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Steak And Busking And Chocolate

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

The trombone player is sitting in a doorway, playing poorly. This is his norm, though he’s been absent from Walnut Street for weeks. Perhaps the cooler temps drew him back. It’s humid and starting to rain, which will undoubtedly make busking a less profitable activity today. Sometimes, he comes in to the coffee shop to use the bathroom. The owners put a code on the doors to make it harder to access them. Eff them. I’ve shared the code a million times and will continue to do so.

Until we have safe, clean, accessible public toilets, businesses should recognize that they’re going to receive visitors who need a bathroom. I don’t care about the reasons businesses shouldn’t “have to” allow non-paying customers to use the bathroom. I may not be a Christian but even I know Jesus reminded people that how we treat the least among us is how we’re treating him; I feel really confident that he was including bathroom breaks in that.

Last week, a busker sat on a bench outside Blick, an art store up the street from the coffee shop. They had a guitar and an oil pastel. I didn’t ask; the implication, of course, is that they made it. I was walking by but paused to talk for a moment. They told me that their art supplies had been stolen. Could I give them some money to replace their supplies?

A pause here–I’ve been talking to unhoused and vulnerable people for years. I’ve even told some stories here about the lovely and, sometimes, terrible people I’ve met. Don’t allow media and Hollywood tell you what to think. There is not a single person on earth who woke up one morning and said “Gosh, I think I’ll stand on the corner and ask for money today because I’ll definitely take home more than I would if I had an “official” job. It’ll be fun. Everyone will be nice.” 

Anyway, back to the busker. I introduced myself and asked what name they use, which I won’t share here to protect their privacy. (I actually had a brief internal debate about sharing their name on this blog but decided there was no justification.) Then, I gave them a choice–I could buy them supplies (I had an internal limit that I did not share) or give them the $20 bill I had in my hand. Art supplies cost a lot more than $20, as I told them. We talked for a bit longer and I decided to do both. 

The folks at Blick told me to make an online donation (a ko-fi, for example) to the busker instead, though they readily helped me pick out some oil pastels and pencils. Blick staff thought they’d receive a visit from the busker later trying to return the art supplies for cash and told me they wouldn’t accept them back without my presence. I promised to warn my new acquaintance, which I did, when I handed them the bag. Total cost: the $20 bill and $41 in art supplies. Would I do it again? Yes, though I think I’d handle it a little differently. The choice I initially offered was unfair. If you’re hungry, you’re going for the food in front of you, not the promise of a cooking lesson.

Last week, I drove to Jeffersontown, Kentucky for an author talk. Before leaving on my trip, I stopped at the coffee shop to get a BIG iced tea for the road. I told the baristas that I was going to see if Mitch McConnell is actually alive because someone has to. It made them laugh, the intent of my comment, obv, but shouldn’t we feel deep grief that we’re at the stage of our democracy that politicians hide and lie?

The author talk–Christina Lauren, Susan Lee, and Nikki Payne–was a delight. I laughed a lot and bought more books for the TBR. (I’m going to live forever if my TBR is anything to go by.)

I probably talk too much about my food issues–malabsorption, from losing part of my liver (like I set my liver down on a counter and forgot to pick it up), but if you couldn’t absorb nutrients and most food made you feel like butt, you might also talk about it too much. Lol Anyway, I wanted something to eat and chose a steakhouse because if I’m going to be sick anyway, I might as well enjoy part of the experience.

The steaks were all about the same price. The restaurant was quiet, nearly empty on a Monday night. I told my server to ask Chef to pick the steak and prepare it as it should be. I chose my side–based on the server’s description–broccoli the size of trees. The whole meal cost me less than lunch for two at Steak and Shake (which was $55 last week with my dementia friend). The server and the manager came over to chat with me; they’re friends. She gave him a job because he just graduated from college and is still looking for something in his field. Chef gave me a free dessert, strawberry shortcake with homemade vanilla ice cream, and I gave the server a big tip. I took the dessert back to my hotel room and ate it with my hands because they forgot to give me a spoon. It was delightful.

