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Rants And Rages And Pages, Oh My

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

I own a lovely letter written in cursive in the early 1900s, the spelling more phonetic than accurate. My daughter initially struggled to read it. She reads cursive just fine. The problem was the phonetic spelling. “Read it as though you’re from Oklahoma,” I told her, based on the postage cancellation stamp. She read it aloud then, with a mildly midwestern accent, and the metaphoric light bulb turned on. 

The letter itself, addressed to Will from his loving wife, tells about her finishing the “warshing” and starting the “peacin” for her quilt. She cautions Will to travel safely. He’s walking home but his location is unknown to us, obscured by damage to the envelope. She also encourages him to turn back if things become dangerous again. What things? Dangerous how? It’s unlikely that we’ll ever know. 

Beyond its delightful authenticity, its tenderness, it’s a reminder that all those old pictures–cabinet cards, daguerreotypes, tintypes–are real people who lived, loved, fought, and died, just as we do. The way we teach history is such a disservice to learning and understanding. Yes, I know 1066 was important and I even (sort of) know why but you know what else was important? Will and his journey back to his wife. Perhaps if we hadn’t lost the humanity of history, we’d understand it better. Would that help us not repeat it? I honestly don’t know. 

A couple weeks ago, I took a drive to Mount Pleasant, ate at a local diner (great server but overall a rather meh meal), and then headed to Blairsville before returning to Pittsburgh. The clouds were particularly puffy. I complimented them; but from their lofty perspective, I suspect they didn’t much care about my admiration. 

The trees appeared to be a monochromatic deep green. Perhaps this is an example of that saying, “Can’t see the forest for the trees” only in reverse. The view was of a broad swath of forest, oddly still, the trees indivisible from the whole. This is, unfortunately, a view the rest of the world has of us. More noise, less exhaustion, seems the answer but that’s hard, isn’t it? 

Will it encourage you to know that on my drive, I saw only two fascist symbols: first, a weirdly homoerotic image of the guy in the White House plastered to the back passenger window of a pickup truck. People around me were making the “interesting choice” face. I mean, it’s so cringy. Just why? I like Henry Cavill but you won’t find me putting a sticker of his face on any of my windows. SMH The second was an absolutely enormous sign attached to the side of a business. It’s been there for years now. I hope I get to see it come down, like the Nazi symbols burned by the Allies.

I have more napkins in my car and backpack than the combined inventories of all the local ice cream shops. (A friend who reads this has a similar napkin collection habit. YES, my friend (whose name I will not mention), I am talking about you. haha) There is a man at the coffee shop who outpaces even me. He’s looking for something in the reusable bag he always carries. After a few minutes of escalating rustling sounds, he begins taking things out of the bag. Napkins, numerous very tidy piles of napkins. There are other things in there–a plastic bag, some notes that he reads and discards, several newspaper sections. It’s the napkins that are remarkable. If you ever spill anything or need to sneeze, find this man. Or me.

I arrived at the coffee shop early one day a few weeks ago and was clearly deep in my thinks. I did not notice ANY of the vandalism on Walnut. The coffee shop door was propped open and entirely without glass. The tshirt store down the street had a huge glass bruise. One of the bookstores had similar damage. Since I entered a store with no glass in the door, entirely without noticing, I clearly am not the appropriate person to report on any other damaged stores. Lol The baristas and I gossiped for a bit about whether someone was mad or perhaps a college student was drunk. Hard to say around here.

There are two white poodles sitting with their owner at a table next to me. I swear I didn’t call to them. THEY came to me. Now, they keep walking over to lick me, particularly my sandal-clad feet. It’s quite tickly. They’re very naughty. I love them. 

An older man, dark hair and a heavily greying beard, is reading a large pile of magazines and weekly papers at a table nearby. I didn’t notice him until I heard the distinctive sound of paper ripping. I looked up and he was tearing a magazine through. He tidily deposited both halves into a bag and returned to reading. A bit later, I heard the same distinctive sound. Just that man, ripping another bit of reading material, and again depositing it into a bag.   

The sound flashed me immediately back to a job I had in the early ‘90s. I worked for a graphic, interior, industrial design firm. It was both the most boring job I’ve ever had and also the most frantic. I lasted two years before they laid me off/fired me. It is the best employment thing that has ever happened to me. And I really, actually mean that. For years after that, on my job-loss anniversary (July 6, 1992), I contemplated sending a thank you note to the CEO, though I never did. Anyway, my boss there liked to rip paper. We shared a ¾ wall. I could hear the shshsh of paper ripping all day. Where did she find all that paper to rip? Into the tiniest pieces, too. Crazy. Would it surprise you to know that we did not have a particularly good relationship?

Honestly, in hindsight and as my own boss, I can acknowledge that I was not the best employee. First, I was terrible at “playing the game.” Absolutely terrible at it. Second, I said what I wanted to say and damn the consequences. And were there ever consequences. Even though I worked my ass off at all the jobs I ever had, I did not have the insight to realize that good work isn’t valued anywhere near as much as a penis. I was constantly judged for not dressing “feminine” enough. Even one woman I worked for – yeah, I’m looking at you NAME REDACTED – would say things like “more jewelry,” “you need to wear makeup,” etc.  I have a feeling “look more masculine” is not a performance recommendation many MEN have heard. 

Okay. Let’s talk pedestrians for a moment, in particular pedestrians crossing the street. Can we run them down? Honk at them? Bully them to hurry faster? NO. My friends, the answer is NO. We do not run over, threaten to run over, pressure, harass, or otherwise make pedestrians feel uncomfortable or unsafe in their shoes while we are in our multi-ton vehicles. EVEN if we’re desperately late for something excruciatingly important. 

