loss

The Bennet Daughters

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I rehomed a wolf spider yesterday but I missed her this morning. She’s been getting herself trapped in the bathtub every day for almost a week. 

Every morning, before my shower, I rescued her and put her on the bathroom floor so she could find a good spot to build her web, safe while the bathroom door is closed. My house is a dangerous place for spiders. I have two cats and three dogs, and four of those five creatures like to eat spiders. 

My kitchen already supports two wolf spiders – Jane and Elizabeth. They catch the flies that occasionally get in when the dogs leave the screen ‘door’ open. It’s a hanging screen, split down the middle, that closes with magnets. Sometimes the dogs push through the screen too enthusiastically and the magnets attach themselves to the door latch. It’s like a big, flashing WELCOME sign to all the neighborhood flies. 

Jane and Elizabeth are very efficient and enthusiastic housekeepers. Sometimes I have to explain them. People think cobwebs mean I don’t clean my house (it’s definitely not my strongest skill but I do clean … occasionally). I like to think that the cobwebs are a sign that I support the broader community of beings who live in my house – except flies and mosquitoes. I am an unwilling fly and mosquito landlord. 

When I first discovered Lydia in the tub, I had already turned on the shower. She was clinging to the no-slip mat, already soaked and terrified. (Do spiders get terrified? I can’t think about that. I’ll start having nightmares about frightened spiders running away from my murderous cats.) 

I didn’t name her that first day. I put a towel down in the tub so she could climb up and out, onto the floor. Usually after that initial rescue, they don’t return. The basement, where this bathroom is located, is a spider wonderland. They’re great residents, controlling the inevitable population of pill bugs and other damp-loving bugs. It’s a Pittsburgh basement, what can I say?

On day two, being a thoughtful landlord, I checked the tub first. With no wolf spider in residence, I turned on the water. It wasn’t until the rinse cycle of my shower that I realized there was a wolf spider very reluctantly taking a shower with me. She was on the wet lid of the facewash, getting splashed every time I turned to rinse some other part of my soapy self. Poor baby.

I turned off the water, put her on the bathroom floor, and named her Lydia. Technically, her name should be Kitty but this spider is clearly a Lydia – always acting without thinking, getting herself into situations, and charming people into doing things for her. 

Mary is a house spider. She lives next to the bathroom door hinge and manages the tiny bug population for me. She’s kind of a loner. We don’t really interact. In fact, she hides whenever I clean the bathroom. I know she’s there because of the little carcases she leaves for me to sweep up.

Finally, when I found Lydia in the tub again yesterday, for the fifth time, I picked her up and took her into the unfinished portion of the basement. She’ll be fine there, well-fed and productive. 

Like I said, though, I looked for her this morning, knowing she wouldn’t be there. She put a smile on my face every morning for five days, a gift really. Thank you, Lydia; take care of yourself. Stay away from the cats. 

The Bennet Daughters

Gothic Poems?

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There’s a lot of poetry floating around in my head (mostly the kind that one would submit to Okay Donkey or Sad Goose Coop – corny, weird stuff – you know the type) but I’m busy, too busy to focus on poetry at the moment. That isn’t, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, preventing me from writing the blog entry. I’m busy but still procrastinating of course. 

It’s been more than a month since I last chatted with you. Hey! How are you? How was your July? Mine? Oh my gosh. Thanks for asking. Crazy. It was crazy. I hardly had a moment to sit and contemplate. I’m not even sure what I’d be contemplating but that’s the point of contemplation, isn’t it?

I’m so close to being finished with the latest novel. It’s like when you see an image in the distance and watch it form gradually as you draw closer. I know what’s going to happen and I know how it’s going to happen. Now, it’s just a matter of putting the final few thousand words on the screen. Sometimes, that’s the hardest part. It’s so easy to start writing but what if I can’t finish it? What if I can’t write the ending that I envision? The first 60,000 words roll off the fingers but the last 10,000 arrive one letter at a time.

I’ve been thinking a bit about grief lately. More than usual? Probably not but perhaps with more awareness. This month would have been my 30th wedding anniversary. I know I’ve mentioned before that we never really cared about marking particular days and even missed our actual anniversary date more than once. But now that there’s nothing to mark, I’m more aware of the date approaching. 

