme here, before it becomes annoying), maybe for both of them, which, as I’m typing this, culminates in him shaking his head and turning to leave. She follows behind for a few steps, still talking. And scene. 

So much happens if you just sit and watch. A young man just left the shop with a coffee. His beanie and sweater match. There’s a smile on his face. Is he smiling about the interaction he had with the baristas? Enjoying a memory? Absorbing the light and sweetness of the day? I think that’s for the viewer to decide as they experience that story from their own seat.

Looking for something to listen to? Why not turn up Bill Withers, “Lovely Day?” It’s just right for this moment.

Much love.

“It’s A Dangerous Business, Frodo….”

Forgo the Filter: Say the Mean Part Aloud

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

The weeks are busy, temperatures falling like the leaves. Gusty winds cause the trees to litter bright yellow and deep brown detritus on the sidewalk. As I’m watching, a dark red leaf is whipped into the street by the wind and smacks someone in the face. They start visibly and rub their cheek. Strange that a leaf can hurt like a word.

I’ve been helping a lot, recently, with a person who will remain anonymous (privacy, yo). They are losing life skills and sometimes boundaries. We went to breakfast recently and they asked me whether a specific individual was circumcised. That’s not even their most recent embarrassing question. I handled it like a champ, but not all of the people in hearing range were as comfortable. It was, you see, quite loudly asked. 

Things they said (in a NOT-a-whisper whisper) during our breakfast: Is that person a boy or a girl? There should be better portion control (as a very large person walks by). This bill is wrong (it wasn’t). I don’t like eggs (they ordered eggs). It makes me laugh but also it can be sooo awkward. A few weeks ago, I took them to the farmers market and they said, “I don’t like honey” to the beekeeper. It’s like social media. I’m caretaking the person who, if they could understand social media, would reply to your blueberry pie post with, “I don’t like pie.” Words that could, with a tiny bit of effort, reside only in their head fall out of their mouth like items falling out of an open backpack hanging off a jogger’s shoulders. 

Unfortunately for me, our relationship could be characterized–on my part–as obligatory. We aren’t friends and, prior to their cognitive decline, we weren’t even particularly friendly. They rely on me now. I help willingly, even though, some days, this person says things so smack-worthy that I have to take a deep breath before I reply. The problem(?) is that, although there is undoubtedly a world in which I could just walk away, I don’t live in it. My kids ask me sometimes why I continue to help. There are so many reasons but possibly the most important is that I won’t treat this person the way they treat everyone. I will, I am determined to, act toward this person the way I think I should act. I won’t be like them. I will look back on my own behavior knowing that I did the best I could, not the least that I was able, though, occasionally, I have told them that if they don’t knock it off they will be walking home.

In a strange coincidence, two people in my life are declining cognitively. Unkindly, the one for whom I would do anything lives two hours away. Because she has sundowner’s, it is kindest to visit before lunch. After lunch, as the day lengthens into evening, her fear and anxiety overcome her conditioning; she lashes out physically and verbally. So, yes, planning is involved in every visit. I leave the house early, grab an iced tea from the coffee shop, and get on the road with a downloaded audiobook before 8AM. When I can see Lake Erie gleaming deep gray on the horizon, I know I’m almost there. If traffic favored me, I’ll have time to get breakfast, most recently at The Original Breakfast Stop. No matter what, though, I have to go to Romolo’s and get not-my-Aunt G her peppermint patties. Her favorite treat used to be chocolate chip cookies but something she can’t explain changed her preference. 

There is a particular grief to watching the end of days for someone you’ve known your whole life. My not-my-Aunt Ginny is a core person for me. My earliest memories include her. In my youth, months sometimes passed when I didn’t see her, but she’s always been there, a weight-bearing pillar of my existence. We’re not related by blood but she’s as close as any who are. She calls me one of her two girls. She can’t reliably remember my name, but she remembers that. 

Often, on my visits, I’ll push her wheelchair around the facility so she can wave to everyone. In the past, she told me stories that conflated the residents with former boyfriends, neighbors, and her six siblings. The stories were good, sometimes racy, and probably partially true, though it’s impossible to know for certain. Everyone I could ask is gone. None of that matters, though. The connection is the important part. 

