life

Skin Like Talcum And Lemon-juice Cuts

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

I’m knocking on the door of *that* age. AARP offers are arriving weekly, along with the announcements about senior living open houses and classes on preparing for retirement. I never imagined being this age. Mentally, I’m still a teenager, at best. It is a regular challenge to reconcile my internal view with the person I see in the mirror, the hands I see in my periphery as I type. 

My N-Aunt’s hands were an older version of mine–wrinkled, the skin appearing more and more like tissue paper, age spots darker and more copious. Before she died last week, at 94, she was mostly non-verbal, dementia having stolen her voice, along with most of her memories. I’ve been expecting, for months now, that one of my visits would be the last, a final handholding, a last kiss on her forehead and smoothing back of her baby-fine white hair.

When my husband was dying of cancer, I left for his hospital room every morning knowing that one day I would return home a widow. That’s just a fact, simply knowledge, not preparation. It’s not actually possible to “prepare yourself.” I’d describe it more as awareness, an acknowledgement that my role has changed from participant to spectator, witness to an ending, to a closing of that door on which my own knuckles rest.

Having spent a lot of time in N-Aunt’s memory care facility, I’ve adjusted to the sounds of people whose cognitive reality is different. A woman there chants the Hail Mary in fraying strands of sound, voice rising on the Hail Mary and fading to a whisper, before she starts again. The words blur together, barely recognizable. Over and over she chants the words, like she’s saying the rosary and is stuck on one bead. While N-Aunt Ginny dozed last week, holding my hands, I became immersed in the repetition of that prayer. I’m not religious but I hope the Blessed Mother heard her.

In a very Life of Pi experience, on my final visit, a resident called out for help removing a tiger from her room. You wouldn’t be alone finding it funny. I got a lot of mileage out of texting my eldest son about the tiger loose in the facility. It’s okay to laugh. In fact, I think laughing about the situations life throws our way is important to coping. 

Today, the day after my 60th birthday, I went to the hospital for my early morning CT, MRI, and bloodwork. There was some sort of confusion. I sat in the waiting room for 30 minutes, deep breathing while I tried to concentrate on a book, the scan-xiety eating away at my confidence. Finally, I went up to the counter. 

They’d forgotten to check me in when I arrived 15 minutes before my appt time. I was annoyed but kept it friendly. There was nothing malicious or intentional. It was just Monday morning. But I had to WORK at friendly. I was anxious, hungry because I have to fast before my scans (birthday dinner was just a milkshake from Page’s Dairy). Of course, according to the system, I’d missed my appointment time. I had to wait. Deep breathing can only get you so far in addressing scan-xiety. 

After that awkward start, everything went awry. I had to be stuck twice to find a vein for the contrast. And that $#@% HURT today. It always stings but today it burned like lemon juice in a paper cut for like 15 minutes. Really; it was a little unnecessary and I silently cursed the IV gods for doling out a secondary punishment. The CT was not noteworthy. The MRI was odd; I think I had a trainee behind the controls (which admittedly might be a perception caused entirely by my grumpy mood a solid two hours into the experience). 

Finally, I was able to head down to the lab for bloodwork. The staff there was lovely, prepared for a high volume of patients on a Monday. The phlebotomist teased me about being used as a sprinkler to water the plants, thanks to all the holes in my arms. It made me laugh, pushed aside the gray mood I’d sunk into as my hands fell asleep in the MRI (see?! A very odd MRI experience today). 

Now, the waiting begins as my brain fights with my emotions. My daughter always encourages me to ignore the “my chart” app until my doctor appointment. She has experience with my scan-xiety and tends to get annoyed with me because of the torture I put her through while I worry. I don’t mean to, of course. In fact, I talk big about how I won’t let cancer control my actions. My mama would say, “The path to hell is paved with good intentions.” It’s a good thing, I guess, that I don’t believe hell is a place. 

I’m at the coffee shop now. While I was in line, one of the baristas gave me my order before I placed it. I laughed and told him that he’d read my mind. That got us talking. The man in front of me in line said to me, “You don’t want to read minds because you’d know that, when you walked in the room, several people said, ‘Ick.’” Now, I know the point he was trying to make. A less open-hearted person might have taken that as offensive. Because, honestly, who suggests that a person’s arrival will make people say, “Ick”?! 

He walked away with his cherry danish and I paid for my iced tea. Before I left the counter, I said to the baristas, “Just saying: No one says or thinks ‘Ick’ when I walk in a room. I refuse to believe that.” They laughed. I laughed. Seriously. That was just rude, sir. My day started rather poorly. I won’t give you, stranger, permission to make it worse. 

Much love.

Skin Like Talcum And Lemon-juice Cuts

Steak And Busking And Chocolate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

Steak And Busking And Chocolate

Musical Feet

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 1 Comment

The diner is my first stop. Breakfast there is one of the few meals I can eat without feeling sick afterwards but we’re not talking about malabsorption today. Waving hello to the cooks, I stop at my favorite seat. One of the servers, new, offers me a menu and I decline. They’re already making my order. I get the same one every time–two eggs over medium, bacon, crispy home fries, and an English muffin with grape jelly. I can eat about half, less sometimes. The cooks always give me way too much food; they love my son who used to work there.

I’m eating and reading when a table of 10 boisterous diners sits down next to me. An older man, white haired, a retired principal, talks to two middle school kids seated across from him. He’s trying to connect by telling one of them about someone who shares the child’s name. In case you are tempted to try this strategy, allow me the indulgence of discouraging you. The kids don’t care. Points for their upbringing, though. They were very polite.