This has made me consider the changing face of grief. I’ve seen a bit, in my half century (plus). Life and therapy have encouraged me to understand my own grief and trauma, without comparing it to others, without why me-ing. But there are times when I feel the weight of it more. 

Trust me when I say that is NOT a plea for sympathy. 

As most grieving and traumatized individuals would tell you, after the initial event, we don’t really want people to sympathize. Learning to sit with – acknowledge, if you will – our experiences, talk about them, accept them, is part of the process of changing. 

It’s not like emerging from a chrysalis. I’m pretty sure no butterfly has ever thought, “if only.” It’s more like becoming fluent in a language. Initially, there’s a lot of struggle, trying to figure things out. Then, as we become more experienced, we recognize what things mean but we can’t always communicate. Over time, we get more fluent, but we still forget and still communicate poorly on occasion. 

The changes we experience are things that no one who hasn’t gone through it could anticipate. Unless you’ve lost your partner, you probably won’t understand those days where partnered people seem to surround you. While we were driving home from treatment one time, Ken pointed out all the old people we passed. There were so many. His unspoken message was clear:  why won’t I grow old but all these other people have? 

As his end was approaching, I was looking at my future. He saw a lot of people who had already achieved an age he never would. I saw so many silver-haired single women, sitting in groups at the coffee shop, alone together. 

Colin Hay’s song “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You” captures the experience particularly well (which shouldn’t be surprising because this is a man who knows grief). “I still find pieces of your presence here” is exactly what my life is like. 

It’s not just that sometimes I open a drawer and find something that I can picture being held in Ken’s narrow, long-fingered hands. That definitely happens but sometimes it just makes me laugh, like when I stumble across the yellow, banana-shaped, banana slicer – I think I told the banana slicer story in an earlier post.

It’s also that I am as likely to find pieces of his presence in a moment, a memory, an image from a movie, or even in words that I write. His presence is inside me, not captured in an object or a place. That’s lovely and difficult, not something for sympathy so much as understanding. 

Anyway, because you now think I cry myself to sleep every night – what an exhausting thing that would be – I’ll point back to Hay’s song – “I don’t want you thinking that I don’t get asked to dinner.” 

Yeah, that’s not a weird announcement that I’m dating. No thanks. But I am living joyfully because I should. Otherwise, what’s the point? A slog of sorrow and a lonely death? Not for me, though I do think ‘A Slog of Sorrow’ would be a delightful gothic poem or maybe an Irish drinking song. 

And on that note, it’s time to wrap this up. I’m going to breakfast with friends this morning. What are you up to today? 

Much love.

Gothic Poems?

BTW: I Didn’t Get Arrested

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When I visited my not-my-Aunt G last week, she asked me if there were any sexy bits in the book I’m writing. Not-my-Aunt G is (was?) my mom’s best friend. They worked together as accounting clerks about a million years ago when they were 20ish and remained very close for the rest of my mom’s life. In fact, not-my-Aunt G married my father’s best friend. Their little group was tight. 

Anyway, not-my-Aunt G used to add scare quotes around the word aunt when she sent me birthday cards, possibly because we aren’t related but, in my opinion, more likely because she was terrifying. 

She’s still terrifying at almost 89 years old but also funny in a way I didn’t notice when I was a child. I laughed when she asked about the sexy bits but she really wanted to know so we talked about what I was writing. In case you are interested, the bits aren’t as sexy as she was hoping. And I can’t decide if I feel insulted but I probably should.

She’s been a widow for 25 years. Her husband died about 3 weeks before my mother. Can you imagine – though who would want to – the grief she must have felt losing her husband and her best friend within a month’s time? 

After my husband died, I asked her for advice on how to keep going but she didn’t really have any to offer. Apparently, in her mind, it wasn’t a feat to survive for more than two decades alone. Somehow, she just did it and didn’t seem to think it was worth remarking on. 

That was actually more helpful than she probably realized. When Ken first died, I felt like a newborn, not in a Star Trek III: The Search for Spock way. More like an “oh my god, I have no idea how to even feed myself” kind of way. Not-my-Aunt G just acted like it would all sort of work out if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. And as with many other things, she was right. She did it. Probably, I could too.

So, anyway, when we got done talking about my novel writing, she asked me if I thought I’d ever marry again. I told her what I usually say to people who ask that. Well, actually, I usually just laugh and ignore them because … you know, people should mind their own damn business. 

