writing community

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

Alone Again, For The First Time

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 4 Comments

One of the hardest things I’ve learned, still learning really, as a (young-ish, okay middle-aged-ish) widow is how to be alone. Ken and I were a couple for 30 years. Many times in those 30 years, I was alone — obviously — because we weren’t constantly in each other’s company. But I was always coupled. 

I was talking to a friend recently about that process some of us newly widowed go through to figure out who we are. I know who I WAS but that person is gone. She left without warning and I didn’t know that she would never be back. I liked that version of myself and I still miss her. In truth, I wish that someone would have warned me (would I have believed them?) that when my husband died I would also lose the version of myself that I knew best. 

As Ken entered hospice, his oncology therapist called me to see how I was doing. She was wonderful and made me feel safe enough to be honest. I said, “Soon, I will leave my house as a wife and return to it as a widow. That’s how I’m doing.” 

But the act of being widowed is not, itself, the redefining of ourselves as widows and widowers. It’s the impetus, the event that pushes us out of the airplane, not the parachute that allows us to land.  

So, when Ken died, the self who cared for him throughout his illness, that version of me, died too. I don’t miss her much, to be honest. Her life was an anguished misery of perpetual sorrow and bad news and grief. While I’m grateful that I was able to be with Ken through every aspect of his illness, there are very few aspects of it that are, in any way, pleasant to recall. So, no, I don’t miss that version of myself.  

I miss the version of me who died when hope for Ken’s survival died. She’s the person I knew best, the coupled individual who laughed every day and planned her retirement with her husband and knew nothing bad would happen to them and worked too many hours and loved her family with every particle of her being. I do miss her and I know that version of myself will never return. I am forever changed by my loss and grief. 

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that I won’t ever be happy again or that I sit in a puddle of tears, awash in my grief. I mean, I have done that and it’s as messy and wet as it sounds. But those days pass. The frequency of tears lessens. But the work starts as the tears dry. It’s big work, heavy, as messy as those puddles of tears and just as necessary. 

I didn’t even know who I was after Ken died. How could I like myself when I didn’t know myself at all? 

Literally, the last time I was uncoupled, I was 22 years old. Ronald Reagan was still president. (Oh, yes, now you get it. Some of you literally weren’t even alive yet.) When Ken died, I flailed around trying to figure out if I was A Widow, A Single Woman, A Single Parent …. Of course, I’m all of these things, right? But they’re just labels. They couldn’t really help me figure out who I am. 

The first time I was hit on after Ken died, I was absolutely outraged. Really. I was so angry. How dare this man, this stranger  — someone whose name I didn’t even know …. The problem wasn’t that some stranger asked me to get a drink. It was that I didn’t even know who I was. That poor man — by the way, I was friendly in my rebuff, keeping my rage to myself — he couldn’t possibly have known that he started me on my journey of self-discovery. 

I had to learn, in fact, that I was single. I might not have been ready to date — still not, all you well-meaning friends who keep trying to set me up with “I know someone” — but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t in the technical category of SINGLE, ALONE, AVAILABLE. 

So, what did that mean? And what does it mean now, four years later?

After a spouse dies, it’s necessary to spend a lot more time than you’d ever guess on the phone, talking to customer service reps about death. The representatives all have the same script. It starts something like “I’m so sorry for your loss” and continues with requests for the death certificate, address changes, income changes, new beneficiaries, and ends with forms that need to be completed and sent back. 

These forms always require the widowed individual to fill in a box that says SINGLE. The first time, the second time, the third time, maybe even the fourth, I cried. I’m not single, I said through my tears. I’m married. 

About two months after Ken died, I finished making curtains and hung them in the front window. It was the first change I made in the house and it felt terribly wrong not to get his opinion. It was like a violation of coupling. Couples consult on major purchases, changes to the home, cars, furniture, pets, even dinner. Learning how to not be a couple means making changes without input. Curtains — not a big deal, right? But, at the same time, such a big deal because it changed the house from ours to mine. 

For a long time, I really struggled to go to certain places because they were coupled places. Breakfast at Pamelas. Dinners at Eat’n Park. The farmers market. Shopping at Costco. Part of it is the disrupted ritual. Part is the memory of past trips. And part is the process of deciding without input. At Costco, one of us would hold up an object: do we need this? And the two of us would discuss or argue or laugh. Yes, we need lettuce. No, we definitely don’t need a riding lawn mower.

Yes, you all say. Companionship. We know. You’re lonely. No. No. No. That’s not it at all. I am lonely. I miss my husband every day. But this isn’t about companionship. This is a becoming, a change from one form to another — the coupled to the single. 

Maybe a year after Ken’s death, I decided to eat lunch at Eat’n Park and then do a Sunday afternoon Costco trip, all by myself. Do I sound like a toddler? “I can do it myself!” In some respects, I AM a toddler. The new me, the self who is becoming, is only four years old. If that’s not toddler territory, I don’t know what is.  