Yesterday, I was in Erie, visiting N-Aunt Ginny. She was less present even than the last time I was in town two weeks ago. Our usual selfie tells the story. Her eyes aren’t seeing what we see.  Visiting her breaks me into smaller and smaller pieces each time. I go there because she is as present as she can be and she deserves the best of my presence from me. And when I visit, I get to wipe her hands clean after lunch, like she did for me a long time ago. It is a gift, an honor, to be a trusted presence in someone’s life. Also, because I can always find something to laugh about, I have to tell you: She broke up with me at the end of our visit. I’m not sure which former boyfriend I represented but she let me down easy. And I told her, in turn, that I’d always love her, which is true.

Before going to the long term care facility to see N-Aunt Ginny, I stopped, as I usually do, at the candy store, Romolo. I was running late, due to some really bad traffic in Pittsburgh and several construction areas on the highway. It was 11:45AM. I didn’t want to miss lunch with her. So, I grabbed dark chocolate peppermint patties (N-Aunt Ginny’s favorites) and small gift boxes of chocolate for her three lunchmates. The line was unmoving. Usually, I just mind-wander while I’m waiting. Being in a hurry made me pay more attention, which I am delighted that I did.

The two young people–do you remember being that young? Perhaps you, dear reader, ARE that young–were making a purchase and didn’t have enough money. One of them ran outside to get more from their car. I stepped up to the counter, looked at the cashier, she nodded, and I tapped my card against the payment machine. The transaction went through–$20.75. The young many who was waiting at the counter realized too late what I was doing. 

He was horrified. “No, noooo,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.” I looked at him and said, “I wanted to.” (And not because I was in a hurry. I wasn’t in THAT much of a hurry.) His friend came running up with the additional dollar that they needed (yes, they had a $20 on the counter) and gasped when the $20 was returned. They both hugged me and promised to do something nice for someone else and then, they left, treat box in hand. 

Here’s the thing: I will never be Mackenzie Scott or Beyonce or even a multi-millionaire. I don’t have a big, visible life. But I can make a difference for that person whose standing, embarrassed, at the register. It cost me $20.75, literally a lunch, to make two people smile like the sun just broke through the clouds. It isn’t even about the money. It’s about the community we form when we see the people around us, when we look up from our mind-wander or our scrolling or whatever and pay attention.

Much love.

Steak And Busking And Chocolate

How Many Billionaires Does It Take To Lift A Box?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

The day started early–before 8–with a phone call. A delivery arrived unexpectedly. I was literally sitting in bed, grumpy, feeling a little sorry for myself, trying to do a word puzzle (the betweenle). I leaped out of bed, changed my clothes, brushed my teeth, put in my contact lenses, carried the dog downstairs (she does not “do” stairs), woke up my daughter, and ran outside in the space between seconds one and two after that call. 

“Hi,” I chatter, slightly breathless, as I run down the outside stairs to the sidewalk. “I’m so excited, didn’t expect you so soon, haha.” 

“No English,” says the lovely woman holding out the paperwork to me. 

“Oh, haha. Right. You don’t speak English. Yes, you’re at the right house.” I’m still talking in English as I nod over-vigorously and point to the paper. Her spouse–it was obvious, okay?!–brings a box up the walk toward us. “Hi,” I say. “Do you speak English?” 

I take the box as he says “No” with a smile. 

Damn. I prepared my social anxiety patter while I brushed my teeth. What do I do now? Walk silently up and down the sidewalk? NO. Obviously not. Instead, I pull out my ancient high school and college Spanish. “Española?” I ask. 

They’re delighted. “Sí, sí,” they say in unison. “Española.”

I hold up my thumb and finger, close together. “Un poquito.” 

We’re walking to the truck now. The woman turns to me and smiles. “Sí, sí. Un poquito.” She climbs into the truck to get box number two, which I gesture for her to give me. My Spanish memory awakens very, very slightly. 

“Me llamo Deb,” I say and point to myself before taking the box. 

She smiles. “Hola, Deb” she says. “Me llamo Aurelia.” Only she rolls the r in a way I couldn’t do even when I could do it. It sounds beautiful. 

I nod and attempt to repeat her name. She laughs. It seems kind rather than mocking. We smile at each other and I carry the box to the house. The husband is walking back now, ready to carry the last, incredibly heavy, item into the house. I hurry to put the box down and run back as my daughter comes down the stairs and looks at us from the front door. 