But one doesn’t ignore one’s not-my-aunt. So I told her that I probably won’t ever marry again. And she nodded. “You find out, after a while, that you don’t actually need men for anything.” AND THEN SHE SMILED. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the smile that says “Yes, I do know what I just suggested to you and yes, I meant to suggest that.” Seriously, she might as well have winked lasciviously. 

My sister was there. She can attest to the truth of this. 

It made me laugh. Honestly, I’m still laughing about it. When I told one of my kids, he was horrified and told me to stop speaking immediately. And after I got done laughing again, I began to wonder what else not-my-Aunt G has said over the years that I just missed or blocked out because I was too young to appreciate it. 

I wonder too what my mom would have said if she’d been with us for the conversation. Mom was very … reserved is probably the best description. I believe she and I only talked about sex once, when she mentioned that my father was … hmmm. Well, let’s just say that it wasn’t a flattering comment and that I flatlined immediately after she said it so I don’t remember much of the conversation. 

But I’ve always loved the idea of “happily ever afters,” even though I didn’t have one. Right now, I’m reading an ARC about a woman who didn’t realize her college crush was also crushing on her. I’m having a hard time relating. Honestly I didn’t really have time to date in college. I had a work-study job (at the counseling center) and a full-time job (server at a country club), plus school, all of which pretty much consumed my time.

So, I didn’t really have college crushes. However, I did, weirdly, have a guy 20 years my senior proposition me on the day we graduated. We had lots of classes together – same major, you know – but I barely knew him. His offer, in my mind anyway, came out of nowhere. His last words to me, which I still remember all these years later:  “Does this mean we’ll never see each other again?” 

So far, the answer to his question has remained, “Correct.” And I hope it stays that way. I really, really hope I don’t ever see him again. In fact, Mike, if you’re reading this blog and wondering if we should reconnect:  No. We shouldn’t. We didn’t know each other in college and nothing has changed. Regardless of age difference, one should not proposition people.

That doesn’t mean, though, that I will discount the possibility that OTHER people HAD and missed out on connecting with college crushes. I’m assuming that the trope of college romance revitalization is based on real life. 

Obviously, it was not based on MY life. My strongest memory of college is actually the terrifying stress dreams I occasionally still have – you know, the dreams in which I miss the entire semester of class but go to the final exam. (Shouldn’t I just skip the final too? I mean, there’s no hope of passing, right? In these dreams, I apparently never even buy the textbook. But that’s the horrifying drama of dreams for you.)

Every time I visit not-my-Aunt G, she reminds me how terrible it is to be old and alone. Although she and not-my-Uncle George never had children, they were blessed with a large extended family who take remarkable care of not-my-Aunt G, visiting regularly, taking her to church and to the grocery store. Nonetheless, she’s gone to bed alone for more than 25 years now. And though she might not want me to remarry, she doesn’t want either of us to be alone. 

I don’t think there’s a readily available solution to alone-ness when I become elderly. Therefore, I have made the decision to move in with each of my children for a third of the year. They don’t know this yet so let’s make the agreement to keep it a secret until I show up at one of their houses.

When one child gets tired of my shenanigans, I’ll move in with the next one. We can rotate year around and the kids will bond over how horrible it is to house mom for 4 months of the year. I’ll promise to behave but at this point, I don’t see much likelihood of changing my core personality so I will probably still whistle off-key, sing (repeatedly) sections of song lyrics, adopt more animals than I should, and promise to clean without following through. 

The good news is that they all love me at least half as much as I love them (which is an infinite amount). And that’s close to how much I love my not-my-Aunt G, even when she’s in a grumpy mood and tells me to leave the butterfly cookie I brought her from Prantl’s Bakery on her stoop and hit the road because she’s not in the mood and isn’t opening the door.

Here’s to you, not-my-Aunt G, for teaching me that it is possible, probable, and entirely necessary to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when you don’t want your butterfly cookie. (She did open the door for the homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie.)

Much love.

BTW: I Didn’t Get Arrested

The Bookworm

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Yesterday evening, after a terrible, no-good, very bad day, I watched Summerland and if that wasn’t emotional enough, I followed it up with the final episode of The Good Place. Chidi describing a wave … friends, I sobbed. And swore off Netflix for the rest of the night.

