DIY

Live Kindly

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If your insurance company has a medical chart option and you aren’t using it, what are you even doing with your life? Despite its convenience, as I look at the screen, I’m mumbling to myself that I don’t need to confirm every single time that: I know the balance billing act, my insurance hasn’t changed, I have no new meds within the last however many days it’s been since I received a test (one day – it’s literally been a single day since I last filled out their digital paperwork)…. 

Complaining about the efficiency of online check-in feels a little like Homer Simpson yelling at the microwave because 10 seconds is too long to wait for whatever snack he wants, except that visiting the doctor would not, under any circumstance, be considered a snack. Of course, there was that one time when I was NOT the patient and we had the hottest ED doctor (resident) I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I asked the nurses about him and they were like … YEAH, WE KNOW. And then I apologized for objectifying him which made him laugh. And that only made him MORE appealing. He was definitely hotter than McDreamy (is that the right nickname?).

Spring cleaning continues. Since my activities are still limited, I mentored Haley’s first foray into drywall. She did a fantastic job repairing the place in the ceiling that usually holds a light fixture. 

For those of you who weren’t part of the exciting beginning to that experience, a few months ago, the entire fixture threw itself out of the ceiling when I was changing a light bulb. We’ll be putting a new ceiling light up as soon as painting is complete. That part will be easy and fun because we found the most beautiful Victorian ceiling light at Construction Junction. It was $35. Seriously. We returned the somewhat banal light we’d purchased at some big box store.

We’ve finished scraping, spackling, sanding, and priming. We’re about to start painting actual color onto the walls and ceilings. There are a lot of moving parts. The painting has to be done before the largish throw rug arrives next week. Also, next week, we’ll get the carpet padding for our new-to-us/found-at-an-estate-sale-for-$100 rug. That thing is huge, somewhere in the 16’ x 11’ range but it’s a perfect fit for our living space.

We still need a bedframe for the guest room and then, we’ll be ready for our May visitors and any others who follow. There are two upcoming estate sales that have good potential queen bed options. I love buying used furniture with good bones on the cheap. Next week, the guest bedroom mattress arrives.   

A contractor is coming this week to look at my leaking shower floor – waterproofing is not one of my specialties. I gave it a try but we’ve still got a leak, folks, and that’s causing drywall damage in the second floor bathroom. We need to patch that in order to paint the bathroom and on and on. It’s beginning to feel like a Jenga game but I know we’ll manage. 

I’m still looking for a roofer since I fired-before-we-signed-paperwork the company that called every day, plus texted and emailed until I got annoyed enough that I told them we couldn’t work together. They wanted a 90 minute meeting. I told them I couldn’t currently accommodate that much time and they began pestering. UGH. Better to know upfront though.

It’s now week two of chemo session two. I’ve had a few icky experiences but mostly it’s been quiet this round. I’m tired. I have nightmares every single night. My joints ache. I’m finally healed from the second infection I managed to pick up since starting chemo. 

All of this sounds terrible, right? But you wouldn’t know to look at me that I’m taking 4000 mg of capecitabine every single day. Mostly, I feel pretty good, though I’ve gone off asparagus and lemonade makes me sick to the point of incapacity. Unfortunately, I drank about 4 ounces of lemonade before I figured that out.

I’ve had a couple people ask if I can do activities outside the house. Yes and … no. I’m doing lots of stuff in and out of the house but I have some limits. No standing for long periods – and by long periods I mean like 15 minutes. I sat in a chair or on the floor during scraping and sanding! 

No tea because it can prevent chemo from working. If I’m going through chemo, I am sure as hell not shooting myself in the foot by drinking tea. No large crowds. I’m not immunocompromised but I’m also not stupid. Large crowds increase disease likelihood so I’m keeping it small. Those of you who are envisioning that I look like the crypt keeper – yeah, well I sort of do but no more than I ever have. 

There are two songs playing on repeat in my playlist – “Be” by Hozier, acoustic because he said in an interview that it’s his favorite version of the song AND “Blackbird” by Beyonce. I think – don’t hurt me – that it’s better than the original. 

And finally, while I don’t have the link to the game bundle that includes SQUB, my son’s latest game, I will share it when it arrives in my inbox. All proceeds go directly to support at-risk young people. If you support the cause, check out the link and tell your friends. If you don’t, just keep moving because I block haters. 

If you want to support my boy’s game studio, you can just buy his game. 

And finally, one of the many lessons I’ve learned on this journey: I might not be able to determine my lifespan but I get to choose how I live with the time I’m given. And I choose to live more kindly today than yesterday. 

Much love. 

Live Kindly

Take Time to Smell … Paint Stripper?

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

The nightmare was bad, the kind that makes you choose not to sleep for the remainder of the night. It was 4ish when I awoke, though, so I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the early morning: two foxes talking as they headed toward the park, early birds calling to each other – more likely warning others off but as a non-speaker of bird, I couldn’t say for sure. 

