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

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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

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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

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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

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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

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Someone directly behind me is playing a violin quite well, which is not a thing I normally say when I’m working. No criticism of the performers on Walnut Street intended. I’ll just say that what they lack in skill, they make up for in enthusiasm and backing recordings from their ever-present CD players. 

The air is crisp with hints of fall but the sun is all summer. It’s almost brisk, such a welcome relief that the people have come from all their hidden places to swarm the square, which, in point of clarity, is not even slightly square shaped.

Two men sit on a bench within eyesight of my shady spot. They have an elderly dog who is currently lying in a dappled sunspot but stands enthusiastically to greet any who come within reach of her leash. One of the men looks like Santa Claus on his summer break. The other more closely resembles a retired actor, could, in fact, be a retired actor for all I know. They’re sitting like a couple or loving old friends, each in a corner of the bench, turned toward each other, knees almost touching.

Next to me, on another bench, is a contemplative young man. He might have crossed into melancholy, though his twitching leg suggests that he’s anxiously waiting or perhaps just anxious. He’s been here for at least 20 minutes as the violinist plays “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera. 

If I had a dollar (inflation) for every shirtless young man who has run by, I would be retired and living in the Highlands. Why do men take off their shirts to run? Do they run faster without the drag of a shirt? Perhaps they’re solar powered and need to expose as much skin as possible to collect the energy necessary for a run.

The violinist is gone, replaced by a guitarist who is still warming up. A couple with four dogs has settled into the seating to my right. One of the dogs is sitting in a cart like it’s a throne. The humans are certainly treating the dog like royalty. The other dogs lay happily in the sun, the breeze ruffling their fur. 

The young man looked at his phone, got up, and is now gone. His place has been taken by another young man with very floppy hair that he’s fussing over. He’s looking at his phone. I think he’s waiting for someone but he might also just be a bored teenager. I’m pretty confident that he is not the person the other young man was waiting for.

The guitarist is singing Carole King’s “Chains.” Honestly, I’m not loving it. I haven’t decided if I don’t love his voice or if I don’t love the song. Or, you know, both. I’ll say this for him. He’s doing something I would not even attempt in front of a microphone, unless my children’s lives were in danger. I’d sing loud and proud if, for some inexplicable reason, my singing would save them. 

Two proselytizers have joined the community. They are standing beside a bench and being very obviously avoided by everyone. Wait, I take that back. They’ve been approached by a group who are, if body language is accurate, challenging the proselytizers. I stopped watching because…working. When I eventually look up from my screen, they’ve all disappeared. I wonder what that means.

The guitarist is now playing Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” Sigh. He’s definitely better on this song but he’s no Johnny Cash. I recognize the unfairness of the comment. I do. No one has the incomparable rawness of Johnny Cash. I think I’m just a curmudgeon. Shocking to realize. 

A family of Gryffindors just walked by. I know this by their tshirts. Too bad she who shall not be named uses her platform to harm others. I hope she gains empathy. If she can’t stop her efforts to hurt others, I hope that her platform diminishes to the size of a grain of salt because that’s what we should take her opinions with.

We’re now listening to “Jack and Diane.” Sigh. I’m back to disliking the guitarist. Lol This is not a song in his genre, though my biggest beef right now is that he’s singing the slow parts as though he’s running a race he has to win. Just slow down, my friend. “This is a ditty ‘bout Jack and Diann” is not a line to be hurried.

All the dogs who pass by try to stop at my table. The owners are all apologetic but they don’t know I have dog treats from the farmers market in my bag. Hehe 

There’s now a clarinet competing with the guitarist. It’s honestly rather musically jarring. They’re NOT working together. Really not. The guitarist is singing “I Shot the Sheriff.” I can’t tell what the clarinetist is playing.

Nothing says, “we know you’re alone” like all the people around you trying to take the chairs at your table. Yep. I know, folks. I’m sitting by myself at a four-top but maybe you could leave me the dignity of pretending that people are joining me soon.

A faded hopscotch board in the walkway has drawn more attention than you might expect. Not everyone plays but the people who do span the ages – children to elderly. And they smile widely. I think a lot of us have forgotten that you don’t need permission to have fun. 

A couple is now sitting on the bench near me. The man thinks he’s killing it with the woman. He is, I promise you, not killing it with her. He’s leaning toward her, arm across the back of the bench they’re on. She’s sitting forward, one arm over her torso, the other holding her ankle so it doesn’t come in contact with his encroaching leg. Her body language screams No Touching. Honestly, he’s very smug sounding, bragging about how important he is. I can see why she’s turned off. I’m turned off and I’m not even included.

A couple walking a dog named Winslow is arguing as they approach my table. She says that he was rude. He’s loudly defending himself, “I thought you’d understand.” Never a smart response. If your words hurt someone important to you, the right answer is, “I didn’t intend to hurt you and I’m sorry that I did.” Anyway, the dog approaches me. (I still have my dog-treat bag.) It’s enough to stop their bickering as they try to untangle their too-long leash, which the dog has wrapped around my table in search of that delicious smell. 

It’s evening now, just coming on to dusk. The temperature is dropping – I am not dressed for this! The young men walking by in groups are doing what appears to be a scavenger hunt. I’m guessing, from their ages, that it’s for new students to get to know each other. They’re all holding phones and discussing locations as they walk quickly and occasionally break into a jog. 