On my way to the coffee shop, I pass a woman sitting in the shade. It’s early, the sun not yet above the house horizon, if you will. She suffers from the hunched back that women my age fight against, downing our daily calcium tablets with more excitement than we’ve felt since our first Backstreet Boys concert. I’d know her age from her fingers on the keyboard of her computer, no need to see the wrinkles and spots that match those on my own hands. It’s because her fingers hover just above the home row. She, absolutely, just like most women of a certain age, took a typing class in high school. 

A sound disturbs my navel contemplation. Not that I’m actually gazing at my belly button. I *am* staring off into space, though, not thinking so much as existing. I turn, puzzled, unable to determine the source of the sound. It’s not the whining child sitting at the table outside. She is very clearly saying, “I’m coooooolllllddddddd.” Her parents ignore the noise until none of us can. 

Still, the other sound continues, a repetitive clack, firmer than heels, and louder than you’d expect a shoe to sound on a tile floor. I keep looking. A very pretty older man sits at the table next to the whiny girl who would not be whining if her parents had listened in the first place. It’s not the attractive man. He’s just watching the world go by as he waits for a suited man to join him. I feel like he’s being sold something from the passion with which the other man waves his hands. 

Ah ha! I’ve found the source. A young man is breaking the law outside the coffee shop. Hehe He’s stapling documents to the wooden light pole that is covered with staples from prior flouters. There are so many advertisements attached to the pole that he has to reach up, on his toes, to attach the final one, firmly, six staples for that piece. The electric company rep will be by within a few days to do their monthly (or so) de-papering. I prefer the community-based adverts to the blank pole.

A bald older man just entered the coffee shop. He sees a barista and makes a gesture that looks disturbingly like a Nazi salute but then he bows awkwardly and fist bumps the barista. I doubt that he’s a Nazi. They’re rare around here and would most likely get thrown out of the place. Also, I doubt that they fist bump. 

Years ago, a woman on the street screamed the N word at a passing car. People on the sidewalk turned and started toward her, booing. I’ve never been prouder. They got closer, a dozen people, booing, while she backed up, trying to defend the slur. They just booed louder because there is no justification. She finally turned, flipped them the bird, and hurried up the alley toward Howe Street. Everyone cheered and then turned away, going back to their activities like nothing had happened. 

A guffaw has burst, unlooked (unlistened?) for, from the man sitting at a table on the sidewalk. He’s talking to a woman sitting across from him. I wish I were close enough to eavesdrop because she seems funny. I could use a guffaw or two.

Back briefly from my CNF writing to report that I have scored the seat next to the Great Guffawer, though he seems to have run through today’s quota of laughs.

A very pretty man walks by, meandering speed. I recognize this because I, too, am a meanderer. He pauses just beyond the coffee shop door and turns to look back the way he came, clearly waiting. I must tell you (yes, I am literally obligated to comment on all the attractive men who pass by; there are rules, you see) that this man has chiseled cheekbones and a well-kept beard. He’s not smiling, giving off the romance-trope impression of a grumpy man whose sunshine woman is walking toward him. She holds up a wrist and encourages him to smell it. Without a doubt, she was trying perfumes at Sephora. He leans into her wrist and sniffs, then nods; no smiles make an appearance. He’s going in the next novel. Sorry, not sorry.

A young man is standing outside, singing and dancing. He stops once to look at himself in his phone’s camera, fixes his hat, and continues to sing and dance quite awkwardly. He’s not the next Joy Machine, though I wish him well in his efforts to grow into that *something*. He dances off down the street a bit, out of sight but not out of hearing range. I hope he’s not trying to be discovered here. It’s the wrong neighborhood to expect to find a talent agent.  

Have you ever heard of Labi Siffre? I recommend that you check out “Bless the Telephone.”

A very tall Grandpa walks by holding hands with a tiny, tiny boy who dances along on his toes, his heels never touching the ground as he sings nonsense words. His little baseball cap is tilted to the side, looking, finally, correct when the boy tilts his head for a moment and catches my eye before dancing on, music on his tongue and in his feet.

A breeze rustles the napkin on my table and the strings on my blouse, disrupting, too, my confused musings. I wish it would blow the dust from my brain, a wish that remains ungranted. I’m trying to write something that may be unwritable, though I continue to try. Where are the words? Perhaps the next breeze will bring some.

Much love.

Musical Feet

With Great Power….

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

We all hold such power–to make someone smile, to destroy someone’s confidence, to heal, to injure. During my training at Disney World about a million years ago, we were reminded over and over again that we had an incredible secret power; we could make or ruin a person’s day. I have so many wonderful memories of working there, of making people laugh, of helping parents find their lost children, of recommending activities, places to eat, overlooked treasures. I’m in hundreds of thousands of pictures that I’ll never see. I promise you, though, that I’m smiling, laughing, talking to strangers in every one of them. Sometimes, I am sure, I was caught mid-silly dance or goofy face at a child. 

Disney taught me how to recognize that secret power and how to wield it for good. The corporate world beat me up, encouraged–NO, expected–me to lean into the negative. When I walked away from corporate work, I shed all that with relief. Being mean is a heavy burden (and so aging). It’s so much easier, and so much more fun, to be kind. 