There was a gentle movement at my back. One of my doxies has been sleeping with me; and curled tightly against my back in my cold bedroom, she was dreaming, her paws twitching, her tail occasionally wagging. She wouldn’t want me to tell you this part … her small, pink tongue was sticking out of her mouth just slightly.

My oncology check-in was uneventful. The care team is mostly happy with my situation, reminding me to drink at least 64 ounces of water every day and moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. They Snow White-d me when I arrived:  “Let me see your hands.” It made me laugh but I doubt they got the reference, especially not the PA who seems somewhat humorless.

I’m doing well, more tired than I think I’m capable of describing. And wow, the chemo brain has set in. I forget the most mundane things – things I’ve never before forgotten. You can advise me to make lists and use a calendar – go ahead; I know you want to. Funny thing is, I do both and I STILL forget really mundane things. We’re talking about everything from a take-out order for one of my kids to a grocery item to a doctor appointment. 

Haley and I walked 10,800+ steps yesterday. It was cold and windy, not the best time to marathon-walk. Nonetheless, we walked. At day’s end, I was so tired that I tried to go to bed without eating, not feeling in the least inclined to bother. But all three of the kids stepped in to make sure I ate: Wheat Chex (the best Chex cereal; I will accept no argument to the contrary) and a banana was my choice and it was about all I could manage, lol. 

Today, we’re back at the spring cleaning. It’s been so much fun. I can see why the Maria Kondo’s of the world encourage it, though I think you have to be in the right mindset to see the value. We’re excited to be freeing ourselves of the burden to care for objects that no longer serve; but even five years ago, we wouldn’t have been able to do this.

My favorite place – one that has helped us a lot through this experience – is Construction Junction, a re-use store here in Pittsburgh. I’ve donated the unwanted and found new treasures that I’m really excited about. For example, we got two antique light fixtures. One will replace the gaping hole in the ceiling where the previous light was before the screws in the – oops, they cut the hole too big – drywall gave way, allowing the fixture to fall off the ceiling and swing by fragile wires. Now, all I have to do is repair the drywall and paint before I can hang that light – next week, if the chemo doesn’t chop me off at my knees. 

We were planning to put the second fixture – yes, we have a place for that, actually two. Cleaning out is not successful if you add back in all sorts of new stuff. SMH Anyway, the final location for the second fixture was being hotly debated – over the dining room table or in the kitchen. The kitchen will win because we realized that the dining room ceiling – my turn for an oopsie – isn’t wired for a light. The current monstrosity has a cord and plug, which I KNEW, obviously, but just kind of forgot in the midst of my passionate argument in favor of the dining room. 

We are, however, considering solutions for the dining room. Both of us are leaning toward removing the monstrosity (donating to Construction Junction, of course) and using ambient light instead. The monstrosity is so big that it’s forehead level if we move the table AND it is impossible to clean. There are reasons to keep something that’s been labeled hard-to-clean but “hating it” isn’t one of them.

Work was interrupted multiple times by dogs. It was so nice that the puppies were convinced that it would be warm. They insisted, multiple times, that it would be warm THIS TIME. Their disappointment was palpable. Mine would be too if only I had fingerprints but they were stolen by capecitabine. I hope I get them back later this year because dropping stuff is freaking annoying. Still, we were able to enjoy the sun, if not the temperature. Soon, we’ll have both.

Much love and time to smell the spring flowers.  

Take Time to Smell … Paint Stripper?

A Thousand Ways to Ruin a Wreath

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My eldest and I were joking today about wreath-making. It was the annual Nature’s Wreath fund-raiser at the Pittsburgh Zoo. We go every year and — every year — we agonize over our wreath decorating. I was (secretly) absolutely delighted … Okay. Okay. Flattered beyond the power of speech is more accurate … when our long-time wreath mentor told me that (after 25 years of making wreaths), I’m starting to show real growth. I can’t even tell you how much that made me laugh.

Anyway, I was encouraging my son not to over-think his wreath design, told him there’s no wrong way to design it. And that’s when he looked up from his work, his green eyes bright with laughter, and said, “Maybe not, Mom, but there are a thousand ways to ruin a wreath.”

It’s the single best thing, you know. The time you spend with people. Let me amend that — the time that you are physically, mentally, and emotionally present with people. For years, I was required to vacation with my phone at the ready, with my laptop in my tent. I had to check email. I was chided for not responding quickly enough. I attended meetings while my children road rides at Universal Studios. I sat at a table in Dave & Busters on a call with a project manager while my son ate nachos and waited for me to play with him. I was not present.