Every once in a while, I hear someone start to say something about pedestrians not having the right of way and my answer always is, “So, you’re going to hit them?” Oh no, that person is jaywalking. Ten points for the pedestrian, right? NO. Let’s practice our empathy and humanity by being a little more zen in the car, my friends. But you’re late for that meeting, that doctor appointment, that interview, the Met Gala. Guess whose fault that isn’t? Yeah, exactly. It isn’t the pedestrian’s fault. And I promise, if you accidentally hit that pedestrian while you’re trying to hurry, you’re going to be a hell of a lot later for that ever-so-important thing.

Yes, this rant is the result of nearly getting killed while crossing the street at a crosswalk with a stop sign. 

Stay safe at there and look both ways before you step off the curb.

Much love.

Rants And Rages And Pages, Oh My

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

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

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

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

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

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

This is a comment on our sudden fear of immigrants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

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

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

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

Day 1: Coffee Shop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 2: Erie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 3: Another Multi-location Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course I did.

Day 5: Nothing But Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 7: Uuuuugggggghhhhhhh

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

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

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

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

Wife: Alan, give her the insurance information. 

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

Wife: Alan, take a picture of the damage. 

Alan: Why should I do that? 

Wife: For the insurance company.

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

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

Alan: What would I do with that? 

Me: Your insurance company wants it. 

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

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

Me: Can we exchange phone numbers?

Alan: Why would we do that?

Me: So, I can update you.

Wife: Alan, give her your phone number.

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

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

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

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

Much love.

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

“No Bad Juju” Would Be A Great Band Name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

“No Bad Juju” Would Be A Great Band Name

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

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

The news is so dark these days that today I’m scrapping my usual rants to tell some funny stories about my day here in the Steel City. Let’s go!

This morning, I was walking toward the bank when I passed an older man carrying a pastry to an outdoor seat. The event itself was unremarkable except that the man said “Good morning,” to which I replied with a somewhat surprised “Hi.” Usually, I’m one of those annoyingly friendly people who bounces down the street greeting people with smiles and petting dogs (until I notice that the owners are desperately trying to continue their walks) but I was kind of daydreaming, not really paying attention. On my way back from the ATM, I spotted him sitting at a sidewalk table and commented on how delicious his pastry looked. I think I surprised him because he said, “What?” And I repeated myself. He nodded, considered for a moment, and said, “Yeah, it is.” We both kind of laughed and I came here, to the coffee shop. Some time passes, I’m sitting at the front window, in my favorite seat, when I spot him walking by. He spots me at the same time, we both grin, he gives me a finger wave, and the day moves on. Another hour passes, he’s walking back the way he came, looks for me, we grin at each other, share a finger wave, and our connection comes to an end. Sweet, though, right? 

Today is dental work day, not for me but for my dachshunds. Mina, the runt of the litter, has a not-fully-formed jaw which means more teeth than jawbone. She’s lost quite a few teeth over the years though it has never bothered her. When the pups had their annual checkup in June, the vet said that Mina needed to have several more teeth pulled because they are an impediment to her jaw and health. Not her food consumption, apparently, because she weighs an astonishing 15 pounds. She needs to lose a fifth of her body weight, which I could probably do as well. No treats for either of us for a while. Hehe

Mina’s sister, Freya, also needs dental work but mostly because she hates, with a fiery passion, having her teeth cleaned. We do it, of course, but she’s excellent at manipulating our emotions with her sad little cries of puppy distress. It’s ridiculous. She’s not in any pain, plus the toothpaste tastes like peanut butter (gross peanut butter but appealing to the dogs). Don’t feel sorry for her. She got herself into this dental mess by rejecting the back of the mouth tooth cleaning. The worst part – according to both pups – they weren’t allowed to have their daily bedtime dehydrated liver treats last night. They were heartbroken and cried like the spoiled babies they are. And yes, the dehydrated liver treats smell even worse than liver cooking on the stove, though the dehydrated salmon treats beat both of those on the stench meter. They must be tasty, though, because even the cats will beg for them.

On the way to the vet this morning, I spotted a friend cleaning a drainage grate for Allegheny CleanWays, a nonprofit that supports keeping garbage out of the waterways. It supports lots of other environmental waste reduction efforts to prevent dumping of difficult-to-dispose-of garbage like tires, microwaves, small refrigerators, and so much more that otherwise ends up on our hillsides and in our rivers. Rather than honk, I texted her later, one of those “did I just see you…” and we made plans to meet up next month. About an hour after that, I’m sitting here, at the window of the coffee shop, and I see her walk by. Yes, of course I ran outside to bellow hello because, damn, she’s a fast walker. 

We were still on the sidewalk chatting when Maestro, the Great Pyrenees, stopped to say hello with his owner. I’ve talked about them before. She has dementia and a great support group of neighbors and family that enables her to stay safely in this community, walking her beautiful baby. She was in a rage today because we’re losing the RiteAid, a surprisingly lucid complaint given her cognitive decline. My friend and I managed to convince her that there will be another similar store moving in here to fill the gap. There’s already a local pharmacy further down the street but it is not a convenience store. If something doesn’t move in to supply her small needs, she swore that she’d move back to Hershey (where she hasn’t lived in nearly 60 years). Somehow, I doubt that her son will allow that to happen.