Kindness lifts people up. It also has the weirdly reciprocal effect of making the giver feel good, too. Last summer, a young woman sitting near me at the coffee shop was wearing a charming skirt. I told her that. She thanked me and said, “It’s vintage!” She was so proud. It still makes me smile to think of that three- or four-second interaction. I have many of those. 

I read something recently about the uptick of ChatGPT use by, primarily, men. The article suggested that men are more susceptible to the manipulation that can exist behind flattery because women, from an early age, learn to recognize it, whereas men are compliment-starved. I tested that theory, very unscientifically, on my children and discovered that they concur. My eldest even said that he can remember the last time he received a compliment from someone (other than me, of course), six weeks ago, and it was about a shirt he wore. 

When I give compliments, which I do readily, I’m always interested to see the different ways people respond. Last week, I complimented a woman’s outfit. She laughed, grabbed my arm, and thanked me with a big smile. The last time I complimented something about a man, he blushed, absolutely astonished by my comment. Here’s the most important thing, I NEVER, NEVER, NEVER tell someone that they’re beautiful or handsome. I pick out something I like and I tell the person. It’s easy. Your hair looks great. I love your shirt. I would die for those shoes. Your outfit is chef’s kiss. You should do an insta shoot with KeepPittsburghDope. I love your laugh. Your joy is making me smile (I said that to a group standing together, laughing).

Sometimes–well, usually–I’m incredibly awkward but that doesn’t stop me. Better an awkward compliment than a missed opportunity to be kind. 

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no-good day. Looking back, I can recognize that, in fact, 19 of 20 things went really well. Like many humans, though, I find myself focusing on the one thing that did not go well and that it is 100% my fault that it didn’t. The worst part of it going wrong, though, is that it went wrong in front of a man who smugly told me that it wouldn’t go right, as it was going wrong. He was so…mean. It’s rarely necessary to be mean (except to billionaires, whose money-hoarding is destroying the lives of millions who are barely surviving–but we’re not talking about that right now). That man was so pleased to announce, over and over, that I was wrong. And I was, which just makes his unkindness more bitter. He could have been not-a-dick. He could have been but he chose to lean into being mean. We both knew he was right. I acknowledged his rightness with a smile, my jaw clenched so tight it could have held back the Colorado River. I was gracious, even apologetic. He was so mean. So mean. It ruined my day. Yes, I am well aware that I gave a stranger power over me. See the first paragraph. Total strangers have that secret power. You have it. I have it. 

So, here’s my advice, which you didn’t ask for but I promise is actually easy to follow: be nice. There’s a great poem “Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Is Not Breaking,” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. ‘There are a great many reasons to treat each other with great tenderness.’ All of us…I’ll say it again for those who are skimming…ALL OF US are going through things.

Use your secret power well.

Much love.

With Great Power….

A Million Years Ago….

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

A million years ago, I had the very great pleasure to spend time with a team of 25 Indians who traveled to the US to work on a project. Today, I was ordering pastries (at a Paris Baguette) from a young Indian man and he did something that made me feel such melancholy for that team from so very long ago. The work? I don’t give two hooey’s about that anymore, though at the time we were making history. Today, I miss the people on that team. 

So, what did that young Indian man do? Well, it’s a little hard to describe but basically it’s a head motion common in India, a sort of head nod/shake. The first time you work with a large group of Indian men, you’ll wonder why they appear to be shaking their heads in a sort of “no” gesture when you’re talking to them. They aren’t, in fact, saying “no.” They’re telling you to continue, that they’re with you, grasping what you’ve said. 

When that young barista did his nod/shake, I had to hold in the outpouring of *something* that tried to spew forth in a glory of half-sentences and laughter. Yes, I did, in fact, keep it to myself. As memories go, it’s a little inexplicable, a memory that one holds close because no one else will really understand. I doubt that I’ve thought of that head shake movement in ten years but today, in a second, I was transported right back to a huge room at the top of Highmark’s Pittsburgh building, leaning over a table as I tried to convince one of the men that I was right about the enrollment process. I did not win that argument.

Have you read Project Hail Mary? I’ve been having difficulty finding time to sit down with a book but I was on a longer drive recently listening to it. And I’m speechless. It’s that good. I’ve only cried twice but there’s still three hours left in the book so, you know, plenty of time for more tears.

 I spent a good part of two days in the company of a person with cognitive decline. They were having some work done in the house but sometimes can’t remember the work that’s being done and can’t answer questions about the work. So, I’m there, keeping them company, and providing support when there’s a question. It’s exhausting. Part of it is answering repeatedly the same question without getting annoyed. When I was in training at Disney World, our trainers would remind us that we could never be frustrated over the number of times we answered a question–about the time for the next show, the location of the bathrooms, why they couldn’t bring their ice cream into the theater, why they couldn’t take their beer from the building–because, as the trainers said, that was the FIRST time that person had asked ME that question. 

What, however, does one do when the same person asks the same question or a variation thereof about 16 times in an hour? Well, one still cannot get frustrated because the cognitively declining person thinks they’ve never asked that particular question before. Mostly, frustration isn’t the issue for me, to be honest. Coming up with interesting distractions IS. My daughter gave me a big container of buttons–yep, buttons–and suggested that, as a project, this person might enjoy sorting the buttons by color and putting them into another container (with compartments) that Haley also thoughtfully provided. It was great. Worked like a damn charm. They found it soothing. I had a solid 30 minutes of peace to just take a breath. I owe my girl BIG TIME for the idea. 

