nature

Valor and Vulnerability

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

The angry part of me wants to point out how much it has cost the US to attack another country– in lives, property, and whatever remained of our international standing. At least we got what we went in there for, right? Wait…what did we gain, again? I’m unclear about the purpose and result, even ignoring, just for the moment, that Iran is proposing to charge $2 million per ship to travel the Strait. (And what price does one put on dead school children?) 

On the other hand, on this blue-sky day, it is remarkably satisfying to acknowledge that there are few living people in the entire world who are more hated than our current president. If he had the capacity to understand, his narcissistic self would be devastated. No matter how awful a person might be to their partner, child, barista, server, contractor, employee, boss, they will likely never achieve the degree of hatred that Trump has. If he hadn’t become president, he’d just be a foolish, elderly man who people mostly didn’t know or care about. And the world would be significantly better off. 

There are four astronauts traveling through the vastness of space on their return trip to Earth. While we celebrate the success of their mission, I suspect that they are sad to return home. I read somewhere that having once gone into space, every astronaut would go back again. Although I’ve never had such a calling, and indeed have terrible motion sickness, I watch the videos of those joyful scientists and feel what must be merely a glimmer of the wonder they’re experiencing.

Imagine being so morally unhealthy that you can’t appreciate the vastness of our universe and our tiny place in it, that you can’t look at the work of our astronauts and all of NASA with the awe and excitement they deserve, that you haven’t the capacity to wonder at four people achieving what no one has ever done before. If he weren’t a terrible person who has done irreversible harm to humanity, I might feel a little sorry for him. But he is terrible and thus deserves only the amount of sympathy he is capable of feeling, which is none. 

As I look out the coffee shop window, watching people wander the sidewalks–some in matching jackets, some in clothes that scream “I didn’t check my weather app this morning,” I am making the choice to honor our astronauts and ignore the fool building a ballroom as Rome is burning.

Very shortly, I will visit DF (dementia friend), who will tell me about their day, ask about mine, and then retain nothing of the conversation. When you experience this, I must counsel you, it is a lot like working at Disney–no matter how many times you are asked the same question, you cannot ever get mad. The person asking doesn’t know the answer. That’s why they’re asking. 

For me, there’s a challenge in finding new ways to answer that still get the message across–it’s like the verbal version of a writing challenge: how many different ways can you say the same thing? I have found that, in fact, there are many and varied ways to tell DF that my day is busy, that the children are fine, that I’m hungry and don’t care where we eat, that I will explain whatever it is that DF can’t remember or understand or figure out. They never recall the answer but their brain, which can’t hold new information, needs the reassurance. 

Yesterday, it was supervising the task of writing a check for the new handrails on DF’s front steps. To protect everyone involved, I told the contractor that absolutely no financial transactions are to occur without me present. DF can’t remember the agreed-to price or how much upfront money we gave the contractor. I feel a little sick when I think about how vulnerable that makes them. I trust the contractor or else we wouldn’t be working with him. Nonetheless, I often get the kind of anxiety one might feel if they left a toddler next to a pan of boiling water. 

The peace of my coffee shop experience has been disrupted by a man. Isn’t that always the case?! Hehe Just joking. Well, not exactly. There’s a contractor repairing the sidewalk across the street. He is grinding down something and then using a leaf blower to clear out the dust, releasing clouds of white, gritty dirt into the air. The coffee shop window is closed but the dust has begun its insidious infiltration. 

“Chuck E’s In Love” is playing in my airpods right now. I love the twist ending, jealousy to joy. So great. 

You’re going to be shocked but there’s a very attractive older man currently proclaiming that 9/11 was an inside job. He “knows a little about implosions” and he’s pretty confident that the buildings were blown up just before the planes crashed into them. Sigh. Imma leave the coffee shop for the day. 

Much love.

Valor and Vulnerability

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Francis Nowalk’s here in Pittsburgh is closing its doors after more than 75 years. Frank, as he was called, worked in the store he built until Covid brought him literally to his knees in 2023. After he passed away last year, his children and grandchildren began the process of closing up the famous business, finally reaching the stage of selling off the lighting solutions and the brick-and-mortar multi-story showroom and warehouse. https://pittsburghquarterly.com/articles/a-pittsburgh-treasure/  

Since we’ve been looking for period-appropriate sconces to replace the modern lighting in our very Victorian house, we raced to their sale and what a delight it was. We were even lucky enough to get one of his handmade pieces (not even realizing he’d made it until one of the sons told us its provenance). I can’t begin to tell you how dirty we got, digging through boxes of bips and bops. I haven’t had so much fun spending money in a long time. 