Tonight, two of my kids are at the Greek food festival with their friends and I’m watching The Lake House while I have dinner. Great movie – so much pining. But I should probably watch something light after this, like Toy Story 3 or Up.  

Anyway, today, I have a story to tell. A friend posted a meme on Facebook about shopping for books with a bookworm and it reminded me of a shopping trip with my MIL.

Many years ago, during the 90s era of the book desert, a Borders moved into the South Hills of Pittsburgh. The store was a new concept for us – a cafe, big comfy chairs, two stories! It was magnificent and we loved it. 

Ken – who was a bookworm’s bookworm – convinced his mom to go there with us. He knew how much she loved books and thought she’d really enjoy the luxury of a bookworm’s bookstore.

She did not. 

We were at least an hour into this particular visit, each of us lost in our pile of books, when she found me and said, “I’m ready to leave.” Now, it’s important to note that my MIL and I got along very well but … nonetheless … this was my MIL talking. So, of course, I said we’d wrap it up and get going. 

I hadn’t counted on Ken, though, when I promised we’d leave. I’m not sure how long he would have been there, ultimately, but after ANOTHER 45 minutes, Margaret said that she was going to the car, the locked car. And she did. She stood at the locked car, waiting, while I dragged Ken to the exit. 

When we finally got to the car, I expected fireworks, a battle scene out of Lord of the Rings. Nothing like that happened. Ken unlocked the car. Margaret got in. That was that. 

But there was no question who had won.

He didn’t take her to any more bookstores but over time he and I spent so many hours at various bookstores throughout the city. Nowadays, you are just as likely to find me and the kids in used bookstores. We seek them out on vacations too, especially the hole-in-the-wall kind. 

One time, on a trip to Kentucky, we spent most of a rainy afternoon at a dusty old bookstore that was full of lovely out-of-print treasures. The owner snoozed in a big comfy chair while we wandered through the store. And then when we took our books to the front, we had to wake him and he made us pay in cash because he couldn’t get the credit card machine to work. Since we were the only customers, I don’t think he tried very hard. And we didn’t mind.

The Bookworm

Five Years

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It’s five years last Sunday. Five. Every year, as the anniversary of Ken’s death approaches, I vow to have a normal day. If success is measured by survival, every year I have succeeded but if it’s measured in tears? Well, that’s a different story, isn’t it?

BUT … a couple months ago, I saw a billboard announcing that Colin Hay would be doing a show in Pittsburgh on March 30th and something about that just felt right. So, I bought myself a single – five rows back from the stage! – and went to see him last night. 

The show was at the famous Carnegie Music Hall in Homestead. It only seats about 1,000 people and the acoustics are wonderful. Maybe 8 years ago, Ken and I went there with friends to see Joe Jackson – probably the last performance Ken saw live actually. And Joe was wonderful, of course. Older than I expected but then again so am I.

The same is true of Colin Hay. If you look closely, you can see the 80s music icon in the grizzled older man. He’s funny and surprisingly Scottish for a man who has spent more years away from his birthplace than in it. 

According to Colin, most of the world is unfamiliar with his music post-Men At Work. When he mentioned a particular album and the audience cheered, he joked to us that everyone who had bought the album was apparently in the audience last night. Personally, I think his newer stuff is better than his last Men At Work album, more thoughtful, less glory-seeking.

I wasn’t expecting him to talk about grief and loss but discovered last night that most of his music is rooted in his childhood and his grieving. Dour Scot, right?! But it resonated with an audience of mostly graying fans. He told a story about carrying the ashes of his parents and his sister around with him for years and as someone who has two sets of ashes in my house right now, I totally feel that. 

And eventually he sang “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You” – a song I happen to know very well – and I cried and missed Ken so much. Why couldn’t I be seated next to him instead of the overly chatty stranger (poor man just didn’t know what to do about the grieving woman next to him). Awkward but it was dark and I’ll never see him again.  

I am equally glad that I won’t see the very amorous couple who was seated to my left. Talk about inappropriately Barry White-ing a performance … though it does make me wonder if Barry White ever had any problems with his audience. If only I’d gotten my concert neighbors’ names.