On the flip side of cognitive decline symptoms, I was visiting my not-my-aunt Ginny and she decided AGAIN that we needed to make a break for it. She concocted several very elaborate plans to get us out of the facility and into my car. The woman can’t walk anymore but she’s somehow maneuvering herself FASTER THAN I AM toward the exit. I keep trying to turn the wheelchair but she’s digging in her heels. How is she this strong?! 

Feeling rather melancholy recently in the run up to the quarterly scans, I decided it would be a good idea to think about all the strong women in my family who have left this earthly existence. There are so many. I don’t know if that means I got more than my share or if, more likely, we all have had strong women in our lives that we just, maybe, didn’t realize were so amazing because we were children at the time. I was calling on them, I guess, to give me strength, lift me out of the doldrums, who knows…. The mental exercise accomplished none of those things but did make me miss them more than ever. 

Scan-wise, I have no updates to share. Scans were December 1st because nothing says “Happy Freakin’ Holidays” like starting the month by checking one’s body for bips and bops that don’t belong. I follow an author, breast cancer remission, who, this week, talked about the cruelty of the wait. She has a mass that might be nothing or might be something. She has a biopsy in two weeks. When she said that, in her Insta reel, I felt that same stomach drop that I get every single time I have scans. Disease takes normalcy as well as health. It steals peace and quiet moments of joy, if it can. 

I know the strategies of distraction and mindfulness but I am also deeply familiar with the anxiety of the wait–for news, for treatment, for results, for appointments. Even when the news is good, there is regular checking for the possibility of new bad news. GAH. It’s a relentless battle. And then well-meaning scientists conduct a study to see if cancer patients are more likely to be depressed than healthy people…. I’m sorry. Was that a question? What could their hypothesis have been other than–OBVIOUSLY? What are they going to do with those incredibly obvious results in a grotesquely under-funded mental health industry? 

Anyway, happy December to all who celebrate the last month of the year. I’ve always thought that the end of the year should come with a sticker, like a checkmark or a big smiley face, and then we should get recess. Instead, we start the year with taxes due, a new deductible on our health insurance ($9,100 for me), and debt from holiday extravagance. I’d much rather have the recess, thank you.

A Frank Nowalk original is up for auction this week. I desperately want it to be purchased by someone who will love it as much as he loved making it. It’s an incredible homage to Pittsburgh and currently has NO BIDS on it.

Also, if you look at the rest of the catalog, you’ll find some Ed Eberle art. If you don’t know who he is, check him out!! The Eberle Gallery is still in Homestead and very active in supporting growing artists. 

Musical interlude–”Christmas Time Is Here” by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones. The whole Jingle All The Way album is delightful. New takes on familiar music. Lots of banjo, some didgeridoo, and more. You won’t be sorry. And if you buy now, you’ll get this set of steak knives, sharp enough to cut through this can of cranberry sauce. 

Much love…and maybe some good luck?

A Million Years Ago….

Happy Hallowe’en. Now, Get Off My Lawn.

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Just watched a couple purchase coffee and pastries, get into their car out front of the coffee shop, and light up their…er, weed stick. They passed it back and forth, back windows cracked, until they’d finished it. They got out of the car and walked to the Sephora, I think, though they pretty quickly returned to get her coffee out of the car. They walked on, out of sight, for a bit before he walked back toward the construction site down the block from me and she drove off.

The this-is-your-brain-on-drugs-propaganda version of me wants desperately to be all “you’re both impaired” blah blah blah. The version of me that watched a likely sober elderly driver nearly kill a pedestrian (by nearly I mean the pedestrian leaped backwards to avoid the car) in a crosswalk yesterday thinks the propaganda version of me should sit this one out because we have WAY bigger problems with driving than a young person toking in their car. This is not an attack on elderly drivers either. I nearly got killed recently, also in a crosswalk, by a young man in a mustang who just didn’t want to stop. Last week, I stepped off the crosswalk and stopped because there was a car approaching the intersection that was absolutely not going to stop for the red light. He didn’t stop so it’s a good thing I did. If I’d kept walking would he have stopped in time? City life is not car versus pedestrian but some days it feels like it.

There is significant non-automotive vehicular traffic in Shadyside: bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, unicycle ebikes, hoverboards. Just now, I watched someone ride a bicycle one-handed with a tray of hot drinks in his other hand. This seems somewhat of an over-reach in terms of balance, braking, steering, but I’ll never know the whole story. He passed the window in slightly more than one second and is long out of view. 

I listened, today, to the Oklou Tiny Desk Concert. Their debut album is not acoustic but this tiny concert is and, my friends, it is a delight to hear. I am left wondering if there are any instruments lead singer Marylou Mayniel can’t play, as she demonstrated fluency on the acoustic guitar, recorder, piano, and marimba over the four-song set. The songs, in this form, are gentle, melancholic, and tender. Give it a listen when you would otherwise spend 20 minutes doomscrolling. 

The shout-motivating runner is back. I haven’t seen him for a bit, kind of thought he’d changed running neighborhoods but he just gave a hearty “Woooo” as he ran by the coffee shop. Gave me a bit of a jump scare, if I’m being honest. Haha

It’s the end of the school day. A grandmother is walking with her 10 or 11ish grandson. They’re the same height, looking each other in the eye as they walk. I wonder if she thinks about how it will feel some day to have him reach down to hug her. 