Dinner tonight is a burger, not actually, despite what you might all think, my preferred choice of meal but the pickings are few here. Fine dining, burgers, pizza. That’s it. Pizza is rarely something I would choose, with the occasional exception of Mercurios in Shadyside. Fine dining requires a reservation that I have not made. And that’s how I arrive at a burger. It’s fine. I like burgers but they’re heavy meals. I’m already tired and have many words to write today. I fear my eyes will become as heavy as my dinner.

There are four young men, I’m guessing college seniors, playing some sort of game at their table. There’s a full glass of beer and they’re all putting a finger on the rim. Someone calls out a number and one or more of the guys raises their finger. Eventually, someone wins. The rules are completely opaque to me and to one of the players. They explain the rules to him again and I try, really, to eavesdrop along. I’m missing something key, however, because as far as I can tell, the wrong person wins the next round of the game. Also, it appears to be a drinking game but they are not drinking the beer. If you have any idea what’s going on, please tell me.

Do you want a review of my burger? Well, you’re getting one anyway. It was particularly meh, the only cow meat option, covered with a grilled piece of ham and a large mound of fried onions. The burger itself was overcooked, an error for which there is no redemption. Included was a tasty but very sweet honey mustard sauce. Overall, I’d give it a 6 out of 10. I’ve had several very nice meals recently. This one will not be included on the list.  

Every step I’ve taken this week, I’ve heard the echo of young feet. Someone smarter than me once said, “You can’t go home again.” Now, I think I understand why.

Much love.

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

My brain is a roiling mass of noise. But also, this weekend is the Latrobe banana split festival. In case you’re not aware: Latrobe is the HOME of the banana split. It’s a great story of a pharmacy student working at a soda fountain in 1904 who was challenged by young customers to make a fun treat using that crazy exotic fruit.

I’ve finally found the model for my current male protagonist. He’s a construction supervisor here in Pittsburgh who is doing his part to prop up that ‘90s Diet Coke commercial. I’ve been holding off describing my protagonist in detail because I just haven’t been able to see him in my mind. My friends, he is finally visible. I would never objectify anyone, so I won’t tell you about the construction supervisor’s, I mean, my character’s magnificent beard, biceps the size of a normal man’s thighs, and rugged, grumpy face. He’s PERFECT as my hero…I mean, my character’s hero. Hehe

Two regulars are playing chess by the window. The coffee shop doesn’t stock games. One of these men brought a whole-ass chess board ON HIS BICYCLE. It’s a full-sized board, too. No travel-size nonsense for them. 

The people sitting in front of me are speaking Portuguese. A man sitting beside me is speaking farsi, I think. A group of girls on the cushy chairs upstairs are speaking Korean. Several people are speaking English, some with an accent that suggests they’re from a different country. And you know what? I’m just fine.

This is a comment on our sudden fear of immigrants.

Oof. Someone spilled their 20oz latte. The completely full latte they’d just been handed by the barista. It went everywhere. I did that with my iced tea a few weeks ago, except that I spilled mine on the only carpeted section of the store. Also, and worse, IMHO, I didn’t drop mine. I put it on the table behind my computer and proceeded to knock it over when I slid my computer further back on the table. The tea stain is still visible on the carpet. I say, “Hi tea,” under my breath when I walk by it on the way to the restroom. It’s a greeting and word play. If you think that doesn’t make me laugh every single time, you clearly don’t know me.

There are two young children at the coffee shop negotiating with Grandma to get a treat. The little girl, maybe 5 or 6, has a pink bow in her hair. She’s being extremely naughty, trying to climb onto the counter and sitting in all the chairs like a little Goldilocks. The boy is rolling on the carpet in front of the counter. I keep gasping, thinking Grandma is going to step back onto him. Apparently, though, she’s got Grandma radar because no one gets injured. 

Unfortunately, Grandma yells at one of the baristas for not being friendly enough. That sucks. Don’t do that. Your barista doesn’t owe you friendliness. They aren’t your friend. There’s a significant power imbalance and you, as the customer, hold most of the power. Baristas are paid like $12/hour to make your drink, serve you a pastry, wipe off the tables, put toilet paper in the bathroom, and ask you to leave at closing. They’re not your friend. They don’t even owe you a smile. It’s nice to get one but it’s not necessary.

There’s a server at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District who is slightly more animated than a cardboard cut-out. She’s had it with being artificially friendly. If she’s waiting on you, you are going to get rote questions (how do you like your eggs what kind of meat do you want sausage bacon or ham white wheat or rye toast). There’s no inflection, no commas in her voice, no pauses inviting conversation. She’ll also be giving you rote responses to your witticisms, questions, and attempts at connection. She does not give a f**k about you or your desire to be friendly. But her service is efficient and high quality. There’s another server there who, every time she sees me and Tristan, says, “Hey, babes. How are you?” She does this even when she’s not our server. It takes all kinds and it’s okay if the kind you get isn’t your best friend from the moment you meet.

Another server I know, Daisy, works at Ritters, a local diner that’s been a fixture of Bloomfield for longer than I’ve lived in Pittsburgh (and that’s a long time). We used to go there often as grad students to eat inexpensive food on laminate tables with vinyl booths. A much younger Daisy was already working there, though I didn’t know it. 

When my son lived in Bloomfield, we started going there pretty regularly again. Not much has changed, including the vinyl booths and laminate tables. Thirty years after I first visited Ritters, I got to know Daisy. She has now worked there for 45 years. We’ve been friendly for about 10 of those, I guess, but really connected while I was getting chemo. She’d had cancer about 15 years before and immediately was suspicious when I didn’t order my usual iced tea. 