They’re moving the last item out of the truck as I return. I add my hands to ease it off the truck. Aurelia gestures that she needs assistance and puts her hand on my shoulder. I put out my hand and help her down. She’s so little. If she tops 5’ it’s only by chance. She smiles. “Gracias,” she says. I smile back. We get the item off the truck and start carrying it to the house. The two dogs next door are side-by-side at the neighbor’s picture window, staring at us. I laugh and say, “Perros,” gesturing with my head for them to look. 

They look and laugh. The man repeats, “Perros,” still laughing. 

My daughter is waiting at the top of the stoep to help. “Mi hija,” I say and the man nods and smiles. Haley suggests that we leave it outside. We can hear our dogs barking hysterically inside the house, absolutely convinced that we’re never returning. And if we do return, we’ll definitely be treat-less.

She says, “Aqui.” The man shakes his head and gestures that he wants to help carry it in. We only purchased service to the door so he’s being very generous. We nod and Haley gestures to me. “I need to take care of the dogs,” she says. She leaves.

He’s confused and looks to me. I say, “Perros.” 

“Ahhh,” he says. “Dos perros?”

“Sí,” I say. “Dos perros.” We laugh. I think the joy is in understanding. The words aren’t inspiring but the effort to communicate is surprisingly fulfilling.

Mi hija returns and adds her hands to our six. Suddenly, because my daughter has the strength of ten grinches plus two, she and the man continue up the stairs, putting the object down “aqui” in the hallway. 

I stand outside with Aurelia as the man joins us. I try to hand a small roll of 20s–it’s $100–to Aurelia. She says, “No” very firmly and shakes her head with a smile. 

I say, “Sí,” equally firmly. We go back and forth twice before I turn to her husband and try to give him the money. I stumble over the words I want to say. “Tienes…no.” I shake my head. “Ustedes tienen hambre.” He looks at me, clearly confused. I’ve used the wrong word? 

Maybe not because Aurelia jumps in. “No,” she says. “No. No.” I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m inviting them in for breakfast. She’s horrified, perhaps embarrassed? They’re a little grimy. They’ve been sleeping in the truck with the boxes. I know this because there was a bedroll visible behind the boxes we carried in. 

I shake my head, a little frustrated with my poor language skills. “No. Restaurant,” I say. I mime putting food in my mouth and rub my stomach. 

The man nods. “Sí. Sí. Tenemos hambre.” 

I point down the street (for some reason that makes no sense) and say “Restaurant.” and push the money at him. He speaks to his wife.

“No. No,” she says. 

“Yes, yes,” I say. He intervenes, saying something to his wife. Their conversation is far too swift for my very poor efforts. 

Whatever he says, she takes the money and says, “Gracias.” 

I shake my head. “No.” I point to myself. “Gracias.” 

She shakes her head and smiles. “Gracias,” she insists.

Oh, yeah? I can top that. “Muchos gracias,” I say. She laughs and concedes. 

Immigrants are not the problem.

Much love.

How Many Billionaires Does It Take To Lift A Box?

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Francis Nowalk’s here in Pittsburgh is closing its doors after more than 75 years. Frank, as he was called, worked in the store he built until Covid brought him literally to his knees in 2023. After he passed away last year, his children and grandchildren began the process of closing up the famous business, finally reaching the stage of selling off the lighting solutions and the brick-and-mortar multi-story showroom and warehouse. https://pittsburghquarterly.com/articles/a-pittsburgh-treasure/  

Since we’ve been looking for period-appropriate sconces to replace the modern lighting in our very Victorian house, we raced to their sale and what a delight it was. We were even lucky enough to get one of his handmade pieces (not even realizing he’d made it until one of the sons told us its provenance). I can’t begin to tell you how dirty we got, digging through boxes of bips and bops. I haven’t had so much fun spending money in a long time. 

There was something very bittersweet about having his children, all around my age, reminiscing about various pieces as they were sold. “Wasn’t this in the house at one point?” one sister would ask and another would agree, while one of the brothers answered, “No” in a very confident voice. Occasionally, while we were there, we’d see one of them grab something from the showroom. They’d call out, “I’m taking this to the car.” A brother or sister would sigh and call out, “Okay.” The siblings all laughed about it, though, and told us that everyone in the family has pieces from their dad’s business. “He lives in all our houses,” one of the daughters said, which is a lovely legacy. I think most of us would like to know that we’re remembered with such sweetness.