A man just rode his bike down the street, which would not be remarkable except that he had a dog riding along in a pack, on his back, her fur blowing in the breeze. At the same time, a man walked by with his puli, a dog whose fur I would hate to have to care for. My long-haired doxie is difficult enough, particularly when slugs get caught in her fur. She doesn’t eat them. In fact, she makes the dog version of a yuck face when she pulls them gently out of her fur and spits them onto the floor. This is a near-daily event, requiring me to rescue and rehome slugs before they get trampled underfoot. That might sound gross but all of the creatures around us serve a purpose, even mosquitoes, which are a delightful meal for our local bats. And after several years of significant growth, our recently overwhelming lantern fly population has become a satisfying snack for several bird species here. It took a year, maybe two, for birds to recognize them as food but it’s helping tremendously to keep the number of lantern flies more manageable. 

I’ve set an unusual – definitely, I have no defense –  reading goal for myself. I am going to consume the entirety of Betty Neels’ book catalogue. You’ve probably never heard of her: she wrote Mills&Boon romances for approximately 30 years, beginning in the 1960s. Her books were also published by Harlequin. Almost all of the originals have fantastic hand-drawn covers of a pretty girl and a brooding man. Occasionally, they are embracing but usually she’s looking into the distance while he glares in a foreboding manner. Content-wise, I would describe them as adult Nancy Drew books, though obviously a different genre. 

You might ask yourself – as I have already asked myself – WHY have I set this goal? I have a huge TBR pile already. The only answer I can give you is that I read one of these as a 12 year old and recognized the title when I was doing some research on old romance novels for my current novel. The plot of the book, A Ring in a Teacup, came back to me in a flood of memory. I could picture the old library at my grandmother’s senior apartment building – for those of you who regularly read the blog, this is the apartment she moved to after the graphic sex scene. Lol The library was filled with romance novels that my grandmother encouraged me to read. They were all very low on intimacy, with sentences like “he kissed her firmly” and “she admired his tall, well-built frame.” 

Of course, they are deeply misogynistic. One of them even quotes that Tennyson poem – you know the one: “Man with the head, woman with the heart; man to command and woman to obey.” I think it’s from Tennyson’s Princess saga and in my humble opinion, well worth skipping entirely. But something about her books: her detailed descriptions of medical treatments (Neels was a nurse before she began her writing career), life in the 60s and 70s, and luxury cars like the Panther, Daimler, and Rolls Royce makes them remarkably readable. She also, having lived in Holland for 13 years, used that country as one of her primary story locations. I’ve looked up the pronunciation and meaning of many Dutch words since beginning my quest. 

If Neels is to be trusted, the English at the time never stopped eating. They had coffee and toast, then breakfast, then tea, then dinner, then tea, then supper, and finally coffee before bed. Crazy. Who had time to do anything else? The portions must have been tiny. Her food descriptions are fantastic and have also required much research, though I would suggest that she had too much fondness for eel on toast, which has made a regular appearance in her books. Also, I had never before heard of Gentleman’s Relish or Charlotte Russe as a dessert. You’ll have to discover these delights for yourself. You can also eat my share of Gentleman’s Relish and you don’t have to thank me for it. 

I just noticed the wording on the sign prohibiting “dogs or animals” at our coffee shop, not “dogs or other animals.” Does this mean that dogs are not what we traditionally think of as animals? I’m inclined to agree but it does leave open the explanation as to what, exactly, dogs are. Mystical beings, perhaps? Angels sent to succor us? The reincarnation of people who have passed on? 

Lunch is in the refrigerator at home so I bought a sandwich from the coffee store, an unusual, and surprisingly inexpensive, event. Now, as more proof that I should never eat while working, I have a keyboard absolutely covered with crumbs and greasy fingerprints. (The sandwich was a delicious pepperoni croissant for $5.) I regret nothing. 

With my parking meter about to expire, I will wrap up today’s meandering notes with a suggestion: be as kind to yourself today as you would be to someone you saw struggling. It’s really hard to give yourself the grace you might give another but you deserve it. 

Much love. 

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 5 Comments

Pamela’s Diner, on the weekends, can often be a place to avoid. One of the great things about it, though, is the joyful noise of people finally together who often cannot be. The restaurant was full today but I mostly travel in a pack of one which makes it pretty easy to get a table. Melissa, one of the servers, sat a group of six women next to me at my tiny table (it’s supposed to seat two but one side of the table is broken like an accidental drop-leaf table). Those women looked so young to me, a familiar proclamation of the middle aged (she says in an unsuccessful attempt to make herself feel younger), and delighted to be together. There were three children with them, a charmingly self-aware 6 year old, a toddler discovering that they appeal to their neighbors, and a baby who was all id, hungry and, once sated, sleepy. 

Sometimes, as I look around the diner, I catch the eye of another people-watcher. There are two types: 1) looks away immediately, 2) smiles and continues people-watching. When I was younger, I would have been in the first group, shy and perhaps flushing with embarrassment, but now, older and a devout member of the we-do-not-care club, I smile and sometimes, depending on who it is, I’ll even wink. Very daring, perhaps, but it makes me laugh. 

I know most of the employees at Pamela’s. Sometimes, when I walk in, several of them will call out, “Hi, Deb,” which makes me feel like I live in that old television series, Cheers. Hehe I like to think that strangers whisper about the famous person and try to figure out who I am. That makes me laugh, too. If only you knew, my friends. If only you knew….

There’s a barista at the coffee shop who has the greatest hair color – it’s really a blend of several colors, a little purple, a little red, a little blue. Every time I see them, I say something about their hair and we talk about how complex it is to keep a color fresh. They always say, “Oh, I was thinking how bad it looks.” And I always say, “You can’t see what I can see.” This is not a statement about hair color. 