We’ve compared notes on lots of things over the years, mostly superficial, though sometimes, it’s been mom-related stuff. I know that Daisy likes patty melts without the onion and French toast and never switched back from decaf coffee after she entered remission. I also know that she’s dying of bone cancer and that I’ll never see her at the diner again. She’s inpatient right now, fighting for another few months of life. I hear she has a grandbaby on the way. I’m not on her mind right now, probably never will be again, but she is on mine. I suspect that, like so many other people I’ve met, she’ll continue to be there.

Much love.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Enslavement Sucked, Even if the Museum No Longer Says So

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The president says the Smithsonian Museum is too focused on “how bad slavery was.” I’m sure you all saw his comments. For the president to suggest that we shouldn’t stare into the darkness of our history is an urgent cry to do just that, to know it, to share it, to understand what this country officially chose to do to human beings. We cannot, we should not look away. The lie has gone on for far too long. 

You were probably not taught the extent of the unbearable truth of enslavement. It isn’t in the Smithsonian, at least, not to the degree that the president alludes. History is written by the winners, right? And yet, we lost the voice of the formerly enslaved. Theoretically, they won their freedom via the Civil War; but they didn’t get to tell their story in any national way, certainly not to school children. Hell, when I was a child, we were taught that many of the formerly enslaved stayed at the plantations where they’d previously been owned, presumably because they were happy there (it was their “home”); but that’s grossly, egregiously false. Sure, some stayed; as children we never learned WHY. Maybe, as adults, some of us still don’t know, still parrot the “they were happy at the plantation” falsehood. 

Most of what I’ve learned has come from active searches for the details that teachers didn’t provide. Believe me; I don’t want to know. Once you see an image of a human muzzled, there’s no promise that it will ever leave your mind. Nonetheless, choosing not to know is an indulgence I don’t feel comfortable with simply because I’m a privileged white woman who would never have been enslaved. When I read Beloved, I had to research some of the punishments Toni Morrison wrote about. I’d never been taught in school about speculum oris, tongue restraint, iron muzzles and bits. Maybe that’s a horror we don’t want children to know. And yet, many children literally experienced that horror, those punishments. Why is it okay for them to have endured it, for us to have DONE it, but not for us to teach about it? 

Books that will break your heart – Beloved by Toni Morrison; 12 Years a Slave by Solomon Northup; Never Caught by Erica Armstrong Dunbar; Slavery and Public History edited by James Horton and Lois Horton; Bullwhip Days edited by James Mellon. 

There’s a great quote from a fairly silly move, Ever After. In the movie, Dougray Scott’s character, Prince Henry, says, “I used to think if I cared about anything, I’d have to care about everything.” In times like these, it’s worth remembering that you get to choose how much you pay attention to. You get to choose what you care about. People, like me!, will shout at you from every platform that you are a monster if you don’t lie awake at night, thinking about…. Well, you name it: Gaza, Ukraine, voting rights, marriage equality, the Smithsonian, mail-in ballots, the unhoused in DC, ICE kidnappings, vaccinations, the Epstein files, climate change, and every other critical thing that has momentarily slipped from my short term memory but will wake me at 2AM. 

Rationally, you and I know that we can’t, we simply can’t put enough emotional energy into all of the things that matter. They all matter. That’s why we feel such rage and grief. And that’s why we have to give ourselves the grace to breathe. You don’t have to cry about marriage equality today to care about marriage equality. You don’t have to think TODAY about babies starving in Gaza to know that it’s wrong and to want it to stop. You can give yourself room to process the grief that you feel, the exhaustion. You personally will not stop what is happening but staying fighting fit will enable you to stand up when you are ready to.

And if you want to borrow a book, you let me know. 

Much love.

Enslavement Sucked, Even if the Museum No Longer Says So

What I Do All Day (A Much-Too-Long Post)

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

A week in the life of a self-employed writer: 

Day 1: Coffee Shop

A young woman is taking pictures outside the coffee shop and smiling to herself. They’re not selfies. I can’t tell what’s making her so delighted but her body language indicates that she’s very pleased with her work.

Current song: Amy Winehouse singing “Valerie.” Her voice is so beautiful but I have to admit, as a parent, listening to her makes me think of her father’s grief when she died. She was more than her voice but it may be that only he could understand that.

Someone just walked by wearing a Maryland Deathfest tshirt. It’s from 2016, when this person could not have been more than 10. I fear the attire might be performative goth, though I’m not judging. I’m a proud supporter of the WWETFYW movement. For example, when I was on my way home before Jam on Walnut, I passed a young woman wearing kitten slides and – friends – her feet were HURTING. IYKYK She was also wearing a skirt so short the thread is still looking for the fabric to sew it together, as well as a thong. It’s unfortunate that I know about the thong; but in my defense, everyone else who passed her also knows about the thong. I asked my 27yo daughter if it was by design or accident, which spurred a really fun discussion about generational differences in style and style appreciation. 

I’ve learned a lot from her and learned something then, as we talked about what it means to wear something “flattering.” She called it a misogynistic term that enforces style choices dictated by society. I’ve been thinking about that ever since. And yeah, I’m converted. I realized as we talked that I never think about men’s attire as flattering or unflattering. What do you think?

A long-haired, piebald miniature doxy just passed the coffee shop. This is a red alert. There is a long-haired, piebald in the community and I’ve not met them yet. This is a red alert. Also, I’m trying desperately to get into the new dog-friendly coffee shop and the entire world (okay, lack of paperwork) is conspiring against me. It’s very frustrating.