Colin Hay got a standing ovation at the end – after he finished his callback song. It was lovely. He kept bowing and putting his hand on his heart and smiling so wide, even though it was obvious how tired he was. Finally he gestured that he was leaving, but the audience kept applauding until the venue brought up the house lights. 

Much love.

Five Years

Sweet and Salty Girl

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Salty sits in judgment on her favorite window seat.

My beloved Salty – queen of cats – has, at the age of 19(ish), crossed the rainbow bridge. This post is an homage to the best and most difficult cat I have ever known. 

Salty was a striking Abyssinian, with the characteristic long legs, small face, and big ears. Christened Jessica and later given a name that better suited her personality, she was a gift from my husband to his mom; but honestly, cat and human struggled to find balance. My MIL was a cat lover but Abys are a difficult breed. They make aloof cats seem like your best friend. They make angry cats seem neighborly. They make smart cats seem like doddards. It’s impossible to keep up with their deviousness.

Even in sleep, those claws are ready.

Mom-in-law used to complain that Salty would wake her up (in a non-snuggly way), knock over her treasures, and steal her food. All of these complaints are true. I have both witnessed and experienced Salty’s diabolical pleasure in disruption, destruction, and theft.

One of her favorite activities – until we finally grew wise(r) to her antics – was to steal our socks, gloves, yarn projects (and other items as we started learning to hide things). She would chew on these items until she had damaged them just enough to make them unusable. For example, Salty would chew a hole in one finger of a single glove or bite through the elastic at the top of a sock. 

Usually, she struck in the middle of the night and would leave the evidence for me to find as my day started. Sometimes, she’d leave her sock or glove “kill” in the shared cat food bowl. If you know anything about cats, you know how remarkably finicky they are. A sock in the food bowl is an absolute cat-astrophy. (Couldn’t help myself. Sorry! Or am I?) Our other two cats would stare at the food bowl and meow for assistance, refusing to eat until the carcass had been removed. 

Salty was well-known throughout the neighborhood. Although she was ultimately an indoor cat, when she and my MIL first moved in with us, she worked deviously at finding ways to leave the house and once free would return only on her terms. She had a chip and collar but never got lost (until her recent walkabout). Usually, she’d visit the nearby college campus and scam food from lonely freshmen. 

How, you ask, do I know that she scammed food from college students? Well, Salty had a … quirk. She was our security cat. Whenever we went for a walk, usually daily during nice weather, she would follow us, walking about 10 or 12 feet behind us. We knew she was there. She knew that we knew she was there. This was all deliberate. She intentionally went with us on our walks. 

When we walked on campus, students would point out that there was a cat following us and would say things like “hey, that’s the cat I gave chicken to yesterday.” And we’d explain that Salty was our security detail. Everyone thought it was super funny and our sweet girl stayed slim and healthy so we never told the students to stop giving her snacks. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. Salty could scam anyone out of chicken.

Eight or nine years ago, she stopped leaving home. Instead of regularly slipping out the front door or leaping over the 7-foot fence, she started preferring to sit in the sun in our backyard. Eventually, she even got pretty snuggly, though never in a polite way. 

As with everything else, she’d put herself where she wanted to be. If she wanted to be on my lap, my choices were to accept gracefully or continually put her on the floor until one of us gave up. (It was usually me. She could wear down a diamond.) 

I hope that I’ve learned a few things from her: persistence, assertiveness, defiance of convention, how to relax on a summer day. I hope too that wherever my sweet and Salty girl has gone, that there’s a spot of sun on a warm wooden deck where she can snooze. 

Good-bye, little Salty. I will miss you forever.  

Sweet and Salty Girl

Do You Want The Recipe?

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My daughter has a friend – possibly the nicest, sweetest person you could hope your daughter would be friends with – who, years ago, would offer to cookie-taste whenever she came to our house. To be honest, I was not baking much back then, though I sometimes had a small batch of chocolate chip cookies or the occasional pan of brownies. 

But she spurred a ritual for me. I started baking more so that, whenever she was coming over, I would have something there for her to try. Peanut Butter Blossoms. Buckeyes. Shortbread. Oatmeal Scotchies. Fast Fixin’ Cake. Nothing outrageous but her interest made me want to try.

My daughter got into it and would start telling me as soon as she knew that her friend was stopping by so that I could make something. I also started freezing cookies for her and would give my daughter treats to take to the friend’s house. (Last weekend it was Nonna’s Cookies with citrus glaze and a batch of vanilla meringue cookies.)