The trip was so hard. I had a huge lump in my throat, the kind that makes it hard to swallow your Breakfast Smile. I felt conspicuous and ALONE in my uncoupled-ness. I chose to sit at the restaurant counter so I could avoid the question “how many?” And somehow sitting at the counter was an invitation to all the single guys who were also sitting at the counter. “Why aren’t you talking to me? Put down your phone. What’s the matter?” Oh my gosh. I’m trying to figure out how to live without my husband, you intrusive idiots. 

I made it through that day, and the many after it, one step at a time. I learned to stop doing what WE did and start doing things differently. I have some new habits. For example, now, I usually shop during the week, rather than weekends. It’s less crowded and it breaks the coupled habit. I do eat out — when we aren’t in the middle of a pandemic — but I sit at a table now. The ‘how many” question was hard to deal with at first but now I just answer. That person asking really doesn’t care that I’m alone. They just want to find a table for me and move on to the next guest.

There was a social media post recently by a woman who said that she was going to cook herself dinner for her birthday, even though she was alone. Girl, I’m alone A LOT. My kids are busy. I’m alone more than you might expect for someone who lives with two people. My advice — admittedly free and unrequested: Most days, even though you are alone, act like you are cooking for someone important — because you are.

Dinner alone isn’t lovely but it also doesn’t have to be punishment. Part of figuring out who I am is figuring out how to make this new future something I can face with equanimity.  

I refuse to believe that my life has to include TV trays of cardboard dinners circa 1970s. I’ll pass on the Hungry Man meatloaf and gravy.  Earlier this week, I made a very nice chicken piccata and sauteed zucchini. One day last week, I had “excellent boiled potatoes” (sorry, that was a Pride and Prejudice movie quote that I just couldn’t pass up) with some crumbled bacon and shredded cheese. Yes, of course, I smashed the potatoes a bit to make a modified loaded baked potato. I have to say, that was a particularly delicious, simple, dinner and it only took about 15 minutes to make. 

Sometimes, I’ll grill chicken and slice it over a salad or grill a burger and make low-carb waffle buns (literally just egg and shredded cheese in a mini waffle iron). The biggest component of that was giving myself permission to grill for one. “Why would I heat up the grill just for myself?” Because I’m worth it, that’s why! 

Some days, like any toddler, I really want to drop to the floor and scream, kick, cry. Unfortunately, tantrums are exhausting. When they’re over, I still have to face the undeniable reality that Ken isn’t coming back and someone has to take the garbage out. 

Stay safe. Be kind.  

Much love.

Alone Again, For The First Time

Pitties and Peaches

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

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

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

Booted/Zuroski

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

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

The unrepentant pittie/Zuroski

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salt and pepper ribs

Peach bar cookies

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

Pitties and Peaches

A Berry Good July

Deb Zuroski, , , 4 Comments

I was shopping at Costco recently when I bumped, quite literally, into a man who was pushing a flatbed and I laughed a little to myself about how hard they are to steer. The secret is that you should always pull a flatbed, not push it. Anyway, as we apologized to each other, I looked, really looked, at him for a moment and was struck by how like Ken he was, a little taller perhaps but slender, with a graying beard and thinning hair, very professorial in the inexplicable way that Ken was.  

By the third near-miss, I had noticed that his walk and mannerisms were also very similar to Ken, even his clothing. I started wondering how his wife would respond if I went up to her and said, “Hey, this is weird but your husband reminds me of my husband. Would it be okay … I really do know how this sounds but … would it be okay if I ask your husband for a hug? I’d just like to pretend, for a second, that my husband is still here.” 

And then, before I could give into the impulse and get myself banned from Costco, I turned away from them, my tears soaking the edges of my mask. 

They seemed to be everywhere I was after that (even parked next to me in the lot). I got used to it, even rather enjoyed bumping into them and lightly eavesdropping on their conversations. Poor man was married to a mouthy woman (a lot like me!) and like Ken, he never quite figured out how to operate that flatbed. 

Last month’s storm gave us roof damage in addition to all that ruined food (and a remarkable case of food poisoning). When you live in a three-story Victorian house, finding shingles on the ground is even more than normally disconcerting because you can’t see your roof. Finally, an opportunity to use my homeowners insurance! The inspector came out last week with his 36-foot ladder (not big enough), remarked on the steepness of the 12-foot gables, and confirmed the damage. 

Yay! Insurance is going to buy me a new roof! 

Haha. Hahahahaha. 

No, it isn’t. In fact, the damage is below my deductible. But the roof inspector said I need a new roof pretty much as soon as I can swing it. Yeah. I figured that out when I picked up the shingle and felt how crackly it was. As my kids would say: OWNED. 