I swear that J.K. Simmons’ younger brother just entered the coffee shop and he’s got a great beard. I wonder what he’d say if I went up to him and said, “Your beard is better than your brothers.” hehehe 

You all saw the article about the big game hunter who was killed by the buffalo defending itself? It’s been a lively social media discussion with more buffalo-stans than I expected who believe, as I do, that being tracked by a hunter intending to kill you is, in fact, provocation. There are only two innocent parties in this situation, the buffalo and the man’s daughter.

Grok-spotting underway. In case you missed it, Grok is an AI created under the direction of that guy who paid too much for and then ruined Twitter. We don’t need to mention his name. Anyone using it is sus, though it’s possible the person in front of me is one of the critics giving grok opportunities to not be racist, that inevitably result in heinous responses highlighting how inexcusable grok is.  

Current song: Mac Miller’s “Come Back to Earth.” I discovered Mac via his NPR Tiny Desk only a month before his death and it led me on an exploration of his crisp lyricism and bittersweet story telling. If you’ve been hesitating to listen to his music, I recommend starting with his Tiny Desk where you will see how much he is loved by his friends/bandmates, the joy he found in performing, and the vision of his music that he articulated exquisitely during that brief concert. A great loss to his family, his hometown community, his friends, and to music.

An elderly woman just walked by and called me old. She and a young companion were headed toward me on the sidewalk. Our eyes met and I smiled. She smiled back, saying, “Here’s someone representing the not-young population.” She tapped my shoulder and said, “Thank you.” We both laughed but I’m not sure if I’m more offended or amused. She’s not wrong; it’s only in my mind that I’m still that insecure 17 year old. I’m actually that insecure almost-59-year-old.

I know it seems that I’ve been procrastinating but what you don’t know is that I’ve been here for six hours. When I get stuck, I take a break, work on a CNF piece that I’ve been torturing for the last six months, or blog about something on my mind or in my line of sight. 

Another song rec: Emily Meli, “I AM WOMAN.” It’s a fantastic, empowering bop of a song, a good anthem for those days when you wonder what else will be taken from us. Voting rights are up next, apparently, as well as marriage rights for LGBTQIA+ friends. And for all those who say it will never happen, I would just like to point out that abortion rights were settled law, until they weren’t. Do these right-wing Christian men who are currently advocating male-only (I mean household) voting understand that more than 20% of households in the US are headed by women? My household is one of those. Does that mean I lose my voice entirely if they’re successful in their attempts to eliminate the 19th amendment? Friends, I’ll be damned before I’ll lose the right to vote.

Day 2: Erie

It started early and I’m writing this partly after the fact because I was driving. I left the house at 7AM, destination: Erie – a not-my-aunt Ginny day! Here’s how it goes:  First, I stop at the coffee shop and get the largest iced tea they offer, 32 ounces of golden goodness, along with a little friendly chatter with whichever barista is working the opening shift. Some of them – Hi Friends! – read this blog. Hehe 

After leaving there, I fill my gas tank, start my audiobook – Abby Jiminez, Life’s Too Short – and head to Erie. It takes me a solid 20 minutes to get through Oakland (in Pittsburgh) due to the egregious amount of simultaneous construction projects that have Fifth Avenue down to one lane from three. Jiminez’s story is a devastating primer on ALS and I find myself holding in tears as I listen and wondering how she’s going to pull off a HEA.

The journey itself is about two hours but I did not go directly to not-my-aunt G’s. First, I drove to Romolo’s and bought G a box of dark chocolate peppermint patties. She’s a big fan. Since I haven’t had anything to eat today, I decide to treat myself to a hot cocoa, which the Romolo’s employee convinces me HAS TO BE frozen. (I’m paying a mild homage to Tom Hanks’ character in You’ve Got Mail here. IYKYK) I’ve never had frozen hot cocoa and find the concept rather oxymoronic to be honest. Nonetheless, I agree to it.

Back on the road, I drive the 20 or so minutes to my not-my-aunt G’s nursing home and find her in the Treetop Lounge, which is the community area, where she is sort of watching television. Since her dementia is pretty advanced, she gets different information from television than the average viewer (hold in the MAGA jokes, Deb; you can do it). I don’t know what they were watching. There were only commercials playing when I got there. Not-my-aunt G was absolutely convinced that something dreadful was going on and it was somehow related to teenage girls and sex. I have no idea what she was trying to describe. It could be anything from a storyline for a soap to a mid-morning news clip. I distract her by taking a picture of her nail polish, which you can see if you follow me on Bluesky.

Just before lunch, we see another resident in a wheelchair. She stops us and asks if we’ve gotten our hot pads. This is not a question my not-my-aunt G could answer, so I answer for her, asking for the details. She shows me a stack of fabric coasters made of bright quilt squares. 

This resident makes the coasters and donates them to fundraisers. Today, for whatever reason, she’s handing them out to the residents and staff. We pick one out for not-my-aunt G, a bright pink- and-yellow-flowered one that matches her shirt and then the woman gives me one, too, a sparkly one reminiscent of fall. Not-my-aunt G could not remember what they were and told me to throw them out so I tucked them away in my bag to use at home. Every time I use one of them, I think of that lovely woman hand-sewing coasters. (I can’t believe the director lets her have a needle, much less scissors. Sharon (the director) will never learn of it from me; snitches get stitches, bitches.)

Lunch is a very small meat calzone that one of her tablemates labels disgusting. Not-my-aunt G has three tablemates, all of whom have physical limitations but full cognition. We always have a nice chat together, with not-my-aunt G occasionally making a declaration that is completely out of left field and, sometimes, racist. 