Today, there were no conference calls separating me from family and friends. We laughed and teased and shared suggestions. We pranked each other by sneaking unexpected items onto wreaths and sang along to silly holiday tunes. We praised other participants’ wreaths and made terrible hot cocoa with boiling water and packets of Swiss Miss. We started the day with cheap diner food at a sticky table and stayed an extra hour talking. It was one of those spectacular small moments in our lives that are so easily missed, that cannot be recaptured.

When one of my kids asked what I want for Christmas, I said, “More of this. More time together. The gift of your presence.” I think, perhaps, nothing else matters.

Much love.

A Thousand Ways to Ruin a Wreath

Spring Speculation and Other Musings

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments
Queen Poppy with her dandelion crown

It’s been an interesting week and it’s only Tuesday. I don’t know if that means things will be calmer or more chaotic as the week progresses. Like all those Kentucky Derby gamblers who didn’t bet on Rich Strike, I’m not holding onto my ticket. 

Last Friday, it rained inside the car while I was bringing my deeply disappointed (and suddenly angry/wet) cat home from his vet check-up. (Just wait until he realizes he’s on a diet and has a bald spot on his butt.) Fortunately, he has a cat carrier and a deep loathing for activity so he complained loudly but sat quietly throughout our wet ride home. 

Sunday was a lovely, warm day. I sat outside and finished one of 6 books I read this week for research.. Reading other people’s work is fun sometimes but also stressful and occasionally hard on the ego. This reading is specifically to see how other authors are working with a specific trope. When writing fiction, there’s a line between pedantic truths and entertainment. Where and when is it okay to write something that doesn’t fit the historical truth but fits the fictional narrative? 

It depends on the story and genre, right? Can the author legitimately include cell phones in a story set in the 1800s? (I just read one and I’d say NO definitively but the cell-phone inclusive story is about to be published.) What about a story where a character from the early 1800s travels to the 21st century? 

Can you imagine popping into a world as loud as ours is, after growing up in a world with no electricity, no helicopters or airplanes, no cars, no leaf blowers, no air conditioners kicking on in the middle of the night? People leaving jail after decades-long sentences have difficulty adapting, why do we act like a 200 year difference would be so easy to manage? 

ANYWAY, moving on – The walk from the mechanic to the coffee shop goes by a school and this morning there were three separate spots of vomit on the sidewalk. I know it’s really weird to notice but I can’t help wondering if that was one sick kid or multiple. Did the vomiting occur on the way into school or during an emergency kid-pickup like many of us parents have experienced? These are the extra things that float around in my brain on the daily. It’s a wonder I get anything done.

Phew. I have to put my airpods in. The lady who just sat down with her friend is FIRED UP and it’s too distracting. Usually it’s fun to have lots of noise but she’s so loud I keep typing what she’s saying, like some weird 1950s dictation. Only there are a lot more F-bombs than I would have expected. 

Right now on the playlist: “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” This is a cover by Punch Brothers. I lived on the edge of Lake Erie when this song came out and heard it a lot growing up, especially around the anniversary of the wreck. Is this the experience of non-Great Lakes residents? 

And now, it’s “May I Have This Dance” by Francis and the Lights. It features Chance the Rapper who is occasionally brilliant. I love his line “your daddy’s discernment.” Such flow.

I’m having serious technology problems so today I’m using my son’s laptop. (Thanks, my dear!) This is an excellent illustration of how hard it is to change. I have experienced a lot of change in my decades on this planet. You’d think I wouldn’t mind doing something as minor as downloading Scrivener to another laptop but here I am, acting like a cat who just got shaved and coned. Pretty soon, I’ll tip over and lay motionless on the ground. 

The good news is that my laptop is under warranty. The bad news is that I have to PUT IT IN A BOX and send it away. What did you say? You want me to cut off my hands and send them where? I know it will be fine and everything is backed up and safe but … NO. I need the repair team to Geek-Squad it over to my house and fix it in front of my watchful, untrusting eyes. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. Maybe I can fix this myself … also NO.

“The Times They Are A-Changin’” by Keb’ Mo’ is playing now. Talk about a fitting song for life right now. My daughter, who is in her early 20s, asked me over the weekend how many more interesting times I thought her generation would have to experience. What possible answer could I give her? 

Uh oh. Who curated this playlist? (That would be me.) Woe, Is Me is now banging away in my ears. I really should create a writing playlist separate from my angry treadmill music, though angry treadmill music is great for writing the fight scenes. 

“Sober” by Lucy Spraggan is not on the angy treadmill list. It’s sad; and if you know (or are) a heavy drinker, there’s a lot in it to identify with. But that isn’t angy. Trust me. It’s just deeply grief-triggering.

I’m too far away from the entrance today to enjoy the beautiful weather. It’s annoying. There are a lot of dogs desperately in need of a petting. Last week, I met Frankie, a pitbull puppy rescue whose coloring is so similar to my dog’s that they could be from the same litter (9 years apart though). He’s so bad right now but super cute. Fun fact for those of you who don’t know pitties: They are extremely good at jumping straight up in the air, Tigger-like but without the tail-bouncing bits. 