There was something very bittersweet about having his children, all around my age, reminiscing about various pieces as they were sold. “Wasn’t this in the house at one point?” one sister would ask and another would agree, while one of the brothers answered, “No” in a very confident voice. Occasionally, while we were there, we’d see one of them grab something from the showroom. They’d call out, “I’m taking this to the car.” A brother or sister would sigh and call out, “Okay.” The siblings all laughed about it, though, and told us that everyone in the family has pieces from their dad’s business. “He lives in all our houses,” one of the daughters said, which is a lovely legacy. I think most of us would like to know that we’re remembered with such sweetness.

I went to a screening of A Princess Bride that included a Cary Elwes Q&A. As a single ticket, I was able to swoop in at the last minute to get a cheap seat in the third row, perfect placement for a good view of the movie and the Q&A after. There was an interesting prohibition; absolutely no pictures of Cary were permitted. We were warned that violators would be politely escorted out. 

The screening was a delight. It seemed like everyone there knew the movie. Some attendees were dressed up as Buttercup, Wesley, or the dread pirate Roberts. I even saw a six-fingered man (without his sword, of course). With the first use of “As You Wish,” there were ooohs and aaahs. When Andre the Giant appeared, the room erupted in cheers. It was wonderful. 

I’m slightly less enthusiastic about the Q&A. Cary Elwes was very funny, very polished, very emotionally removed from the event. I felt like he’d memorized his responses and enunciated them with a minimum of engagement. I may be alone in that impression, as there was a lot of laughter during his stories. They were good stories, for sure. I just felt like he’d told the same ones a thousand times. Because he has. You know?

In 2012, I think it was, my husband got us tickets to see William Shatner’s one-man show, Shatner’s World: We Just Live In It. It was my birthday present, as I am a huuuuuuuge OG Star Trek fan and might, if needed, be called upon to recite dialog from most of the 80+ episodes. So far, surprisingly, I haven’t needed to do that. But I’m ready. You know. Just in case. 

Anyway, it’s likely no surprise that I’m comparing Cary Elwes’ Q&A with Shatner’s one-man show. The difference for me is stark. Every word of Shatner’s show felt like a conversation, like he was sitting in an easy chair across the room, reminiscing about his life, even though that show ran for, maybe, three weeks on Broadway before he took it on a national tour for another eight months. It was magical, slightly deranged, and riveting to watch. 

Speaking of Shatner, if you haven’t listened to his album Has Been, you have missed something spectacular and should rectify that as soon as possible. Unlike his earlier work, this masterpiece produced by Ben Folds is often wrenching and intimate. He reflects on his life, his many mistakes, his public image. One of the interesting things about it is that listening will not make you like Shatner the man anymore than he deserves but somehow it allows you to empathize with him. I like to listen to it on longer drives, when I can really focus on the lyrics. In my humble opinion, it is not the album that you play in the background while doing dishes. 

In other music news, if you’re in the area and you’re not going to see The English Beat, are you even actually in the area? I’ve been following them for a looooong time but this will be my first time seeing them live. The venue is table seating near the stage and then some sort of balcony seating in the back. My seats are at a table. In fact, I purchased the entire table and then invited some people to join me. I just can’t bring myself to sit at a 4-top with three strangers. It is too awkward. Well…okay…the truth is that I’m too awkward. 

Winter has arrived earlier than expected. The trees, overnight, made a yellow carpet of leaves on Negley Avenue, covering the sidewalks and road. Truly, Dorothy could have found her way easily on that not-brick road, despite the blustery wind. Although the temperature rises slightly during the day, the cold Canadian air continues to rustle empty branches, whip hair into eyes, and wrestle unbuttoned coats wide. 

An elderly woman enters the coffee shop, wool coat buttoned to her neck. She has on a fanny pack, the strap at her waist around the back, the pack in front snuggled lower, below her curves. She waits patiently for her drink, which the barista announces loudly, a large peppermint hot cocoa with whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle. As she walks by me, her gold dangle earrings glint in the afternoon light. She inhales the warm peppermint scent wafting from her cup and takes a delicate lick of whipped cream before stepping into winter’s windy embrace, her gray hair tousled by the breeze. 

Another woman enters the coffee shop; a few errant leaves join her, swirling in a circle around the brick floor. Her silver hair hangs to her chin in a bob that curls under, something I could never reliably achieve. She’s wearing a puffy coat the color of lilac. How is it that some people look effortlessly stylish and some people (me. I mean me) look effortfully like we close our eyes before we pick out our outfits?