Her sundowners gets pretty bad around 1PM and I always try to go before my leaving makes her cry about being abandoned. I push her chair back to her room after lunch, hug her good-bye and head to Sara’s for a cheeseburger and a partial drive around Presque Isle. Pittsburgh’s relationship to the rivers is nothing like Erie’s deep connection to the lake. It is soothing to sit by the water and listen to the waves lap against the sand as the seagulls sound their shrieking cry. Work calls, however, and I only stay there for about 30 minutes.

Heading back to Pittsburgh, a small mustard stain on my shirt, I return to my audiobook and listen as the miles race by. I’m lucky enough not to hit much traffic and make it to my bedroom/office in slightly under two hours. Now, I’m trading off between this and the manuscript. It’s hot, even with my little portable air conditioner and a powerful fan that my daughter bought to circulate the stagnant air on the third floor of my old, old house.

Before the day ends, you need (or do you?) a quick review of frozen hot cocoa. The tl; dr: not worth the fuss. The presentation includes a domed lid filled to the top with whipped cream that doesn’t break down in the cold liquid but does break up into little chunks that resemble spoiled milk. If you don’t get grossed out looking at that visual, it’s drinkable. However, if, like me, you have a very narrow, paper straw, the ice chunks will get stuck in the straw, blocking all access to the liquid, EVERY time you take a drink. Eventually, someone at the nursing home will give you a wider plastic straw so you can get a reasonable taste, at which point you’ll realize that it’s just chocolate milk with whipped cream and crushed ice. I don’t actually like ice or whipped cream in my chocolate milk so I’ll be bypassing this “treat” going forward. 

Day 3: Another Multi-location Day

I’m still stuck on the same scene I’ve been working on for a week now and I’m getting pretty annoyed with it. I had a painful second of brilliance in the middle of the night and have a plan for today. First, however, I take my eldest to an eye appointment. I sit in the car, working on this blog as I wait for him. He’s back in less than 45 minutes. It’s not 9AM and we’re getting breakfast together. Kelly O’s is the choice today. Seana’s Favorite for me, with eggs over medium, bacon, and raisin french toast. It’s too much food; I share the french toast with my son.

A little after 10, we part ways. I’m now at the coffee shop. It’s HOT today; I’m sitting beside the big, closed-because-HEAT, garage door, the sun just shining into the shop. This is my favorite spot for nebbing at my community. I’m listening to Enya as I settle in. I don’t find it particularly good writing music, too dreamy for focus, but excellent for starting the writing day. 

It’s nearly 2PM and I have my first blog story to share. I’ve been busy “massaging” the text of this manuscript. I suspect it’s more like torturing the text but I digress. This break is to share the charm of the older couple who just walked in. She’s wearing a “TEA shirt” tshirt, the line art is, obviously, a tea bag. She catches my eye and we say “hi” with a smile. I exclaim over her shirt and ask where she got it. A gift from her niece, she tells me, and I ask her, on my behalf, to compliment her niece on her gifting skills. We talk for another moment about the “pop up” display of posters by the coffee shop doors. I joke that it’s important to stop by occasionally to see what’s happening in our community. She nods, suddenly very serious, and begins taking pictures of the various activities – Pedal Pittsburgh, Little Italy Days, a fundraiser with Jessica Simpson as the headliner, Polkamaniacs, Jam Session. There are so many. 

I’m home now. It’s after 7. The shop closes at 8 during the summer. I’m tired and ready to slip on my pjs before I continue working at the desk in my room. My thermometer says it’s 84 degrees up here so I turn on the little air conditioner and the fan before I settle in to write.

Day 4: Life is like a relationship. It’s complicated.

Another early start, this time for my son’s dental appointment. He goes to the Pitt Dental School, which is great but sssssllllllooooowwwww because the students work under a dentist. This results in frequent stopping and starting and stopping. I’m sitting in a very small waiting room that is uncomfortably full of people and also has television playing videos of disconcertingly specific dental symptoms and treatments. I put on my headphones to drown out the descriptions and the family sitting across from me. Currently, the youngest daughter is on the floor spinning in circles. It makes me shiver to think of all the various germs she’s currently collecting on her back and head. I’m going to focus if it kills me.

It’s two hours later and another woman comes into the waiting room. She was here earlier but now she’s bored and looking for someone to talk to. When she smiles at me, I take my headphones off and ask her to repeat herself. She’s grieving: She and her boyfriend don’t have insurance. The dental work he needs is going to cost $1,500. She doesn’t know what they’re going to do. She smiles at me. It’s a grim “grin and bear it” smile. She has no front teeth. I feel a moment of rage at a country that punishes people for being poor. 

I manage to tamp down my emotions as she mentions that her phone battery is dead. I lend her a charge cord and we talk until the boyfriend returns. She cleans houses six days a week. It’s hard work and some of her customers try to stiff her pretty regularly. The boyfriend returns. She smiles again as she returns my charger and thanks me for the loan. I wish I could do more, like burn down all the capitalistic structures that have turned the working poor into the bad guys and the billionaires into heroes. I’m finally alone in the waiting room. Unfortunately, those damn dental-torture videos are still playing. 

The wait is long. When my son meets up with me, we agree that if we’d known how long it would be… But it didn’t really matter where I worked this morning. I met someone I needed to meet and I got work done. If only there’d been a way to shut off those videos. 