Frankie greeted me like we were good friends – best friends, related, possibly long-lost siblings – and leaped straight up into my arms, where he proceeded to lick my face from forehead to chin. I was laughing, which is difficult to do while holding an underweight but still 25 pound dog and keeping your mouth shut so the dog you just met doesn’t lick ALLLLLL the way inside, if you know what I mean.

His poor owner was completely panicked but we got Frankie all sorted, until he grabbed the leash in his mouth and started playing tug with his owner – fully against the owner’s wishes.

Our sweet Poppy was completely out of control when she moved in. She didn’t know how to walk on a leash. She was terrified of buses, cardboard boxes, men in hats, and loud noises. She was so underfed the vet told us to feed her as much as she wanted. She’s without reservation the best dog I’ve ever had. And that includes the five doxies I’ve been blessed to know.

Spring Speculation and Other Musings

ISO: Gratitude

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

Wanted: gratitude, thankfulness, appreciation. Only actual feelings need apply. I don’t want any of that fake-it-’til-you-make-it gratitude. I’m looking for the real, honest-to-goodness, earnest appreciation, that I’m-thankful-for-everyone-including-my-second-grade-math-teacher emotion. 

Unfortunately, it is noticeably absent today. It’s not that I’m not thankful for my family and friends. The problem is that today I’m not feeling any of that. I’m a little angry, chagrined, if you will. Also sad. But that’s not news or new.

The ceiling fell this afternoon. That’s not a metaphor. 

I guess I am thankful, actually, because it was the ceiling of the finished portion of the basement. What if the ceiling in the unfinished part of the basement had fallen in? Since the unfinished basement is directly below the living room, I guess that would have meant that we no longer had a living room or maybe that we suddenly had a combined living room and basement? Maybe that I could sit on the sofa while also being on the treadmill…?

You’re going to ask me why the basement ceiling fell, aren’t you? I’m asking myself the same question. I have two theories: 1) that there actually is a god and he’s messing with me because he’s bored; 2) that Ken’s spirit has returned to us and he doesn’t want to use the flickering light cliche to get our attention. 

Regardless of which theory is correct, guess who has to fix the damn basement ceiling? Yeah. That would be me. I can do it. I’ve done it before — not that particular ceiling though so don’t try to tell me that it was my subpar workmanship that I just swept into a pile next to the basement stairs. 

I think my current lack of thankfulness is due to the near-empty condition of my resilience bucket. It’s definitely a little on the dry side right now. In truth, I could really, really, really use some good news. Just a little. A smidge. A few drops for the bucket. 

Yesterday, I got all my Thanksgiving baking supplies. But of course somehow, even though I had a list, I forgot to get sugar. We were completely out of sugar, mind you; it was very specifically on my list to buy. I just flat out didn’t buy it.

So, today, I went to the store and bought sugar. And when I got home, the basement ceiling was on the floor. 

It was too much. It’s still too much. I sat down on the basement steps and cried and cried and cried (very quietly, though, so as not to disturb any of the animals or other people in the house). And then, I got up, splashed water on my face, and used that stupid sugar to make pies. Because tomorrow is Thanksgiving and there were pies to bake.

Here’s hoping we don’t have a Like Water For Chocolate situation brewing. 

May your Thanksgiving qualify as a feast and your home be filled with warmth and laughter and … gratitude.

Much love.

ISO: Gratitude

Can St Anthony Tile?

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I woke up crying this morning. It happens. I’m trying to shake it off but I’m not having much success today. (I almost typed that I’m not having as much success as I would like but let’s examine that language for a moment — who has more success than they would like? Possibly the ALS when they raised more than $115 million in 2014 via the deeply misunderstood ice bucket challenge. The idea was to pour cold water over your head OR donate to ALS (or another charitable org) but people really enjoyed pouring water over their heads for some reason. And they still gave to ALS in huge amounts which I guess is a rare example of social media encouraging a trend that did some good. Sir Patrick Stewart may be one of the few people who actually understood what the challenge was about. You can check out his glorious response here.) 

Anyhoo, as my mom would say, I was crying because I was having a hospital to hospice dream in which Ken was mad at me for being “emotionally unavailable.” That fight did actually happen. I wrote about it in the blog at some point. The dream was, as dreams often are, unfair. Ken didn’t accuse me of being emotionally unavailable. He accused me of “having already moved on,” basically waiting for him to die. It hurt then as much as it hurt via last night’s dream. 

Don’t try telling me that he didn’t mean it. Of course he meant it. He was the master of saying exactly what he meant. He had a PhD in Rhetoric; and even in the final stages of his illness, he was brilliant. However, it is important for me and our children to remember that the person who loved us, the person we’d known so well, was not the Ken we lived with for the last year of his life. He was changed by his illness and treatment. Medication, pain, anxiety, grief had turned him into someone who was often, usually, unrecognizable. 