Online guidance suggested creating playlists of music familiar to my cognitively declining acquaintance. Reluctantly, because I have to listen to it too–haha, I’ve done it: Leon Russell, The Beatles, Peter, Paul & Mary, Simon & Garfunkel, and a few early 70s bands, like Moody Blues, Doobie Brothers, etc. I passionately dislike The Beatles–I know, I know–but in early childhood, I was listening to my parents’ 40s and early 50s music. I literally had two albums of my own: a Jackson Five and the Carpenters. The Beatles, in particular, were NOT on the record player. Later, when my dad was an Outlaw Country fan, we were listening to 8-tracks of Willie and Friends. My mom’s favorite music was silence. She abhorred Outlaw Country, lol. I like Willie, in particular, but I prefer his folk and indie music, such as Last Man Standing. He’s renowned for his lyricism and I find his later stuff particularly smart and quite funny. I also admire his frank disdain for people who have forgotten or perhaps deliberately misunderstood what he represents.

This morning, I entered the coffee shop early and saw an acquaintance absolutely immersed in his computer screen. I waved but he didn’t notice so I bent to his eye level and waved until he looked up and saw me. It made me, him, and the barista laugh. Day’s goals met. 

I haven’t talked much about my health but had a reminder this morning from a friend that silence can be distressing to others. So, quick update and then we won’t talk about it again unless it’s necessary: September scans picked up a new spot too small to biopsy. It’s in the gallbladder fundus, which, so that you don’t have to google, is at the top of the gallbladder under the right lobe of the liver. (I no longer have a left lobe. lol) 

It might be something. It might be nothing. My healthcare team calls it “concerning,” though not to me, which I find rather funny. They like to be very optimistic and cheerful. I’m an optimist, too, and continue to buy green bananas. (Why do I know they call it concerning? Because a resident at my PCP’s office read the medical record to me. I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to. haha) My next scans and bloodwork are December 1st. I’ll see my healthcare team again in mid-December, at which point we’ll know what’s next, whether it’s more scans, surgery, treatment, or a combination thereof. 

Sure, I am occasionally awash with, to paraphrase Aragorn, “…The fear that would take the heart of me.” Cholangiocarcinoma kills 80-90% of patients. I wish this weren’t my path. “”So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘And so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’” (Tolkien sure knew how to turn a phrase.)

I’ve had all the very difficult conversations. I’ve updated the will. I’ve made all the lists–finances, bills, passwords, etc. There’s even a spreadsheet with all the home repairs I’ve done over the years since Ken died. I’m probably more paper-work prepared for death than most of you who ALSO have no idea when you’ll die. (So, maybe, get on that. It will benefit your family.) Anyway, I’m as determined today as yesterday, and the day before, to keep living until I die. Some days the worry wins but most days I win. And now we’re done with that topic. If there’s more to say, I’ll say it when I’m ready.

Much love.

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

“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

ChatGPT Lives In A Shipping Container

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A couple with a baby in a stroller stopped in front of the old Apple store and looked at each other, confused. In unison, they pulled out their phones and started looking online, speaking to each other in Chinese. I was walking toward them and smiled. “Are you looking for the Apple store?” I asked. Again, in unison, they smiled and nodded. “YES,” he said emphatically and with relief. I explained that it had recently moved and pointed it out. He chuckled, “Ah ha.” She said, “Thank you, thank you.” They nodded and continued down the street toward the no-longer-iconic-looking store. It was a small experience, lasting less than two minutes, but lovely. A tiny exchange of connection.

The Revivalists are singing from the speakers at the coffee shop. I love their music. The lead singer, David Shaw, is a surprisingly awkward live performer. A good-looking man, he postures on stage, feather-preening and strutting like cock. (Do I mean it the way you think I mean it?) Probably the young people in front of the stage are delighted but I’m there for the music. And to shout “get off my lawn” with the curmudgeonly abandon of a middle-aged woman wearing practical shoes.

I met a friend for brunch. She looked like an advertisement for dressing well at any age. I looked like I picked out a tshirt from my 95 year old neighbor’s 1980’s cast-offs that have been sitting in a pile in her closet since Y2K. We had a lovely meal and walked around the community afterwards, finally stopping at the shipping container house under construction in Bloomfield. “The only shipping container house in Pittsburgh,” the signage advertises. We peeked inside and puzzled over how they plan to manage temperature in an all-steel structure. It is, so they claim, “far more resistant to rodents than the average stick-built home.” I guess they’re referring to that notoriously easy-to-blow-over house built by one of the three little pigs. 