What is going on today? A man on a bike–a large storage container attached to the back–just rode by holding another, empty bike, in tandem. How does he steer the second bike? This, too, seems like an over-reach. He has also passed by in a second and the story goes on without us.

I know. I know. It seems, again, as though I’m just staring out the coffee shop window, documenting what happens. Not true, though. In fact, I’m doing some research for a project at the moment and occasionally look “off into space,” and by that I mean out the window, as I consider the approach I’m taking with this new and rather epically different story.

I looked up just as a woman walked across the street and dropped a long metal chain very deliberately. It fell to the ground as though it was heavy, though I can’t tell you why I think that. In my head, I heard the sound of it dropping but I’m across the street so obv I didn’t hear anything.

A teenager just walked into the coffee shop with her friends and said (too loudly), “Oh, this is aesthetic.” After that, she was thoroughly shushed. Lol Also, she definitely picked that up somewhere–I’m guessing tiktok–because…what does she mean exactly? It’s rather like she walked in and said “this has a floor.” Yes, yes, it does. Only she said this IS aesthetic. Pause for research…. My friends, I asked the interwebs for help. The yoots and AI seem to think “aesthetic” means pretty. It does not, in fact, mean that. I believe that it is entirely possible we’re raising generation after generation of people who have not learned any critical thinking skills. 

I get that English is a fluid language but there’s a difference between “windshield” changing from “a shield from the wind” to “a window in your car” and just flat out misunderstanding what a word means. Now, get off my lawn. 

A woman is standing at the coffee bar talking on speaker phone to someone who clearly does not know she’s on speaker phone. The volume is all the way up. We are IN this woman’s business. I’m listening, of course, because 1) I’m nebby; 2) she’s standing beside me; and 3) it’s so loud I can hear the discussion over my music. I’m also a little concerned, at this point, that this is a spam call. We can check in with Angela (the woman on the other end of the call) tomorrow, though, if we haven’t received the very suspicious bill that she has just sent via the email address that she didn’t have until the woman beside me gave it to her after not receiving the paper bill because they totally had the wrong address for her. 

Not my circus. Not my monkeys. I have enough on my plate with the spam-vulnerable person (genderless and nameless for privacy yo) who, at one point, tried to text their license plate number to someone who texted them that they were at risk of losing their Alabama license that they definitely don’t even have because they live in Pittsburgh. 

I hope all scammers have not just the day but the whole-ass life they deserve.

Battery ran out of juice and the only open charging space is being “saved” by someone. I could probably have been all “first come….” Instead, I’ve switched to the Starbucks. It’s very painful, as I strongly disagree with their labor practices. In an unsurprising karmic event, I immediately burned my tongue on my hot cocoa. Deserved. Also, I hate the music that they’re playing very loudly. The song right now is “You’re Dead.” Have I already said that I hate it? I really do. I can’t play music in my headphones loud enough to drown out their music without deafening myself. I definitely deserve this.

Much love.

Happy Hallowe’en. Now, Get Off My Lawn.

“It’s A Dangerous Business, Frodo….”

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This morning’s adventures started, just as Bilbo predicted, with the opening of my front door. Our house…this is all connected; just trust the process…faces east. As soon as the sun is above the houses, the front garden gets full sun for several hours. The neighbor’s cat knows this. See exhibit A. 

Exhibit A: A cat sleeps in the middle of a late fall garden, a spot of white in a world of deep browns, greens, and reds.

Without disturbing the cat, whose name I have never learned, I began my morning walk. I am sans puppos currently because we went on a slightly too-long walk on Friday (just 2.5 miles but you would have thought it was a trek to the other side of the moon for all the post-walk dramatic sighs and groans as they SLEPT). I’m going to take them for a half-miler tonight but they’re sleeping in this morning (SPOILED!). 

After leaving my own yard, I bumped into my next door neighbor who was waiting for me so he could ask me about the huge shipping crate that was left at our house on Thursday. (I bought a 55” Itchzak Tarkay painting.) See exhibit B. While we were talking, another neighbor arrived with his dog, Max, who sang for us. That’s not 100% accurate. He sang for treats from us. Details. Details. Max has met my dogs. He loves all dogs, except my dogs. He’s afraid of my dogs who combine excessive interest in personal space with excessive barking. Max likes neither of those things.

After adoring Max the appropriate amount, I wished both neighbors an excellent day and continued my stroll. It really is a beautiful day, sweater weather, as some would say. The leaves, mostly fallen at this point, are dry and crunchy under foot. The colors are still bright, almost glittering in the sun. 

Exhibit B: An empty wooden shipping crate on the sidewalk, open side facing the camera. With its pallet, the crate is 5’6″ in height.

About half a block down the street, there’s a house with an Audubon-certified bird garden. They also have bird feeders. This morning, Woody Woodpecker was visiting. See exhibit C. Woodpeckers are commonly heard in our neighborhood but generally difficult to spot. The feeder is, I acknowledge, cheating but I play the hand I was dealt.

Less than a quarter mile later, I saw one of the neighborhood beagles. This one is the friendlier of the two. I bent to receive his usual dirty paw marks on my knees and slurpy lick to my chin. He couldn’t stay, though. According to his owner, they were headed to the college campus to soothe stressed college students. The beagle enjoys this activity immensely. The neighbor says that the college students are equally eager for his visits (the beagle’s visits, the man is merely the petting conduit).