Sometimes, he was cruel. Sometimes, he was sodden with grief. Often, he was bitter. We don’t talk about *that* Ken very often. In fact, we all work hard at remembering the Ken we knew best. It’s easy — so easy — for the final stages of illness to erase the memories that we want to keep, to replace those memories with ugly treatments, angry words, fearful thoughts, nightmares, things left unsaid, things better left unsaid, last words, regrets. 

Years ago, I was shopping somewhere with my kids and they found a banana slicer that they were desperate to buy. I said, “We have one at home; it’s called a knife.” They haha’d and begged for that stupid banana slicer but I held firm. You know what’s coming, though, don’t you? Ken had already bought one. He saw it online and thought it looked useful. That’s the Ken we like to remember. Yes, I still have that banana slicer which I have not, to this day, ever used. 

I know you are all enthusiastically awaiting an update on my grout DIY project. I am too. 

Just kidding: I worked on it last week until my $4.59 diamond-tipped grout tool broke … twice. Ken always said we should use the right tools because it makes the job easier so I decided to borrow my long-suffering BIL’s oscillating multi-tool but he let me down. Dude doesn’t own an oscillating multi-tool.

So, as soon as my wonderful houseguest moves into his new apartment, I’ll be back (with the Terminator vibe and Arnold’s muscles) to continue the DIY grout removal with a brand-y new Dewalt oscillating multi-tool and the carbide blade. Now, unfortunately, I’m going to have to do more DIY’s that require this particular tool — what’s that saying? Oh yes. I remember. If all you have is an oscillating multi-tool, everything looks like a grinding project. 

I have one very big problem to resolve with this re-grout. When handyman dad tiled the shower with those big square granite tiles, he didn’t leave enough room to grout the space where the wall and floor meet. So, here I am, scraping his half-axxed grout job from the corners and trying to figure out how to put grout in between the wall tile and floor tile. 

If I were my mother, I would send a quick prayer to St Anthony (the finder of lost things — and in my mom’s opinion that included ideas). Not that I doubt St Anthony’s abilities but I think I’ll start with r/HomeImprovement. Reddit, as a whole, is pretty toxic but the DIY subs have helped me enormously over the last four years. 

In other news, I have seen the issue proof for 34 Orchards November edition. GAH. It’s gorgeous. I seriously do not know how I will survive the wait. Haley’s story looks fantastic and so marvelously creepy.

It’s time for dinner. Last night was beef stew with carrots and potatoes and warm rolls. Tonight we’re doing chili and skillet cornbread. Can you tell it’s fall here?!

Enjoy the last week of October. Next week, everything changes.

Much love.

Can St Anthony Tile?

WWASMD

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It was a DIY or perhaps a re-DIY weekend. The weather was good so there was also some outdoor-time during which I pretended that I was cleaning up the garden in preparation for winter (I wasn’t cleaning up the garden — I was basking in the sun).

A little backstory for DIY number 1: Two or more years ago (time has no meaning), a contractor advised me to put a clear waterproof sealant over my shower grout. Sheepishly (see what I did there?), I did as he suggested, mostly because it made sense at the time. 

Of all the DIY projects I’ve completed around the house, the one project I hated with the fire of a thousand suns was this caulk-sealant project. My shower is large — three people and a pitbull large — and completely granite-tiled. 

Yes, yes, this sounds like a flex. I know. Let me assure you that this entire master bath was built by the previous owner’s father in a last-ditch effort to make the house more attractive on the market because the previous owners had already bought another house way more expensive and were in a bit of financial distress. 

So, handyman dad, as I like to call him, built a master bath in our attic bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I love having a bathroom for my middle-of-the-night, had-three-children-and-now-I-pee-every-two-minutes bathroom trips. However, there are more things wrong than right with this bathroom. First of all, it’s too heavy for the floor so I need to have someone come in and let me know if I’m going to fall into the second floor bathroom someday. 

Second, the beautiful jacuzzi tub is too big for the water heater and can only be filled halfway unless you want to sit in a full but freezing tub. And yes, the jets only work when the tub is full … AND even when they aren’t used, they have to be cleaned so mold doesn’t grow. So, yay, more cleaning. 

Anyway, back to this weekend’s project: The sealant had turned out to be a fiasco. It didn’t properly adhere (probably my fault), water got underneath the sealant, black mold started to grow …. Blah, blah, blah. So, this weekend, I removed every inch of that darn sealant. The only thing worse than applying the sealant was the memory of applying the sealant while I removed the sealant. 

