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.