Also, as just an aside, why in the ever-loving, noisy-ass, shrieking, are we listening to Squid as background music? Even with my headphones in and my music UP, I cannot escape the screaming. It isn’t in my head, I swear. It’s coming from the speakers and I’m really getting an understanding of the psychological warfare we once engaged in against North Korea. 

Things in the US are about to get worse, when the House and Senate finish reconciling their “big, beautiful bill.” Whatever your party, your community will be devastated by the Medicaid and Medicare cuts that are planned. It is clear to me that the average person is so busy demonizing Medicaid “waste” – just as our “leaders” intended – that they do not realize how many people rely on it and just who, exactly, those people are. I’ll bet, if you queried people at YOUR local diner, at least a third of them couldn’t even explain the purpose of either Medicaid or Medicare. 

Do YOU know which states in the US rely most on federal funding of Medicaid? Six of the seven states receiving the most federal Medicaid funding voted for our current president. The most vulnerable in those communities will lose their coverage and they’ll think it’s a mistake that our president didn’t know about, not a strategy to fill the coffers of the ultra-rich. Hospitals in high risk communities will fail for lack of funding, not for lack of demand. 

Your first thought might be that at least all these former MAGA voters will definitely vote against Republicans next time but guess what? The bill includes a section that allows the president to cancel elections at any time, for any reason. When this bill passes and gets signed, there may not be an opportunity to vote him or our current representatives and senators out of office. Since he wants to be president-for-life (aka king), you should, in fact, assume that he will cancel future votes. Because he will. Of course he will.  Fact-checked into oblivion. Thanks, Crescent, for the keen eye.

I don’t know the answer to the dilemma we’re in. But I do know that generating fear and hopelessness are two effective strategies of the fascists currently in power. We the People cannot submit. 

Next soapbox:  This might seem to be about Mamdani. And it is, sort of. It is possible to care about multiple things at the same time. For example, people can abhor the human rights catastrophes in the United States, Ukraine and Gaza AND, at the same time, not be antisemitic. This is not a skill unique to me. You can all do it, too. Just because I don’t want Palestinians murdered does not mean I want the Jewish state destroyed. It’s weird how successful the oligarchs have been at framing this issue in a way that makes people afraid to speak up. I’m not antisemitic. I am, however, anti-murder. There are always solutions that do not require the extermination of any ethnic community. If you think the only answer is killing, you’re probably reading the wrong blog. 

Even though I don’t talk about it much, I spend a not inconsiderable amount of time supporting someone who is declining cognitively. It’s a world of contradictions – a verbal obsession with cleanliness and dirty dishes in the cupboard; paying bills incorrectly while also refusing support to make the process easier. And fear. So much fear and yet the keys are often left in the deadbolt. I struggle sometimes to figure out how to provide the necessary support. I have no trouble living in their timeline, whatever it is, but then they do something dangerous like leave the house without their phone. Sometimes, they know exactly where they are and sometimes they get lost going to the restaurant they’ve been to a million times. This makes phonelessness terrifying to those of us who are trying to provide support. 

Googling “is it ethical to sew wearable trackers into someone’s clothes?” provides all kinds of terrifying results. I know exactly what you’re going to say: tell this person that you’re putting wearable trackers in their clothes. My friends, I can text this person 16 times that I’m picking them up at 9AM for their doctor appointment tomorrow and I’ll still either get a dozen frantic calls before I arrive (at 9AM or earlier) OR they’ll have forgotten that they have an appointment, even though it’s written in their handwriting in their calendar which is RIGHT THIS MINUTE open on their dining room table. 

It’s easy, so easy, to tell someone in cognitive decline to ALWAYS TAKE YOUR PHONE but sometimes this person is living in the 1970s, when phones weren’t mobile. Sometimes, even though their phone is in their hand, this person runs out to the car as I’m about to pull away – instead of calling me – because they pressed the wrong button on the TV remote and screwed up the TV. (Don’t try to solve this rabbit-hole problem: there are already notes with arrows on the remote control.) I even have spare copies of their house keys because they have lost their keys in their own pocket. That’s not a joke, like ‘I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached’.

As an example, here’s a brief story of the terrifying world of cognitive decline: my friend, we’ll call them Sally because it’s as removed from their name as anything could be – you know I’m all about privacy! – lends their car to someone. That someone takes just the car keys and hands the house keys to Sally. When I arrive to pick Sally up later, they are in an actual panic because they cannot find the house keys in order to lock up. I remind them that the keys are loose because Sally lent the car. “Are they in your pocket?” I ask. Sally’s answer: “Now, I remember.” The keys were, indeed, in Sally’s pocket. 

My friends, they could put their hand in their pocket a dozen times and not realize those keys are the item they’re looking for. It’s not their fault. Half the time, when we’re in the house looking for something, they forget what we’re doing while we’re still looking. Sometimes, they’ll remember that we’re searching but forget that we’re looking for the bill that was due yesterday. One time, we were trying to figure out whether they’d remembered to register the car (which we have to do annually in our state). I was looking through their files, which are organized by the month in which bills are paid (don’t even ask, it’s a complete filing nightmare that we’ll fix LATER). They were wandering around the living room, picking up random pieces of paper and showing them to me. “Is this what we’re looking for?” None of the pieces of paper were what we were looking for. They had, in fact, forgotten to renew their car registration, which I was able to determine by checking the state website. We took care of that immediately but it might be time again. I’d better make a note to check with them. Anyway…IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT.

The first statement in the Bill of Rights of the Cognitively Declining should be “It’s not their fault.” It’s never their fault. Trust me: none of the cognitively declining people I’ve met intentionally lost their keys, forgot my name, burned their dinner. Their world doesn’t look like ours. And they are so AFRAID. 