I went to a screening of A Princess Bride that included a Cary Elwes Q&A. As a single ticket, I was able to swoop in at the last minute to get a cheap seat in the third row, perfect placement for a good view of the movie and the Q&A after. There was an interesting prohibition; absolutely no pictures of Cary were permitted. We were warned that violators would be politely escorted out. 

The screening was a delight. It seemed like everyone there knew the movie. Some attendees were dressed up as Buttercup, Wesley, or the dread pirate Roberts. I even saw a six-fingered man (without his sword, of course). With the first use of “As You Wish,” there were ooohs and aaahs. When Andre the Giant appeared, the room erupted in cheers. It was wonderful. 

I’m slightly less enthusiastic about the Q&A. Cary Elwes was very funny, very polished, very emotionally removed from the event. I felt like he’d memorized his responses and enunciated them with a minimum of engagement. I may be alone in that impression, as there was a lot of laughter during his stories. They were good stories, for sure. I just felt like he’d told the same ones a thousand times. Because he has. You know?

In 2012, I think it was, my husband got us tickets to see William Shatner’s one-man show, Shatner’s World: We Just Live In It. It was my birthday present, as I am a huuuuuuuge OG Star Trek fan and might, if needed, be called upon to recite dialog from most of the 80+ episodes. So far, surprisingly, I haven’t needed to do that. But I’m ready. You know. Just in case. 

Anyway, it’s likely no surprise that I’m comparing Cary Elwes’ Q&A with Shatner’s one-man show. The difference for me is stark. Every word of Shatner’s show felt like a conversation, like he was sitting in an easy chair across the room, reminiscing about his life, even though that show ran for, maybe, three weeks on Broadway before he took it on a national tour for another eight months. It was magical, slightly deranged, and riveting to watch. 

Speaking of Shatner, if you haven’t listened to his album Has Been, you have missed something spectacular and should rectify that as soon as possible. Unlike his earlier work, this masterpiece produced by Ben Folds is often wrenching and intimate. He reflects on his life, his many mistakes, his public image. One of the interesting things about it is that listening will not make you like Shatner the man anymore than he deserves but somehow it allows you to empathize with him. I like to listen to it on longer drives, when I can really focus on the lyrics. In my humble opinion, it is not the album that you play in the background while doing dishes. 

In other music news, if you’re in the area and you’re not going to see The English Beat, are you even actually in the area? I’ve been following them for a looooong time but this will be my first time seeing them live. The venue is table seating near the stage and then some sort of balcony seating in the back. My seats are at a table. In fact, I purchased the entire table and then invited some people to join me. I just can’t bring myself to sit at a 4-top with three strangers. It is too awkward. Well…okay…the truth is that I’m too awkward. 

Winter has arrived earlier than expected. The trees, overnight, made a yellow carpet of leaves on Negley Avenue, covering the sidewalks and road. Truly, Dorothy could have found her way easily on that not-brick road, despite the blustery wind. Although the temperature rises slightly during the day, the cold Canadian air continues to rustle empty branches, whip hair into eyes, and wrestle unbuttoned coats wide. 

An elderly woman enters the coffee shop, wool coat buttoned to her neck. She has on a fanny pack, the strap at her waist around the back, the pack in front snuggled lower, below her curves. She waits patiently for her drink, which the barista announces loudly, a large peppermint hot cocoa with whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle. As she walks by me, her gold dangle earrings glint in the afternoon light. She inhales the warm peppermint scent wafting from her cup and takes a delicate lick of whipped cream before stepping into winter’s windy embrace, her gray hair tousled by the breeze. 

Another woman enters the coffee shop; a few errant leaves join her, swirling in a circle around the brick floor. Her silver hair hangs to her chin in a bob that curls under, something I could never reliably achieve. She’s wearing a puffy coat the color of lilac. How is it that some people look effortlessly stylish and some people (me. I mean me) look effortfully like we close our eyes before we pick out our outfits?

Online guidance suggested creating playlists of music familiar to my cognitively declining acquaintance. Reluctantly, because I have to listen to it too–haha, I’ve done it: Leon Russell, The Beatles, Peter, Paul & Mary, Simon & Garfunkel, and a few early 70s bands, like Moody Blues, Doobie Brothers, etc. I passionately dislike The Beatles–I know, I know–but in early childhood, I was listening to my parents’ 40s and early 50s music. I literally had two albums of my own: a Jackson Five and the Carpenters. The Beatles, in particular, were NOT on the record player. Later, when my dad was an Outlaw Country fan, we were listening to 8-tracks of Willie and Friends. My mom’s favorite music was silence. She abhorred Outlaw Country, lol. I like Willie, in particular, but I prefer his folk and indie music, such as Last Man Standing. He’s renowned for his lyricism and I find his later stuff particularly smart and quite funny. I also admire his frank disdain for people who have forgotten or perhaps deliberately misunderstood what he represents.