There’s an elderly man across from me wearing a John Lewis “good trouble” shirt. As I’m admiring it, a young hipster-looking individual enters the shop wearing a “doing my best” hoodie. Same. Same. 

Two women are talking, sitting close together at the table next to me. They’re discussing another woman’s body: She’s very fit. (She is, but a bigger girl. You know?) Right. She has a curvy rear. (It’s quite round. But fit. She’s very fit.) Yes. I wish my boobs were as big. (I know. She has a RACK.) They both laugh. I can’t decide if they really like her or really hate her. We don’t need to discuss the incredible level of misogyny embedded in any discussion of a woman’s body by other women, particularly when they aren’t lifting her up IN her presence.

I’m editing a chapter right now and I’m thoroughly stuck. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. There’s something, though, for sure. I open the chapter, stare at it for three hours, tweak a word here or there and then sigh with frustration before closing the chapter and reopening it 15 minutes later as though something will have changed. LOL I think I’m going to delete the entire novel and just throw myself into a dustbin. Or maybe I’ll work on a later chapter to get myself unstuck. Which will I choose? Dustbin of history or more work on the book? TBD, I think.

Olivia Dean’s new album is upbeat and lyrical, with soaring harmonies. I particularly like “So Easy.” I am not listening to Taylor Swift’s new album. If I were to comment, which I do not intend to do, I think words such as “trite” and “juvenile” would work on the lyric “his love was the key that opened my thighs.” Perhaps one can become too comfortable in her fame. Certainly, with enormous wealth, one can find a writing partner other than an LLM.

I have had my first ChatGPT experience. Deliberately using passive voice here, a thing about which my former and favorite writing professor would have THINGS to say: ChatGPT was given an article that I wrote–I’m not going to get into the ethics of that right now–to review and edit. I then received a copy of the results. (My friend, if you are reading this, it’s all good. xo)

In a shocking turn of events, I found the results enlightening. ChatGPT is definitely not for me but I understand now how incredibly effective this LLM is at engaging with humans. I showed the output to one of my kids and told him that ChatGPT and I are dating. He did not find that funny, which makes it funnier to me, somehow. Anyway, my son and I talked about the results, what he made of the whole thing, what I thought of it, and the future of AI. 

A first reading of the results would suggest that I am a freaking genius who is moments away from winning a Pulitzer or Nobel in literature. My ego agrees completely with ChatGPT on this point. I drank its praise like water from the fountain of youth. But just like the fountain, all that praise is not real. ChatGPT isn’t a person. It cannot reason. It cannot think. It cannot evaluate your work for merit, talent, quality because those concepts are subjective. It is not capable of forming opinions. It isn’t a person. It does not feel. It cannot like you or hate you. It will use whatever information–true or false, conservative or liberal, fascist or antifascist–it is given. Remember, as you use it, that it’s dangerous to believe what a machine was taught to tell you. 

Much love.

ChatGPT Lives In A Shipping Container

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Don’t Look Unless You Want to See

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

The coffee shop is quiet today, except for the woman telephonically negotiating her dance team’s performance schedule. No complaints; it’s a fun view into a world I’ve not previously experienced. Apparently, there’s an issue with one of the mom’s being pregnant. I’m not entirely sure how that impacts the schedule but I’ll admit to an unhealthy amount of curiosity.

Unfortunately, I’ve moved seats; I was sitting next to an outlet and someone needed to plug in so I volunteered to change tables and lost the thread of the discussion. Now, I’ll never know what they decided to do about expecting-mom. 

I made a terrible discovery today when, for the first time in weeks, I visited the diner across from the coffee shop. It’s a shocking story so get yourself a drink and a comfy seat. I’ll wait until you’re settled.

Okay. Are you ready? Here we go. I may have mentioned before that I always give a massive quantity of cookies – dozens each of 10-ish different varieties — to the diner staff in December. I’ve been doing this for 6 or 7 years. I’m not really sure how it got started, an impulse probably that was popular enough that I just kept it up. 

In 2024, my son left his job at the diner but the head cook – everyone calls him Fresh – asked me if I’d continue to make the cookies. Of course I said yes. The day I delivered the treats, Fresh was not working – get this – because he objected to the way my son was treated in his final days at the diner. It’s a whole thing that we don’t need to get into. It’s sufficient to say that my son was treated poorly by *name redacted*, Fresh objected vociferously and got suspended. 