I know that I’ve told the story before about pretending to make deli sandwiches with not-my-Aunt Ginny who worked at a delicatessen in the 1940s. Just a couple years ago, we made pretend turkey sandwiches, filled pretend jars with pickles, sorted pretend utensils. It might seem funny. Sometimes, you have to laugh or else you’ll cry. But the point is, she was worried, so worried, the entire time that we wouldn’t be ready for the lunch rush. Her fear was real, even though the pickles weren’t. 

Thirty-ish years ago, I met a woman living on the Alzheimer’s ward of a long-term care facility. Alzheimer’s wards, in case you’ve never visited one, are locked to prevent the patients from wandering off. If they walk or wheel themselves too close to the doors, an alarm goes off to give the care team a heads up that there’s someone potentially trying to make a break for it. 

I know I’ve mentioned this before so forgive me if you remember my story: I was at the facility with a team doing signage and space planning. We had to measure everything and I do mean everything: square footage of rooms, height of lights and doorknobs, depth of equipment. You name it, we documented it. This was in the days before technological support. We had measuring tapes and sketched room outlines to fill in with measurements. It was tedious and took days to complete. Yes, I’m a writer which makes this assignment a little unusual but it was a big job. All hands on deck, so to speak. 

We’re walking through the ward when a woman rolls up to me in her wheelchair. Just as you have probably seen depicted on television, patients use their feet to push themselves around the wards when they’re too unstable to be allowed to walk alone or with an assistive device. She’s holding a baby doll and tries to hand it to me. I attempt to refuse. Fred, who is working with me, is teasing me about becoming a new mom. I’m a little embarrassed because I’m young, so young, and at work, trying to be a useful member of the team. Also, the doll is clearly a treasured possession and I don’t want to be in charge of that. She insists, which might seem a strange thing for a wheelchair-bound, non-verbal Alzheimer’s patient to do successfully, but she did it. I have no other explanation than to say that she persisted more effectively than I resisted. I carried her baby for the rest of the day. She smiled every time she saw me as she rolled from long hallway to long hallway. And at the end of the day, I gave her baby doll to the staff at the central desk to return. 

So, what’s the point? Obviously, meeting someone with declining cognition sure does present opportunities to learn but also: it’s not their fault. Cognitive decline isn’t a failure of imagination or a personality flaw or a crime. Your patience and imagination and personal integrity are essential to work effectively with them but they can be frightened and angry and mean and confused and grateful and loving and FEARFUL. 

Sometimes, my not-my-Aunt Ginny is combative, particularly in the late afternoon because she has sundowners, which means that she gets more confused and frightened as the day closes. I don’t visit after noon anymore. It’s too hard on her. She used to cry when I left and verbally abuse me for refusing to take her with me, which upset us both, her because it was, in her mind, a betrayal of our relationship, me because it was awful to see her so afraid. “I thought I knew you better,” she’d say, deeply wounded because I wouldn’t take her home to a house that was sold over a year ago to pay for her long-term care. 

All this brings us back to the person close to me who has cognitive decline. Have you ever seen that old Will Ferrrell comedy skit, ‘The Landlord’? (“God, you’re mean.”) People with cognitive decline can be so damn mean. Even though IT IS NOT THEIR FAULT, it can still be very hurtful. Called out, they 1) didn’t say that, 2) didn’t mean that, 3) can’t remember what they said, 4) are already having a different conversation, 5) and so on. There isn’t a good answer. They simply no longer have the awareness or understanding to be accountable for their unkindnesses. Unfair, isn’t it? Because who doesn’t want to call out the instrument of their pain?! But there’s no point. It’s like shaking a child who’s crying. The child isn’t the asshole. 

Hurt feelings aren’t the worst part, though. When my mother-in-law began to decline cognitively, I was reminded of the most painful aspect of illness. “Grief has arrived…. Hello, old friend,” which I have borrowed from the poem, “We grieve but we do not drown,” by scar_poetry. We grieve those we take care of. They are becoming something different, something that doesn’t meet our notion, our understanding of who they are. We MISS the person they were and sometimes we don’t really like the person they’ve become. My mother-in-law frequently forgot my name, sometimes didn’t recognize me at all. She’d refuse to do the things I’d ask of her, like take a shower, change her clothes, eat the food I cooked. 

When we first got to know each other, many years ago, we had to work hard to find common ground. She didn’t like that I’m Irish. I didn’t appreciate that she saved every single, tiny sliver of soap, a holdover from her childhood during the depression. It drove her crazy that I didn’t eat much. It drove me crazy that she didn’t respect my food boundaries. But we figured it out. We discovered all the great things about each other. It took time and patience but it was worth the effort. We formed a friendship that lasted nearly 15 years.

Everything changed when she started declining. She sometimes hated me, not Deb, but me, whoever I was to her in the moment. Of course, she never meant anything she said and didn’t even remember it afterwards. I knew this then and I understand it now. Knowing that, though, doesn’t lessen the grief, the bereavement of missing a person who is still with you but also not. We are forced to care for them in their existing form while mourning the person that they are no longer. It’s a cruel torture. And it’s still NOT THEIR FAULT.  

Having closed the 35 open browser windows on a certain someone’s phone in order to figure out why there was an ad playing (at the loudest possible volume), I find myself thinking about this today and hoping for peace tomorrow. I know I won’t get it in my personal life or in Gaza or in Ukraine but I can and will persist. Hopefully, I’ll be a little more Elizabeth Warren tomorrow and a little less young me in that Alzheimer’s ward. 

Much love. 