This morning, I entered the coffee shop early and saw an acquaintance absolutely immersed in his computer screen. I waved but he didn’t notice so I bent to his eye level and waved until he looked up and saw me. It made me, him, and the barista laugh. Day’s goals met. 

I haven’t talked much about my health but had a reminder this morning from a friend that silence can be distressing to others. So, quick update and then we won’t talk about it again unless it’s necessary: September scans picked up a new spot too small to biopsy. It’s in the gallbladder fundus, which, so that you don’t have to google, is at the top of the gallbladder under the right lobe of the liver. (I no longer have a left lobe. lol) 

It might be something. It might be nothing. My healthcare team calls it “concerning,” though not to me, which I find rather funny. They like to be very optimistic and cheerful. I’m an optimist, too, and continue to buy green bananas. (Why do I know they call it concerning? Because a resident at my PCP’s office read the medical record to me. I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to. haha) My next scans and bloodwork are December 1st. I’ll see my healthcare team again in mid-December, at which point we’ll know what’s next, whether it’s more scans, surgery, treatment, or a combination thereof. 

Sure, I am occasionally awash with, to paraphrase Aragorn, “…The fear that would take the heart of me.” Cholangiocarcinoma kills 80-90% of patients. I wish this weren’t my path. “”So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘And so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’” (Tolkien sure knew how to turn a phrase.)

I’ve had all the very difficult conversations. I’ve updated the will. I’ve made all the lists–finances, bills, passwords, etc. There’s even a spreadsheet with all the home repairs I’ve done over the years since Ken died. I’m probably more paper-work prepared for death than most of you who ALSO have no idea when you’ll die. (So, maybe, get on that. It will benefit your family.) Anyway, I’m as determined today as yesterday, and the day before, to keep living until I die. Some days the worry wins but most days I win. And now we’re done with that topic. If there’s more to say, I’ll say it when I’m ready.

Much love.

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Updated: An Autumn Fall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

Updated: An Autumn Fall

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?

To Have the Audacity of Barbie

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 3 Comments

The catbirds have gone silent. Every morning, lately, a young hawk begins calling as the sun peeks over the horizon. Hunting, I assume, though only the hunted and the hawks really know. She woke me again today, a few moments before my alarm reminded me not to burrow back into the pillow. The day is too full for extended sleep to be an option. And so, the day begins.

Walking in the early morning light the mile or two back from the mechanic where I left the car, I saw a man eating a boxed meal in the portico of an abandoned building. He’s made a home there, his bedding tucked under the roof, shopping car(t) parked next to his sidewalk-driveway. There’s no garbage pick-up, of course, but he’s keeping his very public little home tidy, his trash collected in plastic grocery bags and stacked neatly. He’s chosen an excellent location for his residence. The portico is barely visible from the street, essential for his safety, since the city regularly harasses those who are too public about their unhomed status. 

He’s living in one of the neighborhoods that needs healthy revitalization, not gentrification. I suspect, though, that the local government finds gentrification more financially beneficial. Until that changes, another community will lose its personality and culture to cookie-cutter high-rise apartments funded by greedy VCs and politicians. 

The neighborhood used to have a common grocery store, not a particularly safe one, unfortunately, but at least it was affordable. That store was torn down to make room for … another apartment building. Now, the primary grocery option is a Whole Foods, a store that reinforces the idea that food deserts are often, very specifically, places where the available food is not affordable. It’s remarkably effective – and completely lacking in human decency – if the goal is to remove financially fragile renters from a neighborhood. 

Three blocks beyond ‘portico house’, the neighborhood changes naturally as the landscape changes. That’s where I often spend the day. There are several local coffee shops, plus that national union-busting place (you know the one). Things have begun to change too at my favorite third place. I understand with horrible clarity how very irrelevant it is to desire the status quo. The world does not ask permission to change. People don’t either and isn’t that the worst betrayal? To expect everyone to stay where they are when, in reality, you will always, always be running to catch up. 