Eventually, I decided to get breakfast at the diner, which was surprisingly busy for a Monday after what, I learned, was a Steeler’s loss. I don’t watch television, including football, and was unaware of the loss until a grieving server informed me. I tried to cover my ignorance with a “Devastating loss” comment and he rounded on me. “Infuriating,” he snapped. So, maybe, next time, I should go with the safer and more honest, “Didn’t watch the game.” lol

Exhibit C: Don’t let the bird decor fool you. The woodpecker is in the center of the frame, eating from the feeder.

After walking off a surprisingly mediocre breakfast, I arrived here, at the coffee shop. When I got here, it was staffed by a single barista who was working capably under tremendous pressure, though she confessed to me that she was internally overwhelmed. Since the line was eight people deep and growing, she was far more composed than I would have been. And so I told her. 

A very attractive man, wearing an unnecessary camel overcoat and jeans, just entered the coffee shop with a young woman in what my mother would have called a car coat. It is pink and lovely. They stayed just long enough to determine they were in the wrong spot. They stood outside talking for several minutes before walking down the sidewalk back the way they’d come. Sometimes I wish I had the Weasleys’ Extendable Ears so I could feed the nebby girl who lives inside me. (Yes, jkr is horrible and less clever on further readings. I like the ears though.)

Behind me, two young women are working, their computers open on the table. They’re talking, too, though I haven’t been listening in–I know! It seems like I always listen. When they started whispering, though, my interest was peaked. I turned off my music, the better to hear them. Disappointment awaited. It was dull gossip, not even worth their effort to be quiet. I learned something though. The whisper is what drew my attention. If they’d have gossiped in their normal voices. I wouldn’t even have noticed. 

Oh, dear. Two young people are standing outside fighting. She’s facing me, bundled up like it’s -5F. For context, I walked here in jeans that are cuffed above the ankle because they’re too short, a short-sleeved shirt, and a cardy that is now on the back of my chair. He’s wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a backpack. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s mad. She’s sad. It’s a bad day (I’m stopping the rhyme here, before it becomes annoying), maybe for both of them, which, as I’m typing this, culminates in him shaking his head and turning to leave. She follows behind for a few steps, still talking. And scene. 

So much happens if you just sit and watch. A young man just left the shop with a coffee. His beanie and sweater match. There’s a smile on his face. Is he smiling about the interaction he had with the baristas? Enjoying a memory? Absorbing the light and sweetness of the day? I think that’s for the viewer to decide as they experience that story from their own seat.

Looking for something to listen to? Why not turn up Bill Withers, “Lovely Day?” It’s just right for this moment.

Much love.

“It’s A Dangerous Business, Frodo….”

Forgo the Filter: Say the Mean Part Aloud

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The weeks are busy, temperatures falling like the leaves. Gusty winds cause the trees to litter bright yellow and deep brown detritus on the sidewalk. As I’m watching, a dark red leaf is whipped into the street by the wind and smacks someone in the face. They start visibly and rub their cheek. Strange that a leaf can hurt like a word.

I’ve been helping a lot, recently, with a person who will remain anonymous (privacy, yo). They are losing life skills and sometimes boundaries. We went to breakfast recently and they asked me whether a specific individual was circumcised. That’s not even their most recent embarrassing question. I handled it like a champ, but not all of the people in hearing range were as comfortable. It was, you see, quite loudly asked. 

Things they said (in a NOT-a-whisper whisper) during our breakfast: Is that person a boy or a girl? There should be better portion control (as a very large person walks by). This bill is wrong (it wasn’t). I don’t like eggs (they ordered eggs). It makes me laugh but also it can be sooo awkward. A few weeks ago, I took them to the farmers market and they said, “I don’t like honey” to the beekeeper. It’s like social media. I’m caretaking the person who, if they could understand social media, would reply to your blueberry pie post with, “I don’t like pie.” Words that could, with a tiny bit of effort, reside only in their head fall out of their mouth like items falling out of an open backpack hanging off a jogger’s shoulders. 

Unfortunately for me, our relationship could be characterized–on my part–as obligatory. We aren’t friends and, prior to their cognitive decline, we weren’t even particularly friendly. They rely on me now. I help willingly, even though, some days, this person says things so smack-worthy that I have to take a deep breath before I reply. The problem(?) is that, although there is undoubtedly a world in which I could just walk away, I don’t live in it. My kids ask me sometimes why I continue to help. There are so many reasons but possibly the most important is that I won’t treat this person the way they treat everyone. I will, I am determined to, act toward this person the way I think I should act. I won’t be like them. I will look back on my own behavior knowing that I did the best I could, not the least that I was able, though, occasionally, I have told them that if they don’t knock it off they will be walking home.

In a strange coincidence, two people in my life are declining cognitively. Unkindly, the one for whom I would do anything lives two hours away. Because she has sundowner’s, it is kindest to visit before lunch. After lunch, as the day lengthens into evening, her fear and anxiety overcome her conditioning; she lashes out physically and verbally. So, yes, planning is involved in every visit. I leave the house early, grab an iced tea from the coffee shop, and get on the road with a downloaded audiobook before 8AM. When I can see Lake Erie gleaming deep gray on the horizon, I know I’m almost there. If traffic favored me, I’ll have time to get breakfast, most recently at The Original Breakfast Stop. No matter what, though, I have to go to Romolo’s and get not-my-Aunt G her peppermint patties. Her favorite treat used to be chocolate chip cookies but something she can’t explain changed her preference. 