My mom — who could build a pattern and make a suit from scratch — used to say that her punishment in hell would either be that she’d be cold for all eternity or that she would spend the rest of time pulling out stitches she had just put in. After this weekend’s shower sealant cleanse, I have to agree. And since I’ll now be regrouting all that granite tile, I’m deeply empathizing with her in a way that I never could have in my callow youth. 

Regrouting will — fortunately — not involve a caulk gun, a device created by men (sorry, guys, but it’s true; it was patented by Theodore Witte in 1894) to make individuals with weak hand strength feel even more inadequate. I am planning to start the regrouting this weekend, though I am hoping for a distraction that will allow me to procrastinate for another few days. Any suggestions?

For my second DIY of the weekend, I replaced a broken toilet tank lever. This was far easier than I expected actually. I have done some light plumbing work before but I wouldn’t even refer to this as light. The only problem I ran into was that our stupid mid-80s half-bath on the first floor has gold fixtures, including a gold toilet handle. Seemingly there are no gold toilet handles in 2021, a hypothesis I can get behind, honestly. 

The available toilet handle color choices were rather minimal, in my opinion — white plastic, silver plastic, stainless steel, “bronzed” stainless, or matte black. Where are the primary colors? Where is the sparkle? Where is the rainbow of options? I digress. 

The good news, since our sink and toilet are black, is that designers say a black toilet is dramatic and chic. Imagine how they’ll ooh and ahh when they see the brand-new matte black toilet handle. Unfortunately, we still have the dreadful gold faucet but if we’re lucky that will break soon. 

Also on the list for next week is the louvered door hinge which I am proud to say I have ignored for the entire summer. But now that the weather is cooling, I might have to open the closet door to get a coat so I’m going to have to replace the broken hinge. Darn it. I knew there was a reason — other than cold fingers, toes, and ears — I don’t like cold weather. 

I got a text from my eldest this morning. He said he was having a difficult start to his day and asked how mine was going…. I decided to cheer him up by telling him that I just cut my hair without the benefit of a mirror. Apparently, that information is like a lightning strike to people, though I think it’s freeing to acknowledge that hair is much less important than the emphasis advertisers and marketers give it. 

Why, you ask, did I cut my hair without a mirror? Simple, really. The scissors and razor were at hand but a mirror was not. The front looks great. I haven’t seen the back but when my daughter saw it, she said “Oh my god, Mom,” which, I’m assuming, translates to “I can’t believe how great that looks. Did you really not need a mirror?!” She also took a picture to share with her friends — more proof that she thinks it looks great, right?

As usual, we’ve been doing some cooking. Last night, I ate alone and had a spinach omelet. My only complaint is that, surprisingly, there was a little too much spinach. Usually, I under-estimate — you know how much spinach cooks up! But somehow, I managed to overbalance my spinach to egg ratio in favor of spinach. 

On Friday, my daughter made meringue cookies for a really lovely strawberry-drizzled meringue, which we experienced for the first time at the Colonial Williamsburg King’s Arms. These are absolutely delicious. They were for a birthday party but I scored one of the extras and … mmm. 

If you are looking for a light, impressive looking, and impressively simple treat, give this Meringue a try.

Hope you are enjoying spooky season. Don’t forget that my daughter’s story is set to digitally publish on November 10th!

Take care of yourselves and your communities ….

Much love.

WWASMD

Pitties and Peaches

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 2 Comments
Love Lies Bleeding/Zuroski

I’ve been trying to write an update but recently the words haven’t formed properly. Today, no matter what, I’m sending this out into the world with a wave and a last hug. Time to move on.

Remember the DIY faucet project I was working on? Well, I didn’t finish the install, which I am really sad about. My daughter’s friend — hey, Noah, thanks again! — did the job for us. I had every intention of working with my youngest to complete the installation but I broke my foot all to pieces and can’t bend it to crouch, can’t sit on it … you know the deal. Noah happened to be in town visiting family and stopped by to help out. The faucet is great, by the way. It’s a hands-free Kohler kitchen faucet (a Costco find) which is way more convenient than I expected.

Booted/Zuroski

You might think that, since I am a writer, having a broken foot would be no big deal. After all, I sit all day long and write. But that’s not actually true. I move around every couple hours. I often sit on my feet while I’m writing. Etcetera. Etcetera. Although I’m very disciplined, discomfort makes me lose my focus. And I’m going to whine about it until I can walk without this stupid boot. 

In brief, my sweet pittie ran into me with all 50 pounds of her enthusiasm while she had a bad case of the zoomies. My foot did things feet aren’t supposed to do and then swelled to football size. I was on crutches briefly but the orthopedic surgeon gave me a boot instead. He says I probably have a torn plantar plate and some broken bones that aren’t showing on the x-rays yet. I guess purple is a non-standard foot color. Who knew? 