Now, let’s circle back to the food poisoning story:  I won’t actually share the really gory details. I’ll just tell you that, when I threw out all the food, I missed something important — the condiments. Specifically, I missed the mayonnaise. Thankfully, I am the only person who puts mayo on her cheeseburger so I am the only one who spent six hours vomiting. It was bad — we won’t discuss how bad — but I would have felt much, much worse if I’d poisoned my kids. So, if you ever have a power outage, learn from me and don’t forget to throw out the mayonnaise!

And now, without further ado, let’s talk about the gift of summer fruit. Our blueberries are beginning to ripen. Our peaches are still growing. This year, we’ll attempt to save some of the peaches from the squirrels. Yes. I know it’s fruitless (hehe)…sorry, couldn’t help myself.

We’ve been cooking lots of fresh fruit recipes for our post-pandemic summer picnics. My personal favorite will always be strawberry pie but the blackberry lattice pie was outstanding. Sadly, the raspberry crumble pie failed completely. It looked great straight out of the oven but became so watery that we had to throw the whole thing out. Heartbreaking, to be honest. 

Our final berry creation — for now — was a triple berry — blueberry, blackberry, raspberry — compote that we developed to drizzle over my mom’s lemonade cake. So tangy, so aromatic, so good. My mom would be proud. 

A Berry Good July

The Great Defrosting

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What a start to the week we’ve had here. A massive storm stalled over Pittsburgh Sunday and dropped upwards of 3 inches of rain in about 15 minutes. For the first time in my life, I got to see big chunks of golf-ball-sized hail fall. You’ve probably all experienced the sound of hail falling. It never occurred to me — though I acknowledge that it makes perfect sense — the bigger the hail, the higher your heart rate gets as the hail hits your 125-year-old windows. 

Our street became the Colorado River rushing between canyon walls. I have no idea how fast it was going but I wouldn’t want to get knocked off my feet in that deluge as it raced down the hill toward the big open sewers at the bottom of our street. 

Everyone in my little community lost power at about 6:30 Sunday evening, right in the middle of the storm. Losing power is a rare event in the city. We have a great — deeply underappreciated IMO — electrical grid that is almost never out. Unfortunately, the storm was actually enormous, with high windows and torrential rains that got the best of the grid — bringing down trees, blowing transformers and ultimately knocking out power for tens of thousands. We were literally powerless for a little over 21 hours. 

As soon as we realized that the power was not going to blink right back on, I began to think ruefully of that box of no-longer-charged external batteries that my husband used to keep charged in case of emergencies. I was also reminded of them by my loving children several times throughout those long dark hours that “Dad always kept those batteries charged.” Yeah, I know. I miss him, too. I also know that, when next I see Ken, I’m going to get an earful about those damn batteries.

Sadly, warm weather and equipment age/inefficiency combined at our house to cause The Great Defrosting, an event that will be retold and elaborated for future generations. We opened the fridge and freezers after the power returned, you know, to evaluate the situation: Melona bars (a treat for the ages) liquid. An entire half gallon of vanilla ice cream (good-bye dreamed of sundaes and banana splits) poured down the drain. I could go on but tears are obscuring my view of the screen.

In truth, we lost a lot of food and hours of work time, but we’re very lucky. We were safe and dry. We don’t rely on electricity to power oxygen pumps or dialysis equipment or a baby monitor. We can afford to replace the food we lost. We work for ourselves so we didn’t have wages docked or lose our jobs because the power was out. Not everyone was so fortunate.

On the humorous side of the whole experience, I was the guinea pig for food spoilage. “Mom, can you taste this for me?” was the common refrain once the power was back on. You’ve really never experienced the extraordinary power of your taste buds until you have been given a generously sized block of spoiled feta cheese, which you put — in its entirety — in your mouth because you are so confident that “it’s fine.” Wow. It’s … well, it’s hard to describe the taste, kind of bitter and vinegary and just really awful. It was decidedly not “fine.”

But we are. 

Today is, thankfully, garbage day. We’ll be cleaning out the spoilage and taking the opportunity to assess and reconsider before we stock up again. It’s sad work to throw away food that could, in a different story, have been a community banquet. Maybe, in fact, we don’t need a chest freezer stocked with food. Maybe it’s time to develop some new habits.

Be well. Be safe. Be kind. 

Oh, and unclench that jaw.

Much love.

The Great Defrosting

Sky Blue Eyes

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

I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of agency. One of the things I’ve struggled with the most since I lost Ken is my own agency. At first, after he died, I lived within the construct that was already established, long established, during and by our relationship. 

Over time, though, that construct started to crumble. I’ve mentioned before that a few months after Ken died, a doorknob fell off a door. (Apparently, Ken tightened doorknobs regularly and I just didn’t know or didn’t notice.) Instead of reacting as things happened to me, I needed to start acting — making choices and decisions about where to spend time, where to spend money. 