It turns out that my son is among the 30% of the population that has an “ouch” nerve, as the licensed dentist dad-joked to the students. The “ouch” nerve is an extra nerve under the tongue that, if it isn’t numbed, causes the patient to say…? Yes, that’s right. They say, “Ouch.” lol My son had to get an extra shot of novocaine. Fortunately, the student checked for numbness before she started working so he didn’t have to say “ouch.” He’s not delighted about the random extra nerve since it hasn’t proved even minimally useful. Why not a prehensile tongue like a giraffe? Or radar like a bat?

We didn’t have breakfast and now it’s noon. We’re starving but he can’t have solid food. No chewing while your mouth is numb! I could suggest Brothmonger for soup but do I? No. I suggest that we go to Page’s and get milkshakes. I can’t eat solid food in front of him. That would be cruel and also would prevent me from getting a solidarity milkshake. 

It’s after 2PM now. I dropped him off at work and now I’m at the coffee shop, full of far too much peanut butter milkshake. So much milkshake that I actually couldn’t finish it. We asked for the largest milkshakes Page’s could make. And we got them. 32 ounces of peanut butter for me and 32 ounces of banana for him. I’ll never do it again but it was damn good.

It’s after 8PM and I’m just getting home. I had to make a quick stop at Giant Eagle (our grocery store) to pick up prescriptions. I don’t know if this ever happens to you but I can’t enter the grocery store without remembering 15+ things I definitely need to pick up – peanut butter oreos, cereal, yogurt, bread, a treat for my darlings, and one for my kids. Hehe Just kidding. I didn’t get the kids anything. 

Of course I did.

Day 5: Nothing But Work

A seriously cute couple just walked up to the counter at the coffee shop. They’re both wearing olive green tops and jeans. Deliberate or accidental? Either way, it works. The young man is very muscular and about a head and a half taller than the curvy beauty with the wide, wide smile. 

A party of young women has left one of the friends to guard their things while three of them leave the coffee shop. We’ll know soon if they’re picking up food they aren’t supposed to bring in here or if they’re visiting Sephora, Lululemon, the Apple Store, or one of the other popular spots for shopping on Walnut. It’s very quiet with the three of them temporarily absent. They are a chatty group who are supposedly studying, just as I am supposedly editing the manuscript. lol

Music recommendation: I know I’ve mentioned this before but if you haven’t yet taken my advice, you should really listen to the MTV Unplugged version of a-ha’s “Take On Me.” His voice is so beautiful in this acoustic version. His Parkinson’s diagnosis makes listening to this bittersweet but worthy of your attention.

I’ve deleted 200 words. Only 19,800 to go. Progress, right? Hehe I actually have made progress stitching together various scenes into a cohesive whole. Our protagonist finally has a plan and in-story, tonight, she’s going to ask her roommate for help. It shall go badly for her. I’ve already written that scene and it’s in pretty good shape. I just have to make the connections, put the people in their appropriate places, change breakfast to dinner, and…. Ta da, the scene will be done.

Without going near the universities, it’s easy to tell that the students are headed back to campus. They’re all coming into the coffee store to meet up with friends. Sometimes, I wonder where I’ll work if the coffee shop were to fall out of favor. There’s a lot of competition on this street. Somehow, though, the flow of drink purchases continues. There are six women in line now, several holding or wearing Pitt merch. They don’t look like freshmen. In case you don’t see the volume of college students in your third spaces that I see regularly, it takes seconds to determine who the freshmen are. Was I ever that young? Yes, and worse, I was completely unprepared for the cruel expectations of adulthood. 

Day 6: Estate Sale Day But Also Work, Work, Work

I’m on my own for estate sales today, which is not as much fun as having a buddy to chat with while we wait in line and wander through houses. I really enjoy certain aspects, like seeing how people from different communities and generations decorate their spaces. Sometimes, as I’ve mentioned, the owner has died. Other times, like today, it’s very obviously an acrimonious divorce. All of the “wedded bliss” decor, particularly the personalized stuff, is leaning against the walls. The monogrammed towels are $1 each, a great price if you happen to have a last name beginning with “O.” The house is not to my taste but that’s even more useful input for writing. I would never live in a tacky chic house but now I can write one authentically without relying on Pinterest. 

I didn’t buy anything and actually found it a little sad to walk through. The carpets were white. The sofas were white. The bedding was white with pink accent pillows. The closets were filled with her clothes. His were all gone. The art on the walls was mostly very large pieces, including a very nice 19th century oil on canvas still life by Mary Blood Mellen for which they were taking offers. I’d love to have it, except that it was at least 45” x 50”. On top of that, they shouldn’t take less than $15,000 for it (and would probably get much more at an art auction). At that price, I’d have to choose between food and art that won’t fit in my car or on my wall. Hehe

The coffee shop is incredibly busy, the line out the door today. There’s a wide mix of ages: young people with much hugging, middle-aged people who appear to be working (I’m including myself in that group, thank you very much), and shoppers of every age coming in for refreshment and a snack. That group in particular is fun because they tend to share their snacks, which gives me the opportunity to watch sharing dynamics. You know what I mean. There’s one piece left. It’s too small to really share. Will one person cede their snack territory or will they attempt the small piece slice? 

It’s late now. The coffee shop closes at 9 during summer weekends. I’m tired, cocoa pebbles for dinner.

Day 7: Uuuuugggggghhhhhhh

I’m at the coffee store. It’s a little before 3PM. The day started with a call from my son. His dental work is causing pain and he has no chew-free food in his house. What do you do when you’re in pain? You call your mom. I don’t make the rules. Sometimes I don’t even follow them, but this morning, I took my boy shopping. We went to the local Giant Eagle and perused the yogurts, cottage cheeses, cream soups, and frozen treats sections to find him a reasonable selection of foods for the next couple days until the discomfort subsides. So far, his favorite is the Kefir.