Hey, also, if you have an interest in supporting comics by Black women creators, there’s this cool Midnight Mystics kickstarter. I’m not in any way affiliated, though I did back the project. Maybe you’ll want to as well. Check it out. 

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Aisle 10: Between Cackles and Loud Sex

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

Why is “Blue Raspberry” the name of a flavor? Blue has no flavor at all. It’s literally a color. Another, possibly more important question: why do we add the color blue to raspberry flavoring, which, in its natural form, is decidedly not blue?

Find you a friend who makes you cackle like the lady sitting two tables over is cackling right now at something her tablemate said. Everyone should feel that level of unholy joy at least once a day, though I think, for most of us, it’s a pretty rare feeling.

I saw an old friend recently. He was sitting on a bench with another of his friends, someone I know by sight but have never met. I introduced myself and we got to talking about life and everything that goes with it. My friend asked about my kids and I did the usual age and activity update. At this point – and it’s necessary here to say that I’ve been laughing ever since – my new acquaintance says, “You must have been a child bride.” Friends, it is no exaggeration to say that I snort-laughed at that. Man’s got game. He’s 80 to my almost 59. I told him that I’m pretty proud to be an old bitch. 

My soapbox is in the shop so instead of talking about how society makes it a crime for women to age, I’ll just say that I looked down at my hands the other day and realized that they look like my mom’s hands: a little wrinkled, marked by age and life with spots and scars. It felt like a little gift to see her in me and I wouldn’t give it back for all the anti-aging creams in the world. 

Last time I was here, at the coffee shop, two hopeful sparrows hopped past my table, pausing as if to ask, “Got any crumbs for me?” I cooed at their charm and a young woman next to me expressed her worry that they might get trapped here. I reassured her that they are regular visitors, savvy city dwellers who know how to navigate the confines of this store. That young woman, my immediate table neighbor, was wearing an absolutely popping white peasant-style skirt, long and flowing. It looked cool on what was a hot, sunny day. I complimented her and she confessed that it was vintage. She just got it over the weekend. She was pink with happiness over her purchase and the compliment. In her turn, she complimented my bright red reading glasses and confessed that she’d love a pair of red glasses. I said, “Do it. Buy the red glasses. Make them a component of the art of your appearance.” 

It’s okay, you know, to go on living while we worry about our futures. It’s okay – in fact, essential – to cackle at a friend’s joke, to think about your outfit, to buy red glasses. It isn’t ignoring what’s going on to sip an iced tea at the coffee store – which tea, by the way, has increased $.50 due to tariffs. During WWII, people danced. It was an act of defiance against the people who would have us fearful, cowering at their pretend strength. 

This morning, I talked to a friend whose partner just started his second job. He works afternoons/evenings in the South Hills and then drives to the West End to work nights. She’s delighted that he’s off on Sundays and Mondays. Tell me again how lazy people are. Tell me again that Medicaid, SNAP, and CHP are full of waste. Explain to me why ICE has to go to stores and schools to steal immigrants from our soil. If they’re lazy and not contributing, why are they at work? Why are they graduating from high school and college? And why isn’t the so-culpable media calling out this obvious conflict with ICE’s story? 

Some days, when I’m supposed to be working on my story revisions, I’m so frustrated with the ill-behavior of my words that I find other things to do. I can be very disciplined but I can also be very UNdisciplined. These past few weeks, it has been far easier for me to write 10,000 words for a CNF piece than to work on the novel. I think it’s because I can be angry when I’m working on the CNF but I have to be funny in the novel. I can do funny, usually. Right now, though, I’m feeling angry and aghast and…well, ANGRY. It’s easy to be snarky when I’m angry but snarky isn’t necessarily funny, especially when it’s directed at another person.

I woke up thinking about my grandmother. She’s been gone for more than 40 years, though I think about her often and often. I don’t know what, in particular, I was thinking about her – she was simply on my mind when I returned to consciousness. So, indulge me for a moment, while I share a story that started with her and ended with an … experience. 

When I was maybe 10 or 12, my parents, sister, grandmother, and I went to my dad’s favorite fancy restaurant. We rarely – and I mean rarely – ate out. He always said that because he ate lunch out every day, he wanted to eat dinner at home. This was a disappointment for my mother, who, as a result, never ate out but always had to cook because … that’s what women did. My dad didn’t learn to cook until he had to live alone. And then, he became one of those people who thought they discovered cooking. LOL 

Anyway, for some very special reason that I no longer recall, we went to The University Club for dinner. It was one of those places – lobster on the menu, drinks before dinner, candles on the table … blah, blah, blah. NOT my scene, and I remember with a child’s clarity that, every single visit there, my sister and I hoovered up the crackers on the table because we were starving by the time the before-dinner drinks had been consumed. 

By the end of our meal, the adults at the table were a little tipsy, some more than others – yes, including the driver. We were all draped on the fancy sofas in the entry room – maybe it was a bar area, I don’t remember – waiting for bathroom trips to be over when my mother told me to follow Grandma into the restroom because Grandma was pretty tipsy from all the Manhattan’s she’d downed. (Grandma was MAYBE 5’ on tall days, in heels and standing on tiptoe.) 

Of course – because my mom had some weird sixth sense about things – about 10 seconds after I entered the restroom in my fancy childhood sandals, my grandmother fell and I had to run for my mother. Grandma’s necklace had caught on the toilet paper device – a weird accident that caused her to hit the wall, hard, and cut open her face. She went by ambulance to the hospital with my mother while my (inebriated – don’t tell anyone that I initially spelled that inebrie-ated, yes, like the cheese and then giggled aloud SMH) father dropped us off at Grandma’s apartment. This is where things get crazy. 