The unrepentant pittie/Zuroski

I’ll see the doc again in two weeks and we’ll go from there. My children say I’m a terrible patient. They yell at me a lot for doing things when I should be sitting. I’m annoyed because I’m not allowed to do yoga at all. I’m also not supposed to walk much or go up and down stairs much or really anything. I’m lucky it’s not worse and I’m trying to be good so I don’t have any complications. But argh. I hate sitting still with my foot elevated on a pillow. 

One of the things I got yelled at for recently is cooking. It’s difficult for me to cook without standing and moving around and all the things I’m not supposed to be doing. Anyway, I made ribs with a salt and pepper dry rub, grilled corn on the cob, grilled marinated zucchini, and a delicious peach bar cookie with peaches from our local farmers market. (Yes, I walked around the farmers market to get the peaches. Don’t tell my kids about that part.)

Our peaches aren’t quite ready and I’m getting nervous because the local squirrel is staking out the tree. It’s going to be a battle to see who gets the peaches first. She’s got a few advantages over us since she can parkour to the upper branches. She can pick peaches as easily as we do. She can reach any peach she wants. And she doesn’t care if they aren’t quite ripe. I’m hoping she’ll let us have a few. There are so many peaches on that darn tree and they’re starting to get that rosy pink color. Watch; in two weeks I’ll be complaining about how she ate all of them. 

Moving on … A few months ago, I submitted a picture book to an agent who was doing a special query. I just happened to have something on the topic she was looking for but as happens sometimes, I didn’t hear anything back on my query and I assumed that it didn’t meet her needs. Today, out of the blue, I got an email from her. 

Sadly, it was a rejection but the cool part is that she didn’t contact me all these months because she was seriously considering it. Isn’t that fun? She wrote me a really nice email, too. I’m going to put that one right beside the “banal banter” email. Hehe.

I’m doing a bunch of research for a new book. No details, of course, but it’s got a bit of a time-travel theme, at least in my head. We’ll see how it actually works out. I’m having fun with the planning phase but I need to finish up this horror novel first. It’s coming along pretty well, but I am not looking forward to the first read-through. I have a feeling that it’s going to need some tidying up. But I won’t have to start that until mid-September. 

Haley has some VERY EXCITING NEWS that I can’t share yet but hoo boy, I hope to be sharing it by the end of the month. It’s hard not to shout from the rooftops but patience is an important skill to learn in this business. 

Since I know some of you will ask, here are the recipe links: 

Salt and pepper ribs

Peach bar cookies

Also, if you like music, check out Noah’s latest single. Nowhere Else 

Pitties and Peaches

Sunflower Summer

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment
Schwirian Farm’s Sunflower Festival 2021/Zuroski
Sunflower baby 2021/Zuroski

In today’s installment of “The Many Ways Deb Attempts to ‘Do-It-Herself’ or Why Her Children Want to Kill Her Today”: Deb begins replacing the kitchen faucet, which has finally, irrevocably, given up the ghost. (Fun/dark fact — “giving up the ghost” can be found as early as 1600s versions of the King James bible in reference to Jesus’ death.) 

Anyway, back to the faucet — what’s the first thing you should do when replacing a kitchen faucet? Turn off the water. That’s easy enough. There are shut-off valves under the sink. Ta da. Nailed it. Except that the shut off valves don’t work. 

Behind the sunflowers 2021/Zuroski

No worries. Thanks, Google and YouTube, for the advice about locating the basement shut-off valves. Those were great videos of housing built in the 90’s — the 1990s, that is, only 100 years after our house was built. That’s right. There’s no easily identifiable valve to turn off the water in this wonderful, old house.

Sunflowers 2021/Zuroski
Sunflower 2021/Zuroski

So, of course, the very first task stumped us. We pressed on — yes, we actually did — by trying to fix the shut-off valves under the sink. We managed to get the water off (YAY) until we started pulling out the old faucet. Then … yes, I’m about to say it … our shut-off valve “fix” unfixed itself and water came gushing out of the hoses. Wow. We have never worked so fast to find buckets and re-attach hoses mid-gush. With hindsight, it was pretty funny but at the time, with water spraying everywhere, my son and I agreed that it was a good time for swearing. And we did some. More than some. We did a lot of swearing. 

Rolling sunflower fields 2021/Zuroski

We’re not done yet — swearing or fixing the faucet. Tuesday afternoon, we’re following all the visible water pipes to their conclusion. There has to be a water shut-off valve somewhere in the vicinity of our house … right? Of course, right.

All of this blog entry’s pictures are from an adventure last Friday when I tagged along with my daughter and a friend on their trip to Schwirian Farm’s Sunflower Festival. Although hotter than Satan’s birthday party, it was as delightful as you could imagine. My only regret is that we didn’t have time to pick-our-own sunflowers because *some* of us had “hot girl summer” plans. (Another fun fact: we can thank Megan Thee Stallion for that body-positive term, hot girl summer. Thank you, Queen.) 