At some point, I realized that I wasn’t just doing it for this wonderful friend. I was baking again for my community, sharing treats with the next door neighbor, taking treats to our friends at the local diner. 

Maybe Ken’s illness is to blame. He stopped liking food and sometimes even hated the smell of food which drove me to be more of a cooking minimalist. I’d make whatever sounded good to him, no matter how weird. And often the rest of us would make do with sandwiches or a bowl of cereal for dinner.

Jello? He got it, in every flavor. Sliced avocados with hummus. I’d go to the store and buy out the hummus flavors he liked. Some weird dish a friend at work mentioned. I made that, too. Most of the time he’d take a few bites and then reject it. It was frustrating to see him struggle and watch his weight drop. I collaborated with the oncology staff to find foods that would taste okay. We tried every nutrition shake on the market. I made smoothies, milkshakes, puddings, anything and everything.

But that didn’t leave a lot of emotional energy or time for creative meals for the rest of us and so, gradually, I stopped baking, except for holidays. Even then, we didn’t have any celebrations or real togetherness because he was just too sick. And frankly, when you’re watching someone dying, it’s hard to live.

And here’s where I type the pithy lesson. But I don’t really have one. Gradually, with Haley’s and her friend’s encouragement I’ve regained my enthusiasm for baking. I’ve tried so many new recipes – some complete failures, some in regular rotation now. And even though I’m struggling to like gluten free flour, I tried a new recipe today that I think might be fantastic gluten free. 

Yesterday, I picked up my mom’s 1950s Good Housekeeping cookbook and looked for cookie recipes specifically with her handwritten notes in the margins. When I touch those margin notes, knowing that she wrote them for herself, probably long before I was born, I feel that continuity, that connectedness, like handing down the family recipe to the next generation as you stand in the kitchen, teaching them how to make it. 

So, anyway, I owe more than a cookie’s debt of gratitude to Haley and her friend. Maybe I would have picked the baking back up again at some point but Haley’s friend encouraged me, probably without knowing it. And my daughter embraced my weird enthusiasm, as I started pushing cookies into the hands of every individual who visited our house.

Haley’s friend reads this blog sometimes  … Yes, darling girl, it’s you. Duh. … so, thank you. 

Next time, I’ll share some cookie recipes. Today’s baking exploration was Corn Cookies which I saw in a cooking TikTok from @bdylanhollis. It ended up being a lovely cookie and I’m going to try making it gluten free. But first Haley’s friend has to try it.

Much love.

Do You Want The Recipe?

HONK

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I did not find the gratitude I was searching for last week. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to read that, Hallmark-movie-like, I awoke on Thanksgiving morning with a full resilience bucket and an abundance of … thankfulness?

Ah, to be so blithely happy. To find joy in the simple pleasure of feeding my family. 

It’s not so easy as all that. For anyone, if we’re being honest. 

I do find joy in putting a well-executed meal on the table, particularly on a nicely set holiday table. And our day together was lovely. A few bumps occurred, as expected … in particular the meringue crust for the chocolate cream pie but that edifying story will have to wait for my bitterness to fade to a mild astringency. Suffice to say, the meringue did things meringue is not supposed to do, namely expand during cooking to fit all the available space, and I do mean all.

As anyone who cooks with egg whites knows, meringue does not expand, does not spread, does not change its shape during cooking. In fact, it simply hardens, creates a lovely, crisp, outer crust, a shell if you will, that gives way to a chewy, flavorful center. The great thing about meringue is that it is as consistent as Greenwich Mean Time. Usually.

ANYWAY … since I’m clearly not over the meringue crust, we’ll be moving on now.

The thing about grief — which shows up as weariness, anger, lachrymosity, sometimes simply the absence of gratitude — is that it’s not linear. It’s not predictable. It’s not rational. It’s an emotional game of pinball. 

Sometimes, you sit in a kickout hole, racking up points while the chimes ring out your success. Sometimes, you bobble a popper and …. drain. It doesn’t matter how well you play, how much experience you have, this is the game and you get the lane that the plunger sends you to. Period. 