There is a particular grief to watching the end of days for someone you’ve known your whole life. My not-my-Aunt Ginny is a core person for me. My earliest memories include her. In my youth, months sometimes passed when I didn’t see her, but she’s always been there, a weight-bearing pillar of my existence. We’re not related by blood but she’s as close as any who are. She calls me one of her two girls. She can’t reliably remember my name, but she remembers that. 

Often, on my visits, I’ll push her wheelchair around the facility so she can wave to everyone. In the past, she told me stories that conflated the residents with former boyfriends, neighbors, and her six siblings. The stories were good, sometimes racy, and probably partially true, though it’s impossible to know for certain. Everyone I could ask is gone. None of that matters, though. The connection is the important part. 

We’ve reached that place in dementia, though, where we spend most of our visits just sitting next to each other, holding hands. She struggles to find words now and to maintain a thought long enough to say a full sentence. Often, she’ll start to say something, search for a word from the garbled data in her brain, and trail off without realizing it. One of these days she’ll stop entirely. Hand-holding will be all that’s left, then, and it will still be all that matters. 

Much love.

Forgo the Filter: Say the Mean Part Aloud

Red Cardy For The Win

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It’s days after the Charlie Kirk murder and my daughter just went to see President Obama speak. I was nervous about her attending. We assert that we won’t be silenced by rhetoric demanding our silence but it’s another thing entirely to have one’s child in a place where political violence is a possibility, if not a likely event. 

I read an article recently that cautioned against suggesting that one “side” is violent but the other “side” is not. I understand the argument, though the data shows clearly that one “side” IS literally responsible for the vast majority of political violence. To suggest otherwise is a little disingenuous, isn’t it? It’s not that liberals are incapable of violence. Everyone can be pushed beyond rational into irrational behavior. Perhaps liberals are just generally more accepting of difference. 

Anyway, I was walking into Shadyside yesterday when I saw an elderly couple coming toward me. She was petite, with long white hair. He was tall, wearing a ball cap. He said something that made her laugh and then smile at him. She reached up and curled a lock of her hair between her fingers and I saw, just for a moment, the young woman she used to be.

Today, I am at a body shop. My car was sideswiped again, this time taking out only the driver side mirror. The actual mirror wasn’t damaged but the casing was cracked beyond repair. For several weeks now, my car has looked like an orange terminator as his facade was being torn away. 

The car is a manual transmission which, I know, is a rarity these days. When I have to surrender it, I always ask the young people taking the keys if they can drive a stick. I don’t have to ask anyone older than me because they, too, grew up with manual being the standard. Not long ago, I had to back my own car out of a big garage bay because the only worker who could drive a manual left early. When armageddon occurs, I’m golden, except that I won’t be able to get contacts or replacement glasses. That will suck.

Joel, owner of the body shop, just popped his head in to ask me if I can stay a little longer. He waved the new casing at me. It’s the wrong color. They’re going to have to paint it. He asked if I was okay with it being the wrong color. Friends. My car is ORANGE. Pumpkin orange. Not pumpkin spice orange. Not rust orange. Not peach. It’s ORANGE. Do I mind having a gray side mirror? Uh, YEAH. If I wanted a gray car, I’d have gotten a gray car. Honestly, I have moved through the world quietly, with little color in it for too many years. So, I’ll be staying at the body shop a wee bit longer than I’d planned.

Yesterday, I had the fright of my life, thankfully it lasted .02 seconds but I’ll be honest. My heart stuttered. I was walking up the sidewalk to my house, carrying one of our cats in a carrier. My 97 year old next door neighbor was walking down his steps. I may have mentioned that this man is the single nosiest human being to exist in this or the last century. Yes, I know. You think I’m exaggerating. Well, here’s my proof that I’m not: he was so busy rubbernecking what I was carrying that he forgot he was walking down his steps. He stepped forward and landed ON HIS FEET two full steps below where he’d just been standing. He Danny Kaye’d those steps like a boss. I’m kind of proud but also it’s a miracle that he didn’t break his hip. 

A brief public service announcement: someone has just joined me in the waiting room at the body shop. I briefly looked over as he sat down and got an actual eyeful of bare man butt. Do men 1) not care; 2) not notice; 3) not wear underwear? Now I’m afraid to look over there again, though I have a weird compulsion to keep checking whether he’s fixed the issue. But I’m not going to check because I don’t want to see anymore buttcrack.

If you live in the area, you might have heard about the four alarm fire in Squirrel Hill last week. I was with my son and completely unaware that there was a fire. Here’s me, all righteously indignant as that strong burn smell permeates the car, making me cough: “we’re in a drought. No one should be burning leaves right now.” My son looks at me like I’m crazy. “Mom, an apartment building is burning down two streets over.” OH. 

We headed to the waterfront and watched the dark, billowing smoke, the arcing jets of water from the firehouses. The building was a total loss but everyone got out safely. I drove by today, on my way to the body shop. It’s in the process of being demolished because part of the roof collapsed on the day of the fire. The smell of smoke still heavily permeates the air. The front wall is partially gone. The second floor reaches for the ground like Michael Jackson’s anti-gravity lean but with grief instead of beauty. People at the Levin Clubhouse down the street took the residents in that morning, gave them drinks, held them while they cried. I heard that the firefighters went into the engulfed building after pets and important papers, helping, risking their lives for others, as they always seem to.