We’ve reached that place in dementia, though, where we spend most of our visits just sitting next to each other, holding hands. She struggles to find words now and to maintain a thought long enough to say a full sentence. Often, she’ll start to say something, search for a word from the garbled data in her brain, and trail off without realizing it. One of these days she’ll stop entirely. Hand-holding will be all that’s left, then, and it will still be all that matters. 

Much love.

Forgo the Filter: Say the Mean Part Aloud

ChatGPT Lives In A Shipping Container

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

A couple with a baby in a stroller stopped in front of the old Apple store and looked at each other, confused. In unison, they pulled out their phones and started looking online, speaking to each other in Chinese. I was walking toward them and smiled. “Are you looking for the Apple store?” I asked. Again, in unison, they smiled and nodded. “YES,” he said emphatically and with relief. I explained that it had recently moved and pointed it out. He chuckled, “Ah ha.” She said, “Thank you, thank you.” They nodded and continued down the street toward the no-longer-iconic-looking store. It was a small experience, lasting less than two minutes, but lovely. A tiny exchange of connection.

The Revivalists are singing from the speakers at the coffee shop. I love their music. The lead singer, David Shaw, is a surprisingly awkward live performer. A good-looking man, he postures on stage, feather-preening and strutting like cock. (Do I mean it the way you think I mean it?) Probably the young people in front of the stage are delighted but I’m there for the music. And to shout “get off my lawn” with the curmudgeonly abandon of a middle-aged woman wearing practical shoes.

I met a friend for brunch. She looked like an advertisement for dressing well at any age. I looked like I picked out a tshirt from my 95 year old neighbor’s 1980’s cast-offs that have been sitting in a pile in her closet since Y2K. We had a lovely meal and walked around the community afterwards, finally stopping at the shipping container house under construction in Bloomfield. “The only shipping container house in Pittsburgh,” the signage advertises. We peeked inside and puzzled over how they plan to manage temperature in an all-steel structure. It is, so they claim, “far more resistant to rodents than the average stick-built home.” I guess they’re referring to that notoriously easy-to-blow-over house built by one of the three little pigs. 

There’s an elderly man across from me wearing a John Lewis “good trouble” shirt. As I’m admiring it, a young hipster-looking individual enters the shop wearing a “doing my best” hoodie. Same. Same. 

Two women are talking, sitting close together at the table next to me. They’re discussing another woman’s body: She’s very fit. (She is, but a bigger girl. You know?) Right. She has a curvy rear. (It’s quite round. But fit. She’s very fit.) Yes. I wish my boobs were as big. (I know. She has a RACK.) They both laugh. I can’t decide if they really like her or really hate her. We don’t need to discuss the incredible level of misogyny embedded in any discussion of a woman’s body by other women, particularly when they aren’t lifting her up IN her presence.

I’m editing a chapter right now and I’m thoroughly stuck. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. There’s something, though, for sure. I open the chapter, stare at it for three hours, tweak a word here or there and then sigh with frustration before closing the chapter and reopening it 15 minutes later as though something will have changed. LOL I think I’m going to delete the entire novel and just throw myself into a dustbin. Or maybe I’ll work on a later chapter to get myself unstuck. Which will I choose? Dustbin of history or more work on the book? TBD, I think.

Olivia Dean’s new album is upbeat and lyrical, with soaring harmonies. I particularly like “So Easy.” I am not listening to Taylor Swift’s new album. If I were to comment, which I do not intend to do, I think words such as “trite” and “juvenile” would work on the lyric “his love was the key that opened my thighs.” Perhaps one can become too comfortable in her fame. Certainly, with enormous wealth, one can find a writing partner other than an LLM.

I have had my first ChatGPT experience. Deliberately using passive voice here, a thing about which my former and favorite writing professor would have THINGS to say: ChatGPT was given an article that I wrote–I’m not going to get into the ethics of that right now–to review and edit. I then received a copy of the results. (My friend, if you are reading this, it’s all good. xo)

In a shocking turn of events, I found the results enlightening. ChatGPT is definitely not for me but I understand now how incredibly effective this LLM is at engaging with humans. I showed the output to one of my kids and told him that ChatGPT and I are dating. He did not find that funny, which makes it funnier to me, somehow. Anyway, my son and I talked about the results, what he made of the whole thing, what I thought of it, and the future of AI. 