Hot Girl Sunflowers 2021/Zuroski

This (literally) hot girl spent the evening cooling off on the porch and working on her novel while the other hot girls in the group did whatever vaccinated twenty-somethings do in the 2020s. All I know is that it involved cute sundresses and sandals and meeting up with other vaccinated hot girls. 

It might be time for a yoga pose — sun salutation feels particularly right today.

Much love.

Sunflower Summer

Happy Father’s Day

Deb Zuroski, , , , 3 Comments
Alyssum 2021

There are voluntary tomato plants growing in both containers of sweet alyssum. We rescued the alyssum from the $1 clearance rack at our local big box DIY store. There were six little, near-dead, plants in the container but we thought it was worth risking a dollar and offering some loving attention. We were right; their tiny white blossoms are gorgeous. I’m not sure how we also got blessed with three enthusiastic tomato plants but we’ll welcome them, too.

Early this spring, my daughter said she wanted to turn our front yard into a free-share garden. She says that gardening brings communities together. I’m not entirely sure where she discovered that since she’s not previously been an enthusiastic outdoor gardener (though she has an abundant plant collection in her room) but I learn from her daily so I agreed to give it a try. 

First, in May, we removed the grass from a 36-foot section of yard next to our sidewalk. We seeded a mix of perennial and annual wildflowers, just to see what would happen. It looked a little messy for a few weeks but then the flowers started to come in. And they are amazing.

After that, we began removing grass from the sloping part of our lawn next to the public sidewalk. That wasn’t so hard but the weather has been difficult so we’ve mostly worked at dusk. We planted tomatoes, basil, catnip (because OF COURSE), and heirloom amaranth, which is also called love-lies-bleeding. We’ve been joking that we’re like the elves from The Elves and the Shoemaker. Only, instead of shoes, every morning our neighbors wake up to new plants in our front yard.

Chickweed 2021

We have more work to do. Our mail carrier walks to each house, often through the yards but he hasn’t quite decided whether the wildflowers are plants or weeds. We added a stepping stone to guide him around the wildflowers but we still regularly see his footprints mashing down the flowers. Decorative fencing is our next strategy, which, I’m hoping, will also discourage the neighborhood dogs from running through. 

We also need to finish caging the tomatoes so they don’t escape (Attack of the killer tomatoes!).  Up next: transplanting some peppers this week. No hot ones, just sweet green and red. I would not want a kid to pick and eat a hot pepper accidentally. 

Already the community aspect has started. I was outside, doing a little weeding, when two neighbors stopped by to talk about the garden. My girl was right again — gardening brings communities together. One neighbor asked for details about the wildflowers which gave us the idea to add some labels with the plants’ familiar names. 

To all of you grey clouds getting ready to rain on our garden (see what I did there?!), we don’t care if the birds, deer, chipmunks, squirrels, and rabbits enjoy some (or even all) of the harvest. The point of the garden is to feed the community, in body and spirit, and that includes the four-legged community (and good bugs, not harmful ones).

Most of our plants are from our local farmers market, which helps our small farmers. They are so enthusiastic about the plants that it’s a great way to work on that community building my daughter told me about. We make our own compost but we buy worm castings ($5 for a 10 pound bag) from the farmers, too. And this year, we’ve committed (to ourselves) that we’ll grow from seed over the winter too. 

Ultimately, we want to eliminate the grass from the front yard entirely. It serves no useful purpose. A clover/fescue mix would encourage bees and feed the many rabbits in the neighborhood. But we’re a two woman team here so we’ll do it a square at a time.

Mustard 2021

I’ve been learning a lot from growers on social media who are as determined as we are not to use pesticides. We’re going to hang some ladybug bags as soon as they arrive. The ladybugs will help reduce aphid populations that are already nibbling away at our plants. Supposedly, they’ll help to reduce black flies too. I haven’t seen that in action but if we can substitute ladybugs for black flies, sign me up!

You might be asking in what way this is a Father’s Day post. A fair question. My husband, father of my kids, did not like to garden at all. In fact, one time, he bought a bunch of fast-growing trees to add privacy to our property line. Guess who he signed up to plant all of those trees while she was 7 months pregnant? And yes, I did it and they grew really tall, within a few years.

My father, on the other hand, was an enthusiastic, very traditional gardener. He planted the same flowers and vegetables year after year. I still have an irrational hatred of petunias and their sticky residue. UGH. My daughter likes them though so I’m trying to learn. 

As I’ve said before, I did not have the kind of father that so many of you talk about on social media. I had the kind of father that all of you are glad you didn’t have. So, while I don’t wish to honor him on Father’s Day, I will acknowledge that he taught me how not to garden. 

My daughter and I are teaching each other how to do it well. 

Happy Father’s Day to all the great fathers spending time with their families today. And to Ken, who really wanted to be here.

Asteroideae 2021
Happy Father’s Day