Let’s paint the scene – my grandmother lived in a fancy old, old, old building. She’d been there for, maybe, 5-ish years. I loved it, with its antique-y furnishings and funny smells. She wasn’t, probably, so happy there and even less so when Gannon University started using it for student housing. Do you already know where this is going? Believe me; it took me a LONG time to figure it out. 

For those of you who haven’t quite got it yet: I’m sitting in Grandma’s living room. I think my sister is trying to nap in Grandma’s bedroom. We’re there for what seems like days but is probably just a couple hours. There’s nothing to do. It’s too late for television because, of course, in those days, television went off the air. I don’t have a book so, basically, I’m just staring out the small, basement-apartment window when I hear a woman scream. I sit BOLT UP, wondering if I’d dozed off. It happens again. But this time it’s more like a cry or moan. Oh my gosh. Someone is dying. I run into the bedroom to ask my sister if she can hear it. Maybe she’s less naive than me because she doesn’t seem to care. I go back into the living room and – not realizing it – listen to two people having very loud sex, while thinking that a woman is in agony. I was several years older before I figured that memory out. Haha

Grandma was fine, by the way. She got stitches but didn’t even have a concussion. Unrelated to the injury but not to the loud sex, she moved out of that building into a new senior high-rise that she absolutely loved and ruled like a benevolent dictator, if that is actually a thing. She was quite a powerhouse who made everyone love her, at least from my very not-objective childhood opinion. I am pretty sure, in hindsight, that, like my father, one either adored her or absolutely despised her. Of course, I adored her. 

Perhaps it will not surprise you that this post is a meditation on the companionship of grief. Occasionally, someone new to it will ask me if “it” gets better. There’s a lovely poem, “We grieve But We Do Not Drown,” by scar_poetry that answers that question particularly well. I don’t know scar_poetry’s given name but you can find her on social media, particularly Instagram. I recommend that you listen to her read the poem, as her inflection is, itself, a gift.

Much love.

Aisle 10: Between Cackles and Loud Sex

April Arts and Flowers

Deb Zuroski, , , , 3 Comments

The coffee shop ceiling is decorated with massive paper flowers in bright hues. The flowers spin and sway gently with the breeze from the open garage door. It’s art festival weekend on Walnut Street, bringing an eclectic mix of shoppers – the wealthy older couples, young men delighted to find themselves holding hands with the person beside them, large groups of friends sipping their drinks while they study various offerings of the white tent stores lining both sides of the street.  

After days of cold, rainy weather, today is the perfect, balmy spring day that every shopper and seller hopes to experience. I probably wouldn’t be here, immersed in the sound and color, except that I forgot it was festival weekend. It’s not the most conducive writing environment but somehow, I’m not sorry. One of the most necessary things about community is the reminder that we are not, no matter how much it sometimes feels like it, actually alone. 

My eldest and I have been sharing Mary Oliver poems recently as he reads through a collection I lent him. It’s funny to me that the worst criticism people can level at her is that she’s “too accessible” a poet. SMH Craft that is incomprehensible to all but the most elite readers is a failure IMHO. It’s supposed to speak to us, to help us articulate our own thoughts and feelings, to make us feel seen. If it’s not understandable, how does it fill those critical gaps in the human experience?

I listen to a lot of music while I’m writing. In the course of doing some research, I discovered a Willie Nelson song that I hadn’t heard. That’s not really surprising since he has like 140 albums of material but I particularly like his really old and his really new stuff. I’m honestly slightly less a fan of his middle years, mostly because my father played Willie’s outlaw music ad nauseam when I was growing up. One of my favorite’s is “Last Man Standing” but you should check out “Oh What A Beautiful World,” the song I just discovered, which he performs with Rodney Crowell. 

Another great new listen is “Labour – the cacophony” from Paris Paloma. It’s seriously an anthem, though I suspect women will connect to it in a way that men can’t. No offense, gentlemen. Just facts.

Yesterday morning, I went to two estate sales, a thing my daughter and I often do together. But Saturday, I was alone, standing in a long line of people eager to get *things.* It was cold but is often too warm inside. I made the possibly foolish choice not to wear a jacket that I’d have to carry once I got into the house. Perhaps I thought the line would move quickly but it did not. I stood in the cold with several dozen other people for 45 minutes, awaiting my – exciting – turn to ENTER THE HOUSE. This might sound crazy but I am a very nebby person who enjoys viewing the lives of other people through the contents of their houses. 

It’s also an absolute delight to people-watch in line and to see what the people leaving the sale have purchased. The two ladies in line behind me – obviously lifelong friends – apparently felt the same and had a running commentary that was a treasure for me to hear. They pulled me into their conversation a few times – teasing me, a stranger, about my choice of a short-sleeved shirt and sweater – as the older woman complained that her gloved pinky finger had already turned black and fallen off in the cold. 

When the line stopped with me next to enter, I told them I could feel the warm air from the house and the older woman said she’d predicted that we’d freeze to death within sight of the door. That’s true. She had, just as they joined the line 45 minutes earlier. And when the staff person gestured for the next two of us to enter, I offered them my spot so they wouldn’t have to separate. But no. They insisted that I go in because I had dressed so unwisely. Lol

It seems, from my years of estate sale experience, that there are a few reasons to hold a sale: death, divorce, downsizing/moving, and misfortune. A few weeks ago, my eldest and I went to a sale that was clearly the latter. Being, again, a nosy person, I researched the house and discovered that the owner was bankrupt. The house was being foreclosed. Perhaps the sale was a Girl In the Green Scarf attempt to recover some money. I was there for a specific purpose – a desk treadmill, which I got – but walking through the foreclosed house felt icky. The children’s fish were still swimming around in a small fish tank. Their school supplies were for sale on the $1-5 table. The house was full – hoarding full – of Disney merchandise that the Disney-mad purchasers fought over vehemently. My son was, mostly, keeping me company but surprisingly was able to purchase a brand new, very high resolution, monitor for $40. It wasn’t priced so we took it to the check-out station just as an uglier-than-usual fight was wrapping up. The woman in charge gave him a big discount on the monitor – which costs $500+ NIB (New In Box, as they say) – because we were nice to her and she was pretty stressed by the Disney hoards.