I didn’t know this until I delivered the treats and got all the hot tea, as they say. The servers promised that they’d save cookies for Fresh. Today, on my return to the diner, I found out that he never got any. Not a single cookie. I know. I know. It was naive of me to think that cookies would survive the swarm of locusts, I mean cooks and servers. Nonetheless, injustice must be addressed. Fresh is getting a personal selection of valentine-themed cookies to enjoy with his wife, Tish. I may not be able to control the actions of Congress but I can make some cookies, damn it. 

Speaking of Congress, I called and talked to an aide to my Representative, Summer Lee. It felt good to have someone listen to my concerns. It felt like action, though I was, sort of, singing to the choir since she’s a pretty loud voice aligned against giving access to our social security numbers to an immature billionaire. You can make your voice heard, too, by calling the Capitol switchboard and asking for your Senators and Representatives. It might seem intimidating if you’ve never done it before but it’s actually easy and doesn’t take very long. Note, however, that it’s not anonymous; if you are calling, I suggest you use rational arguments rather than invectives, no matter how mad you are about threats to the department of education, DEI, social security, deportations, Guantanamo, USAID, NLRB, Kennedy Center, your family’s LGBTQIA+ members, grocery prices, etc. 

And hey, if you’re happy with what is going on right now, you should, at least, not be surprised that I’m unhappy about the current administration’s deliberate and dangerous cruelty. I’ve been pretty clear here that I believe life should be centered in kindness; thus, I feel compelled to remind readers who did not actively vote against this, that there are no voters “safe” from harm under these new policies. Tariffs will increase everyone’s prices. Eliminating the NLRB will impact all union members, not just people who voted for Harris. Also, do you really think we’re going to annex Canada, Mexico, Gaza, and Greenland? Why would we want to? And why would those countries allow themselves to be annexed? SMH.

Honestly, it’s strange to me to think that some people believe a billionaire – I’m referring to Musk, here – is the best judge of whether or not children should receive free school lunches. (Have you ever seen anyone waste money the way Musk and Bezos do? Seriously, does anyone think they could manage if they suddenly lost it all? Ha.) Don’t even get me started on the deadly impact this administration is having on cancer research; seriously, don’t let me talk about it. It’s bad for my otherwise good blood pressure. 

The furnace is making a noise. It just started yesterday. I’m not sure what it means, other than $$$$$. I’ve learned that noises always mean something expensive. The technician will be taking, at minimum, one hundred of my dollars, my precious, precious dollars, tomorrow. Any guesses what’s causing the noise …? I’m betting that there’s an acorn stuck in a mechanism. No particular reason for that. It just amuses me to envision a squirrel thinking, “Here’s a good place for me to hide this tasty snack.”

Yesterday, a chimney specialist came in to check out our four fireplaces. I’m trying to reduce my homeowner’s insurance but in a situation surprisingly reminiscent of my MRI, when they look, they always find things. Damn it. One of my three chimneys is actively collapsing inward and I now have pictures to prove it. Sigh. Both of my options – removing it entirely or repairing it – cost significantly more than $1.29. My next door neighbor very helpfully – if I had a time machine – told me that he got his chimneys repaired when he got his roof replaced. Too bad I didn’t have that suggestion a year ago at this time, during preparation for my own roof replacement. Now, I’m going to pay a second time for scaffolding – which, alone, is estimated to cost approx $2,000. If I ever buy another house, it is going to be a single story (shakes fist at the sky). Who am I kidding? I have so many books that I’m never moving again.

The tree trimmers will be in our backyard this afternoon, trimming the 20-foot honeysuckle that has become sentient and is taking over the entire yard, plus part of the neighbor’s yard. We were going to remove it entirely but the tree guys laughed when we suggested that. Literally. They laughed and said that I should totally remove the honeysuckle if I want a zillion individual honeysuckles rising from the ground in rebellion. 

The neighbors will be very happy with the trimming. They’ve been complaining for several years now that it’s blocking their view of the climbing gym two yards over. LOL I’m just joking. They’re actually more upset that it’s endangering my rhododendron, which is, astonishingly, one of those massive creatures that gives giant blooms every year. It’s one of the weird but lovely things about city living – the neighbors actively care about my yard and gardens at least as much as they care about their own. 