He lives on a narrow street with marked parking lanes. I pull into the space in front of his house and we sit for a few minutes chatting about the things Moms talk to their sons about: tomorrow’s work schedule, his plans for the day, pictures of a recent near catastrophe. (The person with Alzheimer’s put a few plastic containers on the stove before cooking themself dinner. All the plastic melted but amazingly there was no fire.) As my son says, “We do what we can.” He cleaned up the mess and that’s all there is to say about that. 

As my son was about to get out of the car with his groceries, someone in a Crosstrek — same car as mine! — drove by and clipped my side mirror, breaking it. And didn’t stop. So, even though I’m well aware that I shouldn’t, I drove after them. Tristan got a pic of the license plate and then, surprisingly, they pulled over. The perp (okay, typing that made me laugh) was a lovely elderly lady. Her husband was absolutely the bad guy in this situation, definitely trying to convince her that nothing had happened. 

I had to demand his insurance info (Him: It’s probably going to cost $2,000. I’d rather give you a check.) Yeah, I’m not falling for that. He’s being horrible RIGHT NOW. I don’t for a second think he won’t be horrible when I’m trying to get him to pay for the repairs. The wife, on the other hand, is great, continually scolding him in the background: 

Wife: Alan, give her the insurance information. 

Alan: Fine. I’ll give her the insurance information. (Yes, his name is Alan because F Alan’s privacy. He made this experience unnecessarily difficult.)

Wife: Alan, take a picture of the damage. 

Alan: Why should I do that? 

Wife: For the insurance company.

Alan: Fine. I’ll take a picture of the damage. 

Me: Do you want my insurance info? (I’m holding the state farm insurance form out to him.) 

Alan: What would I do with that? 

Me: Your insurance company wants it. 

Wife: Alan, make a copy of her insurance information. 

Alan: Fine, I’ll make a copy of her insurance information. 

Me: Can we exchange phone numbers?

Alan: Why would we do that?

Me: So, I can update you.

Wife: Alan, give her your phone number.

Seriously, Alan made me want to pluck out my eyeballs. He was so belligerent. Seriously. They were at fault. I had to chase them. AND I was being too nice. It was exhausting.

This IS the third time I’ve been hit since I bought the orange car. I think I now have statistical proof that orange is some sort of blind spot or red-to-a-bull color. In my entire life, I’ve only been in five accidents. The first happened when I was 20 years old and driving a dark red car that a Holiday Inn van forced off the road, into a concrete barrier. The second time, I was t-boned in our ancient mini-cooper. (The bastard ran. I called 911 as I chased him. I gave the license plate number to the 911 operator. She told me to pull over, which I did. The responding police officer didn’t write up the accident. Yeah, then, the bastard fought; and without even a police report, I lost. Phew, I’m clearly a little salty about runners.) The other three accidents have all been with this damn ORANGE car that I absolutely love: the first a hit and run in a parking lot; the second I was t-boned by a man who ran a stop sign; and this is the third. URGH

I’m listening to my Cheesy Love Songs playlist here at the coffee shop. Current song: I’d Lie for You (And That’s the Truth) by Meatloaf. This playlist is the result of a Reddit thread years ago about the best love songs ever made. It focuses very heavily on the last 40 years, which is a too-narrow view, IMO, but it’s hilarious, 10 hours or so of cheesy goodness. 

Surprisingly, I have gotten a whole scene completed today, despite the rough stuff in the middle of the day. I’m still feeling some way about good old Alan. I’d rather like to curse him with extra-long nose hairs or shoe laces that continually come untied but I’m going to be mature about this, I guess. If I have to be. But only after I draw a picture of Alan with clown shoes and a red nose that honks when you squeeze it.

Much love.

What I Do All Day (A Much-Too-Long Post)

“No Bad Juju” Would Be A Great Band Name

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The coffee shop has two very attractive, straight, male employees and the girlies are losing their minds. I can’t say that they’re being unreasonable to appreciate the charming beauty of these young men, who, by the way, are working together today. I witnessed more flirting in my first 15 minutes here than I usually see over the course of a week: hips cocked, hair tossing, posing on the stairs. It’s all happening even as I write this and I don’t hate it. 

The Walnut Street Apple Store is moving from its iconic glass store front to a brick building further down the street. That famous storefront is so familiar that we locals guide visitors based on its location: “when you pass the Apple store, you’ll see it;” “if you get to the Apple Store, you’ve gone too far.” I was just mock-lecturing my SIL about changing things up to challenge her brain, even as I bemoan the completely insignificant fact of our Apple Store’s move. Insert eyeroll here, right?!

Yesterday, I was in the Bloomfield neighborhood in Pittsburgh when I saw someone open carrying, their handgun in a holster on their right hip, with a walkie-talkie clipped on their left side. It is unusual, to say the least, to see someone in Bloomfield with a gun. This is a neighborhood in transition, the older, conservative, Italian community aging out of the majority as a younger, more diverse community, primarily healthcare professionals, has moved in. Even the restaurants are changing. There may be an Italian spot left but the newer places are an eclectic mix–Fet Fisk, Dad’s Dog and Burger, Brothmonger, Trace Brewing, plus vegan restaurants like Thyme Machine, which unfortunately was lost to a fire about six weeks ago. Anyway, the individual with the gun walked like, acted like, smelled like (jk) a police officer who was barely pretending to be undercover. My thoughts went immediately to ICE, as there has been significant ICE activity in the suburbs but nothing much directly in the city. I saw no trucks, vans, or masked faces, though, and I fear my nebby soul will never know the story. 