Mostly, people at estate sales are respectful and conflict-averse but occasionally there’s a fight. One time, when my daughter was with me, two women got into it over an ottoman. It wasn’t pretty, and the sale staff had to step in before it turned into something more awkward. Over an ottoman ….

The second sale I went to on Saturday was the result of a death. The woman was an antique lover with many lovely treasures that she clearly took exquisite care of but my favorite find was a retirement gift from 2000, a handmade booklet of all the things a single woman of a certain age can do once she has a lot of free time. It was sassy and saucy and charming. And clearly she appreciated it because she kept it for the rest of her life.

Much love.

April Arts and Flowers

Scanning for Fear or the Fear of Scans

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

I allowed scan-xiety to get the better of me. 

Most cancer patients – in news that will surprise absolutely no one – experience some level of scan-xiety. We remind ourselves not to worry. We deep-breathe before our appointments and sweat out the wait for our results. Some of us have nightmares. Some don’t sleep well for days before their scans. We bargain with ourselves and our gods, hoping against rational thought that our pleas will ensure that this latest scan will be clear. 

For a variety of health reasons that are not cancer-related, I have had many scans over the past 20 years and never really worried about them, until that first time, in December, 2023. Since then, I’ve had five or six additional MRIs (and that’s without counting the extra two I got in September). I’ve sort of lost count from the monotonous sameness of the experience, though, if I cared to, I could go back through my electronic record and count the results. 

The facts show, without elaboration, that I don’t currently have cancer. My liver resection and chemotherapy eliminated it. So, how did I allow scan-xiety to take over, to control my waking hours, my sleepless nights, my infrequent dreams? I honestly don’t know, though, clearly, I’m not alone in that experience. 

Part of me wants to blame my VeryBadCancerTM with its high (70-80%) recurrence rate but that isn’t fair to the many people with more common and more treatable cancers. They, too, experience the gripping anticipatory grief of scan-xiety. We’re a large and growing population of individuals who both hope and dread those quarterly, semi-annual, or annual scans. 

Every single time I get an MRI, I analyze the technicians’ behaviors, even knowing that they are not foreshadowing my future. Why, I ask myself, did the tech tell me that they hoped I’d feel better soon? I feel fine. Oh my god. What did they see on the scan? TAKE CARE? Why did they say that? It’s back, isn’t it? They’re wishing me well because they saw another growth. 

It’s relentless – the imagined pity, the casual humanity turned to sympathy by my overactive brain. It wasn’t so bad in September. Having just finished chemo, I assumed that the cancer would be, at least temporarily, beaten down. Something about these most recent scans, though, took hold of my psyche, shook me to my essence, encouraged me to dread, instead of hope.

Again, my scans were fine. I’m still hanging in, cancer-free, but it – the scan-xiety – cost me this time in a way that I need to remember. It cost me moments of joy and peaceful nights. It cost me in snapping, anxious words and absences when I should have been present. 

I am determined not to pay that high price again but it is so much easier to profess that goal than to apply it. The strategies are all in my scan-xiety avoidance toolkit: yoga, mindful breathing, therapy, exercise. The problem, you see, is that, like most people, I, and so many other cancer survivors, have a lot to lose. The difference between us and the average healthy person is that we have experienced the real possibility of an earlier than expected death. But, to quote Cordelia, “I think I like this little life, this silly little life.” 

It isn’t just the pain and discomfort of surgery and chemo and possibly radiation that frightens me. I’ve done that before – well, not the radiation. I know what to expect – even from the radiation, having watched my husband endure it – and I know I can do it again and again, even the vomiting, if I have to. It’s not the words that could be in any of our futures: incurable, inoperable, terminal, palliative. 

It’s the pain to be endured by my children, my extended family, my found family and friends – but most horribly AGAIN by my children – that really makes me fear my scans. My (adult) babies are strong and they love each other deeply. I know that, if, through some future scan, I receive my ‘notice to quit’, my children will support each other, will be ‘okay’ but I would give a lot to prevent them from enduring another parental cancer death. 

It’s a lot to ask and I’m not sure who, in fact, I would be asking since I’ve been, previously, very clear on my uncomfortable relationship with the possibility of an all-powerful deity who occasionally pops down to help you find your pen but allows a lot of kind, gentle, loving people to die of cancer every year. 

With all due respect to your beliefs, please miss me with the “God needs them” and “they were called home” business. I hope those thoughts comfort believers but they offer nothing to me when compared to the idea of my children having to stand by my bed, watching cholangiocarcinoma turn me yellow and poison my blood. I don’t know if God was present in the room when my husband gasped out his last. 

I do know, though, that my children were there, at Ken’s beside, and they suffered – and still suffer – from the experience of watching their father die after watching him fight to live. Since none of us know what the future holds for us, I am determined to embrace the lesson that this scan’s anxious moments taught me – I need not die before I’ve finished living. 

Much love.

Scanning for Fear or the Fear of Scans