Since I’m actually supposed to be editing my latest manuscript today, without a pen because I forgot to bring one (SMH), I’m going to get back to, at least, reading the darn thing. It’s far too long but funnier than I expected, given that I wrote most of it while I was on chemo – I felt very funny but not very amusing at the time. (HA)

I saw a quote – sorry, I don’t know who said it – that applies to our current world: history shows us that no one who has ever banned books was on the side of good. Reading and writing have always been acts of resistance. Now, more than ever, reading banned books, educating yourself on why someone else has decided which books children shouldn’t read, helping to make banned books available in your community are simple ways to stand against the thought police. Charlotte’s Web is a dangerous book. I recommend that you give it another read. 

Much love.

Don’t Look Unless You Want to See

31 Gratitudes at the End of an Infamous Year

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

I’ve been thinking recently about gratitude. In particular, I’ve been pondering what gratitude feels like, how we express it, what it means to be grateful. Initially, I planned to write some profound thoughts. In a year absolutely packed with grief, sorrow, anxiety, and hope, thoughts are plentiful, if not actually profound. The ability to write them down is oddly absent. As such, in place of those pithy thoughts, I have made a list (who doesn’t love a list?!). 

I am filled with joyous gratitude for:

  1. My family and friends, biological and found
  2. Healthcare workers in all their various and lovely forms
  3. Butter toffee cashews
  4. High-top converse
  5. My 90-something neighbors
  6. Being able to compliment others
  7. Sunny days, warm and cold
  8. Hugs
  9. Fall leaves
  10. Spring blooms
  11. Dogs
  12. Cats
  13. Richard Armitage’s voice
  14. The rest of Richard Armitage
  15. Whoever wrote Hot Frosty
  16. Time spent beside a crackling fire
  17. Laughing until my sides hurt and my eyes are wet
  18. Walking 
  19. Noah Kahan
  20. Acorns
  21. Hummingbirds
  22. Corny tshirts
  23. Yoga with Adriene
  24. Crochet
  25. Community
  26. The coffee shop
  27. Writers
  28. Books
  29. Homemade cookies
  30. The neighborhood fox 
  31. Homemade hot cocoa with fresh whipped cream

What’s on your list?

Much love.

31 Gratitudes at the End of an Infamous Year

A Litter of Acorns

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

In a move that probably surprised no one except me, the trees have shed their leaves. I see them on the ground but I don’t recall the events that led to their arrival on my doorstep. Further shocking news: garland and holiday lights now adorn Walnut Street. The city is preparing to celebrate the annual Light-up Night, formally beginning our holiday season. Where did the year go? If any of you find it, can you report back? 

My daughter and I spent a recent afternoon planting spring bulbs. It was a popular activity among the neighbors, resulting in many comments from the people walking themselves and their dogs up and down our street. “Can’t wait to see them in six months.” “Love your butterfly garden.” were among the most validating comments. Having to pick off the sticker seeds liberally coating our clothes and gloves was not, however, a satisfying end to the effort.

My nextdoor neighbor was undoubtedly pleased that we also raked leaves. When we don’t rake them quickly enough, they blow into his yard and then, my friends, THEN he has to get out the leaf-blower to send them back to us. Community is having a neighbor who uses his leaf-blower every day and being sad that one day he’ll no longer do so.

As I was walking to the coffee shop, I passed a young woman holding a bright red leaf in her hand like it was a trophy. I understand the feeling. The desk in our entryway is currently strewn with bright leaves and perfectly round acorns, while my phone is filled with pictures of fall wildflowers still blooming in our yard. 

About a year ago, I joined BlueSky (@deborahz.blsky.social) as I was considering moving on from Twitter (yeah, I’ll never be calling it by that other name, except perhaps to make fun of it). With the election over, that other space has become toxic, with bots adding “your body, my choice” to women’s posts. Since there aren’t effective reporting/blocking tools anymore, I’ve officially left that place and am trying to find community amongst the butterflies of BlueSky. So far, it has been very welcoming, as well as delightfully weird, like early-days Twitter when accounts used to do things like quote entire novels to each other 140 characters at a time. I love the nerdiness.

I finally finished the “whimsical” biography I had to write to accompany a CNF piece being published in an annual lit magazine. I’ve never had so much difficulty writing anything. You’d think someone with a considerable ego would have little difficulty writing about herself. Apparently, I’m a conundrum of contradictions. lol

If you celebrate, Happy Turkey and Pie Over-consumption Day.

Much love.

A Litter of Acorns

Take Time to Smell … Paint Stripper?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love and time to smell the spring flowers.  

Take Time to Smell … Paint Stripper?