A first reading of the results would suggest that I am a freaking genius who is moments away from winning a Pulitzer or Nobel in literature. My ego agrees completely with ChatGPT on this point. I drank its praise like water from the fountain of youth. But just like the fountain, all that praise is not real. ChatGPT isn’t a person. It cannot reason. It cannot think. It cannot evaluate your work for merit, talent, quality because those concepts are subjective. It is not capable of forming opinions. It isn’t a person. It does not feel. It cannot like you or hate you. It will use whatever information–true or false, conservative or liberal, fascist or antifascist–it is given. Remember, as you use it, that it’s dangerous to believe what a machine was taught to tell you. 

Much love.

ChatGPT Lives In A Shipping Container

Disco Dancing at the Diner

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

An elderly beagle left a little dirt on my pant leg and a saliva-sticky mark on my chin this morning. I met him on my walk. There is nothing more pleasing than to have a dog reciprocate a greeting. He eagerly did, meeting me at the halfway mark with a nose boop and a happy tongue. 

Further on, a young woman walked toward me, up the hill. She was clearly on her way to class, striding along, backpack on her shoulders, her head slightly down as she leaned into the hill. As we were about to pass, I said, “Your hair is beautiful.” She stopped to look at me, then smiled. I smiled back and walked on down the hill in the early morning sun. 

Somewhere in my community, as I was walking and not paying attention to the cross streets, I saw a sign on a glass door. The sign said, “Actual Size.” Nothing else. There was no other marking on the door. It’s mildly funny, made me smile. What, for me, was far funnier, is that someone thought that was worth putting on the door. Maybe they even created the sign on the computer and printed it, found tape and stuck the sign to the door, and then laughed about it. Someone went to all that effort for a laugh, for no purpose OTHER than the gag. Just a giggle or a smile for anyone who takes a moment to notice it.

The server at the diner where I got a late breakfast was dancing to the 70s music that was playing. She stopped suddenly and complained to me about how hot it was in the room. “I’m so hot,” she said. “Hot and spicy.” I replied, “That’s what Joe says.” (Joe is her partner.) And we both had a good laugh. “He wishes,” she said, with a wink.

A disco song started playing. Another server danced along the aisle, singing. I asked if she knew how to do the hustle and then realized that she’s TOO YOUNG. And now, I will diminish, and go into the West and remain Galadriel. I mean Deb. 

I just looked up from my editing, thinking about how I wanted to word something, and watched a gray-haired man hop up from a bench across the way to take a picture of an older woman, presumably his partner, who was eating a cup of gelato from the pizza place. He sat back down and smiled as he showed it to her. They’re sitting so close that their arms brush as they scoop the gelato into their mouths.

A very attractive young man with black curls hanging down his back is walking in a circle outside, a large circle. He’s waiting for someone. Is he a little nervous? There are two standard waiting postures: the shift from one foot to the other while looking at a phone and the walk aimlessly. I’ve done significant (undocumented) research on this. You can trust me that he’s waiting. He’s wearing a blue and white small-check shirt and one of those zigzag hair bands to keep the curls out of his face. 

Ah, good news, readers. It’s probably 10 minutes later than when I last looked. He has met up with someone and they’re now walking, with intent, across the street. Both have smiles, friends happy to be together. Over the weekend, I watched a group of men like that meet up, long-term friends, gray beards, some bent and arthritic, faces lined. They called out when each one arrived and hugged–true hugs, not those weird backslap hugs–all around, each time. There was so much joy in the room because they were together. 

I’m working on a project and doing some research around protest music. If you use Spotify (yeah, I know what Daniel Ek is doing–he sucks), there are some real bangers on these two playlists: 

  • Rolling Stone 100 Best Protest Songs of All Time
  • 100 Best Protest Songs According to ongoinghistoryofprotestsongs.com

A warning though: there’s a lot in these songs to make you sad. Some days it seems like we’ve literally been fighting for 125 years for things that should never have been divisive.  