Two weeks ago, my eldest and I were eating breakfast at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. Four firefighters, heavily muscled, their hair cut short, sat at a booth in front of us. The youngest was younger than my thirty year old son. The eldest was probably a few years older than me, grizzled, his bald head shining in the morning sun. We stopped at their table as we were leaving. They looked up from their seats and smiled at us as I thanked them for the work they do and wished them safe passage. We also bought their breakfast, which caused two of the men to blush. I’m rather disappointed that they don’t always eat for free. 

The current leader of the “Free Our Butt Cheeks” (FOBC) movement has addressed his body… no, no, um…has finished his business…hmm…has cracked the…not that…has wiped…. Wow. He’s not here. He’s gone. He sat in the only chair in the shade, which now has bare butt (bear butt?) (bare bear butt?) (bear bare butt?) on it so…I’m just going to roast in the sun. I have more cheeky jokes but(t) I’m going to grin and bare it instead. (No, I’m not)

I’m at the coffee shop now. I’m “supposed” to be waiting for a dishwasher delivery (not my dishwasher) but the wifi there isn’t sterling. Thus, with the hubris of a middle-aged white woman, I’m counting on my ability to arrive before the delivery truck when I get the warning call. Will I make it in time? We’ll see. Given that I am late for everything, even my liver surgery, I wouldn’t bet on me.

An older couple just crossed the street. They’re holding pinkies very casually, their hands swinging gently as they walk. My husband hated holding hands with the fire of a thousand suns. I was slightly taller and he complained that our height difference made hand-holding awkward. But I’ve always wanted to hold hands with my partner. I think I missed out, to be honest, but perhaps that’s just my desire for companionship.

An employee from the bakery across the street just tried to negotiate a pastry swap with the coffee shop, without success. I almost offered to participate but I don’t actually have any pastries so it would really just be me asking the bakery for free treats. That works for me but I don’t think he’d agree.

There’s an elderly lady sitting outside, on the opposite side of the big garage window from me. She has beautiful iron-gray hair and well-manicured nails that she is assiduously filing and has been since I arrived. In my life, I don’t think I’ve spent as much time on my fingers and toes, which may be why I just described her nails as well-manicured. 

Have you ever–even as a child–been hugged when you really didn’t want to be? Perhaps you didn’t know or didn’t like the hugger or maybe you just wanted to maintain your personal space, undisturbed. Once, I worked with a man who hugged and kissed all the women he worked with. He was in a position of power. Our options were limited unless we (by we, I mean women, obviously) were willing to be labeled “difficult to work with” by leadership. In a world where it was incredibly difficult to get ahead, being labeled difficult was tantamount to blacklisting. Thus, we kept silent. 

In my private life, I began addressing this imbalance, particularly with children whose voices are often less heard even than women’s. I was talking with someone today about that. She complained that her child relatives don’t like hugging her. I asked if she asked those children for permission and she told me that they have to hug her. She MAKES them. Hey, guess what?! I may have figured out the problem. Making anyone hug you is a violation of the very boundaries we try to teach children so they don’t have to put up with the creepy hugs (and kisses) we had to endure as children. And even as adults. So, just ask. And gracefully accept “no” if it’s given. You could even offer a high five, a fist bump, hand shake, wave, as options. When we teach children boundaries, those boundaries need to apply equally to us.

The men’s cross country team just ran by. I didn’t gawk at their young, fit, shirtless, tattooed beauty. I’m no creeper ogling young men my children’s age; but all of my young coffee shop neighbors did some very serious ogling. I watched the heads swivel from left to right as the runners passed in front of the window. Hehe 

My computer ran out of juice. I have moved to a squishy chair beside an outlet. There are two people sitting on the sofa next to me, chatting about things that mean nothing to me. Since I’m supposed to be working, I’m trying really hard not to let their conversation distract me. Nonetheless, occasionally, the man laughs aloud and I wish you could hear it. It’s delightful, a deep belly laugh that makes the listener want to share his mirth. 

The work day is NOT over. I have an article to finish and I cannot sleep until it’s done, which is why I’m now finishing this blog…wait. 

Anyway, before heading home, I walked across the street to our favorite pizza place to order take out and then sat on the bench outside to wait (and to continue working on my article). I was there for about 10 minutes when a young man and his date, a young Asian woman (we’ll call her cute shirt because she was wearing a cute shirt), left the pizza place with cups of gelato. They passed me on my bench just as a scream issued from across the street. Naturally, I turned toward the sound and discovered another young Asian woman (we’ll call her red cardy because she was wearing a red cardigan) watching the white dude and cute shirt approach. Red cardy screamed, “WTF? Another Asian girl?” Her use of vocal emphasis was perfection, by the way.

The white man ignored her, walked by with cute shirt. Honestly, a rather bold move, I thought. Red cardy followed them, yelling. Sadly, I could not hear her exact words, though I suspect them of being quite righteous. Certainly they were fueled by rage. He stopped and turned around.

Cute shirt is now the third point of their triangle, looking uncomfortably between the two. She has stopped eating her gelato. As appearances go, she’s well-placed, standing equidistant. Better not to choose sides or make alliances until all the facts are out. The conversation, muted now, continues for several minutes. Cute shirt turns to red cardy who is preparing to walk away. Red cardy says something to cute shirt who nods agreement. Alliances have formed. I suspect that the young man, who appears to have been dating two Asian women, is now dating zero Asian women. 

And now, I promise you, I am returning to my article so my poor editor doesn’t feel compelled to kill me, even though I definitely deserve it. 

Much love.

Red Cardy For The Win

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