For those of you asking, yes, actually, I did play a lot of pinball when I was a younger version of myself. Now, I mostly play open world video games or tabletop RPG like DnD or Pathfinder. In video games, I’m the character who meanders all over the map, doing all the side quests, finding all the treasure chests, while the NPCs beg me to do the boss battle and save their villages. 

“Hurry, Thimul.” (that’s my current character’s name). “Our village needs you.” Yeah, yeah. But first, I need to find out who stole Remi’s chickens. Oh, and I need to return Froki’s bow. And I still haven’t figured out who is selling skooma in Riften. Your villages will be fine. I’ll get around to that boss battle … eventually.

When I play tabletop RPG, I am that player, the one who is a little too into her role. GooseGoose, my current Pathfinder character, is a goose bard. Yes, you read that correctly. I play a talking goose who travels from town to town singing for money. And yes, I do sing all the time in the game — as I do in real life, to the abiding chagrin of my youngest. (MOM. You’re singing “Elmo’s World” again.) 

Also, yes, in game, I honk a lot. It’s something I’m less inclined toward in the real world though, which honestly is disappointing. I’d like to be the person who walks through Target occasionally issuing a gentle honk but it would feel performative so I just don’t do it generally. 

Wow. How did we get on this topic?  I remember. I was avoiding talking about grief. Oh no. And now we’re out of time. We’ll have to postpone the grief talk to my next post.

If you have an Audible membership, consider listening to Tim Curry’s narration of A Christmas Carol. I listened to it while prepping the Thanksgiving meal and it’s honestly quite delightful.

Much love.

HONK

ISO: Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

ISO: Gratitude

29 Years on the 29th

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 4 Comments

In honor of the day, here’s an update of a post I wrote in 2017 …

Twenty-nine years ago today, a young couple woke up early, full of hope, excitement, nerves, ready to publicly commit to spending their lives together. First, though, they really needed to practice that wedding dance one more time.

Months before, she had borrowed one of those wedding music compilation CDs. He rejected song after song and she began to despair that they would ever find the one. He had an idea though, a less traditional choice; and according to his way, he took the time to plan the unveiling. 

On the day, after a week of annoyances at work and life, they sat at their tiny table, empty dinner plates pushed to the side, and talked about their stressful week. “I have something to play for you,” he said, casually, as was his way. His preparations already made, he pulled her gently to the sofa. “Listen,” he said. And as the music began, she laughed. It was The Song. Finally, they could take the next step: learning to foxtrot.

They made extensive preparations. First, they signed up for a ballroom dancing class. She didn’t mind it but he disliked the instructor, who suffered greatly from smugness. Instead, they joined an amateur ballroom dance group associated with the university they had attended. That was pretty good but they wanted more individual attention. He advertised on campus for a dance teacher. A young man contacted them, volunteering to teach them for free because he loved to dance and wanted them to love it, too. 

Their teacher was kind and warm, gently guiding, teasing when they got frustrated, laughing with them when they stepped on each others’ toes. The couple practiced every day and met with their teacher once a week for two months, learning quickly and growing in confidence throughout the summer. 

As late August, and the wedding date, approached, the groom became more and more nervous. He wasn’t anxious about getting married. The couple loved each other deeply and were confident in their relationship. The groom was worried about the wedding dance. He knew there would be pictures and video capturing that moment. Even worse, though, the bride’s father, who loved to dance but didn’t much care for the groom, would be watching, judging every step. 

The wedding day eventually arrived and they dressed for one last early morning practice session. In their empty garage/practice studio, the groom turned on the portable CD player with the tinny speakers and held out his arms. Had this been a Hollywood movie, she would have floated into them and they would have sung beautifully together while spinning and dipping gracefully.

Those stories aren’t real, though, and this tale is. So, that final practice went poorly and the nervous young lovers had a pre-wedding spat. She left to meet her bridesmaids at the hair stylist. He went back into their apartment to get ready.

They met up again at the church, their fight forgotten, and pledged their love in front of family and dear friends. After pictures and a tossed bouquet, the wedding party and guests traveled to the reception, where the bride and groom danced — beautifully or not. Only they really cared.

Thinking about you, my darling husband, and that wonderful, ridiculous dance. 

Since we always assumed that we’d both still be here, I’m sure I never said it; but I hope you know, wherever you are, that I will, in fact, still need you, when I’m 64. 

Happy Anniversary, my dear.

29 Years on the 29th