“You kill people and break things for a living,” says our current Secretary of Defense. Look at those words, those deeply offensive words from a want-to-be tough guy who has no experience leading anyone. I suspect it is only discipline that kept those generals and admirals in their seats while Petey and Donny postured in front of them. I felt a strong urge to verbally flip both of those men off as I watched clips of the meandering speeches that clearly highlighted how little they understand their roles or our military or our Constitution. 

A young natural-blond man (fun aside here–I wasn’t sure whether to add an e on the end of that word and turned to Merriam-Webster for assistance. It seems that ‘blonde’ is a gendered spelling. M-W recommends eschewing that and going with blond, which would be correct in this context anyway)…back to that young blond man. He is frequently at the coffee shop working on a computer, very occasionally on a call. I have no idea what job he does but I have to remark (or is it that I want to remark?) that his biceps are so large his tshirt sleeves don’t fit over them. I imagine that men are particularly jealous, though I don’t know very many women who care about the size of a man’s biceps. Awkwardly, our reflections in the garage door glass just made direct eye contact and now I shall stare deeply at my screen for at least the next three years.  

Jeff Daniels will be in town next Friday, performing at City Winery. I LONG to go but the only tickets available are singles at 4-tops. There is as much chance of me joining a table of strangers as there is of me standing on stage to sing to them. He’s a genuinely lovely performer. I am very sad.

Oh no. The person at the table between me and blond man just left. We are facing each other now and just made direct eye contact again. It’s soooo awkward. This seat is right by the window so I’m not leaving but I am absolutely not making eye contact again. Guess I’ll be typing with my eyes closed. This experience is somehow worse than that time I was sitting beside the man whose pants were below his butt cheeks.

I’m working on a new project during editing breaks. I’m not going to share details but I’m really having fun with it. It’s not what I was planning to work on next but I can hear this new protagonist’s voice so I’m making lots of notes. Many of those notes are currently more questions than anything else, such as, is protagonist a reliable narrator? Also, does protagonist have a ride-or-die?

A couple with a toddler is now sitting at the table between me and blond man. Mom and the toddler are waiting in line and an absolute giant of a man–6’7” I’m guessing–is in line behind them. That toddler is NOT having it. He’s trying to make friends, even bending all the way over to be at eye level but she noped right out of there. The man is wearing a great striped flannel that is way too short for him but really lovely. It’s deep brown, gold, and red, perfect fall colors. He has given up on chatting with the child and is talking to the mom while the dad sits at the table scrolling on a phone. I will not point out what incredibly misogynistic parenting this is. I will not point out what incredibly misogynistic parenting this is. I will not…

Um. There’s a cat in here. It’s mewing. Everyone is looking around. Some people are laughing. The guilty party is not fessing up. I hope I get to see it. So does the toddler who is in “find the cat” mode.

This is crazy. Something just hit me right in the face. It stung but no damage done. It hit me in a downward arc so it was definitely thrown by someone who probably did not intend to hit anyone. That would be unacceptable behavior in this noisy but peaceful place. There are many shenanigans here but no mean-spiritedness. I said, “Ow,” quite loudly so it’s likely that whoever did it heard me. Also, I think I know who did it. Lol

Sisters have arrived. They’re elderly, the same height, same haircut. They *might* be twins but even so, I can tell right away which one is older. They’re sitting together outside. Older sister is in a light blue shirt and matching blouse unbuttoned, long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her sister is wearing a pink shirt with a pinky-peach checked blouse, also unbuttoned, cuffs rolled back. They’re eating the delicious pasta salad available from the coffee shop and sharing what looks like an Arnold Palmer. (I’m so nebby. haha) I wish I could hear them talking. I can tell from their body language that they finish each other’s sentences. And that they love each other. There’s a softness in the way they’re handing each other napkins and utensils. I’ll bet when they fight it’s hilarious to watch. Gentle, biting words while they work together to make dinner. Lol

My sister (Hi sis) and I do NOT fight like that. When we fight, it’s claws out, daggers drawn, pistols at dawn. Hehe My poor brother-in-law. What he has to endure. I don’t know why he puts up with us. Well, particularly me. He MARRIED you, sis. Lol

There’s a tiny, tripod terrier outside. It could not weigh more than 5 pounds. Cuteness overload.

Much love.

Disco Dancing at the Diner