Children are an excellent example of that. But despite my years of experience being surprised by the various children in my world, I am still continually left stumbling along behind as they roar into their days with apparent fearless abandon. I am (probably not so) secretly constantly on the verge of a gasp with relief and admiration at their audacity.

Where did mine go? I’m absolutely certain that at one point in my life, my dear, so beloved mother was also gasping at my audaciousness. Now, instead of moving fearlessly to new cities where I have no connections, I find myself whining about the lack of black iced tea at my coffee shop. Nothing to fear – they steeped tea just for me since they’ve run out of the already-brewed stuff. And how embarrassingly privileged that is.

Over the weekend, I made a bunch of bracelets. One of my favorites from the Barbie movie is “Humans only have one ending.” There’s something reassuring about knowing that I only have this one life and that it’s on me to continually make a damned effort to do better. 

Another favorite, and the one on my wrist today, is a modification of the Barbie scene in which Barbie tells an elderly woman, “You’re beautiful.” And the woman responds, “I know.” 

And you are beautiful. I hope you know that.

Much love.

To Have the Audacity of Barbie

Karaoke in Scooter-ville

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 4 Comments

If I have to suffer through this, at least I can blog about it. I thought (hoped?) that the abomination that is karaoke on campus had been cancelled for this year. Ever the optimist! Today is the day, loudly announced by a remarkable rendition of “Watermelon Sugar.” Whoever that young singer is, they are definitely optimistic if they think that sounded anything like Harry Styles … or singing. 

A couple days ago, I sent my annual email to the neighborhood’s campus contact, reminding him that students aren’t allowed to park on our street for more than 2 hours.This year, they’ve promised to patrol (campus police have jurisdiction on our street), remind students via campus communications, and, if necessary, write tickets. Since we’ve already had our first student-parked-in-front-of-someone’s-driveway incident, it seems appropriate to get the school involved. 

This might seem like me curmudgeonly asserting that these young kids need to “stay off my lawn.” But those of us who don’t have driveways, including my 90-year-old neighbors, need to have ready access to our houses and we pay an annual fee for that privilege. Since the campus library parking lot is directly accessed from our street, there’s always a lot of traffic during the school year and a couple hundred students try — at least three days per week — to use our street as extended campus parking. 

I wish I were exaggerating but literally every open spot (including driveways) is taken by students and if I’m foolish enough to move my car, there won’t be a spot for me when I get back. My neighbors sometimes use big orange cones — they even gave us some — but it isn’t legal or a powerful deterrent.  

Anyway, I heard back from Campus Dude within an hour. He agrees with my concern, reiterated their commitment to enforce the parking regulations, and then confessed that they have a big NEW concern that has them in a kerfuffle. Wait for it….wait for it … SPIN SCOOTERS. 

Yep. Spin scooters have invaded our city. In case you aren’t familiar, Spin is a company that provides rental scooters. I think it’s 15 cents a mile to rent them and you don’t have to find a station to lock them up when you’re done. You just drop your scooter wherever it’s legal for a vehicle to park. Ta Da — scooters everywhere. 

Yesterday there were at least 10 dropped on our little two-block street. (Yes, our street is literally only two blocks long.) Technically, it’s not legal for scooters to park on our street for more than two hours during the day (after hours and weekends it’s a free-for-all) but there’s no mechanism for ticketing scooters past the two-hour mark and you know those scooters are staying until someone needs a cheap ride. 

They don’t bother me, honestly. I can move a scooter out of my parking spot and I would rather have students using scooters than cars — better for the environment! But Campus Dude likes to shiny-object every discussion and this is his latest attempt. I know some folks are really complaining about the scooters but I’m actually student-friendly and want to encourage them to find effective ways to navigate inexpensively. 

I know you’re wondering what happened to the karaoke updates but they’ve temporarily(?) turned down the microphone so now I’m only getting occasional snippets of sound. I *think* someone is singing Charlie Puth’s “We Will Go” right now but I might have to go on campus to hear better. Just kidding. I’m not moving a single inch closer to that shrieking. 