The changing neighborhood does call into question the persistence of Little Italy Days, a decades old Bloomfield tradition to be held next week, that successfully annoys the locals by bringing in dozens of food trucks and questionable tchotchke tents. I suspect that, back in the day, it drew people to the Italian restaurants and markets in the community but now at least half of the locally owned businesses close during LIDs. You can visit the food trucks, though, to purchase Hawaiian ice, lemonade, deep fried whatever, and pizza, if that’s your vibe. 

There’s a dog in the coffee shop. There’s a dog in the coffee shop. There’s a dog IN the coffee shop. He is very naughty. I love him.

A half dozen doxies were rescued by the ANNA Shelter and I’m forcing myself not to get one. It’s a struggle, an actual argument my emotional self is having with my rational self. I’m not sure who is going to win…. Sorry. That was emotional-self typing. Obviously, rational-self is going to win this argument because I’m not getting another dog. Or am I? NO, I’m not. Or am I?

I’m editing a very long manuscript and, after moving a bunch of stuff around, I’m now trying to write transitions and…. Friends, I am struggling. I have written 10,000 words of garbage that I have to delete because it’s the most boring transition that has been written in the history of time. No, I haven’t read every transition ever written. I know my transition is THE WORST without reading every transition in the same way that I know a stove is hot without touching it. One of the more obvious guidelines writers use is that if it’s so boring the writer keeps skipping it, the readers will also find it boring. So, yeah, I’m deleting that whole section, which I spent a week working on. A writer’s life, I guess.

The community is  preparing for Jam on Walnut tonight. The road is blocked and all the people that disregarded the signs warning them to remove their cars before 4 got tickets and the opportunity to do the drive of shame. Lol I parked on a side street which is why I’m feeling very smug right now. 

The Fatheads green van has arrived. I guess that means the party can start. There’s a security guard with a mohawk managing this block. As he waves the van through the barricade, I look at the bandages on his face and remember the old joke: “You should see the other guy.” If the stitches in his right eyebrow and the recently broken nose are anything to go by, we’re all safer with him here. Of course, violence isn’t the answer, but isn’t it nice to know that he’s willing to take an elbow to the eye for the good of the revelers? (That sentence structure would have gotten me in trouble with my college writing professor. He used to say that it is impossible to correctly punctuate a declarative and a question in a compound sentence. Therefore, such a sentence is an abomination. HA! Take that, Professor Hess, which is not, of course, his real name. Privacy, amiright?!)

Pause for a charming shadow selfie – four friends walking down the middle of the road and one of them says, stop. She takes a picture as they all shadow mug for the camera. These are the moments of joy that I sit here at the window to capture.

I was talking with someone (who will remain anonymous for many, many reasons) and I used “they” in reference to a friend who uses “they/them” pronouns. Unexpectedly, it sparked a discussion about what it means to be non-binary. I’m not in a position to speak for people who are non-binary. First, I’m not non-binary. Second, not being a smart ass here, there isn’t a binary definition – they aren’t either A or B (as most people are not). They are as they are, as, in fact, most people are. It’s only an ingrained societal urge for clarity that causes the person I’m talking with to ask me if my non-binary friend is male or female. I answer by saying, “They prefer not to be labeled as either.” The other person glares at me for a moment and I ask why they need to know. They can’t answer, mostly because they don’t need to know. None of us do. We WANT to know, so we can categorize people in some arbitrary grouping that is, in fact, meaningless.  

Things have settled down here on Walnut, as setup continues. The coffee shop has started playing a Jam playlist, quite loudly, but I’m not really trying to focus on the novel at the moment. I’m having too much fun people-watching. There’s the sad boy across the street who, I think, is crying because Dad said no to gelato from the pizza place. An aging metalhead just walked by in buttonfly jeans and a leather vest, his long, thinning, white hair blowing in the light breeze. Three goth-attired people are coming into the coffee shop, one of them wearing cobweb tights and carrying a bat-shaped purse. They look amazing. 

The little boy got his gelato! Thank dog. I was feeling very sad for him. 

A young woman is walking with someone who seems likely to be her grandfather. She’s carrying a tiny, yellow L’Occitane bag and matching his slow pace. She’s small but he’s even smaller so she leans toward him to hear whatever he has to say. They pass the pizza place, which is so packed the line is out the door. The young woman has to dodge a couple leaving and I lose track of her and her grandfather in the crowd. The woman leaving the pizza place is wearing a pretty, bright green dress and her friend is absolutely enthralled. It’s too sweet to watch. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.

A young man is waiting for someone outside the pizza shop. He has that look of mild impatience that suggests his friend is late; and as I watch, he is becoming annoyed, shifting from foot to foot, fidgeting, swinging his arms. It’s been 15 minutes now. I’ll bet they had plans at 6 because, as I write this, guess what time it is?

People are arriving with their chairs, walking toward the stage to get settled before Walnut becomes really crowded. I’m going to be leaving. The last thing I want is to be caught in the gathering crowd just as the beer starts flowing. Really not my speed, you know?

The Hawaiian shirt men have arrived, three of them. They’re together, which makes me wonder if they agreed in advance to these shirts or – even better – they accidentally dressed to match.

Tonight’s band is No Bad Juju, which I had to research, because there’s no promotional material on Walnut. I guess if you want to Jam, you do so to whatever is playing.

Much love.

“No Bad Juju” Would Be A Great Band Name