Are you patiently awaiting the Big Announcement that I promised recently? It’s almost time. We’ll definitely have the great unveiling within the next week and I’m absolutely dying to drop a hint … but I can’t! What is it that those tiktok-ers say? “Like and follow for more!” HeHe

I heard today from a doctor friend that all the PICU beds in Alabama are filled with COVID children. As a parent who has needed a PICU for her child, this is terrifying. Where do they put non-COVID kids who need PICU beds? You already know the answer to this. Please, do your part to end this nightmare. (If you think doing your part is ingesting or inserting cattle dewormer, you actually — literally — are a danger to yourself and to everyone around you.)

When you enjoy your long weekend, Americans, remember that Labor Day is a celebration of workers’ rights. It began in the late 1800s but The Great Resignation of 2021 is a continuation of that desire for fair pay and good, safe working conditions. Be kind to the people who work difficult, often inhumane jobs delivering your packages in less time than it takes my dog to hoover up a dropped apple slice, taking your taco orders, bringing your extra ketchup, warming your not-hot-enough french fries. They’re people and they don’t deserve your discourtesy. 

Now, let’s end on a positive note (yes, intentional pun — come on, guys, I’m a writer) with a really loud, preferably off-key, version of Lizzo’s “Rumors.”

Much love.

Also, I’ve got a bunch of stuff out on sub so if you want to cross your fingers for me, that would be much appreciated. I’ve got mine crossed but it’s making typing really difficult.

Karaoke in Scooter-ville

Monday Playlist

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

I listen to music while I’m writing. Since I write for six or so hours a day, that’s a lot of music. This morning, my Spotify playlist selected “September,” a song you can’t listen to without getting a mood boost, even if you’re already in a good mood as I usually am. There’s nothing better than sitting down at the computer and fighting with my characters while listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire. 

As I’ve said before, I no longer experience that late Sunday dread that used to ruin half the weekend. Monday is, as it should be, just another day marking the Earth’s rotation around the sun. This particular Monday is cloudy and springtime-warm. My windows are open and birdsong intermingles with the music. 

While out to do the shopping last week, I took some baked treats to my son’s apartment and put them on the porch, wrapped in Clorox wipes. He came to the door and for just a moment, he stood there, while I stood in the street, and we talked — not close enough but almost too close for safety. 

In the early days of quarantine, there was a frantic feel to shopping. Many people were over-buying, their voices shrill with fear. Last week, it was different. The shelves are mostly still empty and there are only a few people in the store. Costco limits the number of customers now so I waited by a cone they used to mark proper distancing until I was offered a sanitized cart. 

In the refrigerated section, a very confused man was trying to select a container of milk from the cooler while his unmasked partner berated him from behind the cart. “The one with the BLUE label, Bill.” She coughed into shared air space several times while I watched from a safe distance, waiting for my turn to get milk with the blue label. She saw me watching her and coughed into her elbow.  

“OH MY GOD, Bill, what’s the problem?” She looked at me. I think she wanted to bond over her shopping partner’s stupidity but I was — and still am — totally team-confused-guy. Not getting the response she wanted from me, she walked around the cart, coughed onto the glass cooler door and picked out a bottle of milk, while making tsk noises at her poor partner. 

“Oh,” he said. “I couldn’t tell which one was the blue label.” I’m still wondering if he’s colorblind or if he didn’t realize that he was in the cooler section where there are ONLY blue-labeled bottles. Did she confuse him by insisting that he get a bottle with the BLUE label when there was no other choice available to him? 

Although her cough was decidedly smoker-ish, with an abundance of caution, once they had passed, I selected my blue-labeled milk from a different cooler. 

Leonard Cohen, “Who by Fire,” just started playing. He was once described by Scott Simon on NPR as having “a growl of a singing voice that seems to simmer and grumble up through the chords, almost like an earthquake.” Isn’t that lovely? 

The rain has started, quieting the birdsong but creating its own accompaniment to my playlist. The sound also reminds me that there’s a clog in one of the gutters. I can hear the splash of water overflowing onto the patio. Either I need to borrow the neighbor’s 30-foot ladder or call someone to clean out the gutters. I hate to put the neighbors to additional risk, which is the only reason I’m not automatically doing it myself. I’ll have to enter their house to get the ladder because they’ve reached the point where it’s too heavy for them to move. I know this because I borrowed the ladder last spring to clear away the ivy growing up our back wall.

Back to the shopping:  They have a table on their porch where I’ll leave food treats (she loves cookies but doesn’t bake much anymore) but when they see me, they insist on opening the door to come out and talk. Inevitably, their older spaniel bolts out the door and drops on his back for a belly scritch. He’s a cutie but I feel like I should stay back to keep them safe. 

When I do their shopping, they’re supposed to text me the list (she’s an enthusiastic texter) and sometimes they do. She’ll text me, out of nowhere, something like “white flour no hurry,” which makes me laugh. It reminds me so much of text conversations with Ken. He used to text a single word and allow the recipient to build the meaning.  

Anyway, last week she insisted on giving me a handwritten list, wrapped in a clorox wipe. Have you ever shopped for someone else?  I used to get a list from my mother-in-law but I’ve fallen out of practice. Last week, I made the mistake of accepting the list without review but of course there were questions: 

  • 2 pizzas. You know exactly what to do with that if you’re shopping for your own family but what kind of pizza does your 90-year-old neighbor like? “No pepperoni” was the texted answer. Turns out there wasn’t much selection left, just lots of pepperoni (stuffed crust, extra cheese, etc) or the last two vegetarian pizzas that weren’t on a cauliflower crust. 
  • 2 apples. First, apples don’t seem to be a big quarantine staple. The store had an abundance of Fuji, Red Delicious, Macintosh, Granny Smith, Yellow Delicious, Kante, and Gala. “Gala,” she answered after a lengthy delay. 
  • Small dog bisc. I almost bought Milk Bone without asking which would have been a big mistake since she wanted no-dye biscuits which I took to mean no red and green Milk Bones. Even so, I definitely got the wrong brand but she texted that Busby is enjoying his new treat.

She says that she too is enjoying her new food experiences. Her poor, long-suffering husband — who she is definitely going to murder before quarantine ends — was apparently in a food-buying rut. Regarding the flour situation: although there’s no flour at our Giant Eagle (Well, that’s not entirely true. You can still buy Quinoa flour. Hehe.), Costco offers a 25 pound bag for about $6; she took 10 pounds of it off my hands. 

That huge bag in my pantry makes me hear my mom’s voice in my head — “Add bay leaves,” she’d say. “They’ll keep the bugs out.” We’ll probably use it all before summer but I’ve already added bay leaves just to be safe. The food shortages have been interesting to watch — I know, I know. Everyone is saying that it’s a distribution problem, not a food shortage problem. You say toMAYto; I say toMAHto. Whatever the reason, the end result for the consumer is lack of product on store shelves.

Anyway, the first week or so of quarantine, there was no ice cream in the store. The next time I shopped, there was no bread, no jelly, no eggs, no packaged luncheon meat/cheese, no frozen dinners, no flour or yeast. Now, there’s no pizza, no fresh lettuce, no meat or chicken, no flour, six packets of yeast(!), very little dairy, but they have ice cream.

Cars lined up to receive fresh produce, frozen food and dry goods from Greater Pittsburgh Community Food Bank April 6, 2020. Photo Credit: KDKA

If you’re poor, the distribution problem can be life-threatening. Our food pantries and food banks are amazing but it can be hard to connect to people who don’t have access to a vehicle to wait in an hours-long car line for food. I’ve been thinking about the woman I’ve talked about before, the one who showed up as we were cleaning up a food bank distribution years ago. She was late because she had to borrow $2 so she could buy a gallon of gas in order to drive to our distribution site. How is she managing now? Even if her situation has (hopefully) improved, there are many whose situations went from precarious to catastrophic.

Spotify has now served up some Aretha Franklin, “I Say a Little Prayer,” a solid way to end this particular post. If you live in a walking neighborhood, like I do, I encourage you to take a walk around. It’s okay. You’re allowed to go for walks. Look at the empty storefronts of the little businesses in your community — the pizza shop, the movie theater, the diner, the consignment store, the neighborhood bar or coffee shop.

Look at the signs on the doors; as I’ve said before, some will not recover. Believe me; these places are, for some, their family business, their lifelong dream. They’re going to try to be there when this is over.

Those small business owners are losing sleep, just like the furloughed workers. They’re wondering whether they can continue to pay the bills while there’s no money coming in. That cruise line, that airline, that major hotel chain — they’ll be okay. But your neighborhood is going to be forever changed by the loss of the businesses that define it. 

Please be patient. 

Wear a mask if you’re going to encounter other people.

Stay home. Stay safe.

Monday Playlist