Maybe that’s a big DUH moment for all of you but for me it was both endlessly freeing and terrifying. Children in abusive households choose their survival strategies … stay with me here. I’m saying that, as a child, I had to decide whether to capitulate or fight. That wasn’t a conscious choice obviously and it wasn’t a single event. I usually chose to fight, which is probably not a surprise at all to people who know me well. And it’s not some bullshit humble brag either. Choosing violence in a violent household is a survival strategy, not a Tiktok video made to gain followers.

Anyway, the point is that AGENCY, the ability to act independently and to choose freely, is not something emphasized in abusive households. Since my husband was also raised in an abusive household, I think we probably unconsciously just leaned into each other’s survival strategies. Therefore, I didn’t have to learn to think and act independently until my husband died. GULP.

So, here I am, older than sliced bread, learning to make decisions for myself. I am living proof that old bitches (I will not call myself a dog and I will own the use of bitch as applied to myself and it’s amusing that it’s a bit of wordplay — HA!) …  can learn new tricks.

I’ve been sitting on the porch steps, listening to the baby birds in the nest above our back door. The parents were so discreet that we didn’t even realize we had bird neighbors until we heard the babies yelling at dad — more food please! — yesterday morning. Now, there’s a cardinal calling. I can’t see it — it’s perched in our enormous honeysuckle — but its call is loud and clear, standing out from the cacophony of early morning tweets and chirrups and cackles. 

The gift of our little backyard — watching a bird slip into its nest in the neighbor’s eaves, listening to the squirrel scolding the dog barking next door, sitting in the silent peace of a sunny afternoon — is a pleasure that makes me hope fall never comes. 

Yesterday, the sky was so intensely blue that looking up was like looking directly into my mother’s eyes (I looked up into my mother’s eyes the depth of the morning sky). My daughter was snoozing in the shade. My neighbors sat under their umbrella listening to pop music in another language. I could tell that it wasn’t English but I don’t hear well enough to know what language it was. They’re Scottish and Syrian so it really could be anything, including Donna Summer, Five For Fighting (yes, even THAT song which is a little surreal), classical, opera, folk music (mostly middle eastern). 

A couple weeks ago, they were listening to French pop music, deliberately loud in order to drown out my other-side neighbor who is also HOH but does not use headphones for her Zoom calls. Until Isla and Dan put on the French pop, we were all listening to a very explicit discussion of treatment options for a high-risk pregnancy. 

I wouldn’t say that I like listening to French pop but I like it a lot better than listening to analyses of transvaginal ultrasounds. Nothing against transvaginal ultrasounds other than that they’re extremely uncomfortable to receive (speaking from experience) but it does seem intrusive to listen to doctors talking about someone else’s. You know?

In other news, this week, we’ve been exploring lavender — lavender sugar, lavender lemon cake, lavender cream (in coffee). I don’t drink coffee so I can’t comment on that but the lavender lemon cake was delicious. And there’s an added bonus that the whole house smells great.

My saucy protagonists found something disturbing on their walk yesterday. They’re still processing it (and so am I) but it seems likely that they’re going to need to be very clever to get out of this situation. I left them in the middle of the woods, panicking, so I think I should get back to terrifying those teenagers now ….

Be kind today. 

Unclench your jaw. Relax your shoulders. Take a deep, SLOW breath. Find something to laugh about … if nothing else, here’s a mental image for you of my 10 year old Maine Coon learning to wear a collar with two very loud bells. He hates it but the birds and I are very happy that he jingles with every step he takes. 

Much love.

Sky Blue Eyes

Contractor Blues

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 1 Comment

I’m going back to bed. If you need me, I’ll be in my blanket burrito. 

The very, very, very worst part about adulting? Hiring contractors. I’ve had discussions with a gazillion (a flexible mathematical term that currently means six). Four of them said some version of “Yeah, I can’t help you. I only do this one thing and it’s not the thing you need. Why don’t you try X contractor? They definitely do that thing you definitely need.” 

The job itself is hardly unique. Our front steps are pulling away from the house. Mudjacking — I find it hilarious that I know what that term means — won’t work because the concrete is deteriorating. But no one, it seems, wants to demolish and rebuild our front stoop. 

One contractor said he’d come out but then didn’t. He did, however, email me a quote, possibly based on a picture from Google maps, that clearly showed he didn’t listen to anything I said to him on the phone. He actually quoted wrought iron railings to replace my brick handrails. 

First, I don’t hate myself enough to sign up for years of nearly annual railing painting. Second, if I change the railings, as I told him, I’ll have to file with the historic society for permission. I’ve never hated anyone enough for the double-whammy of wrought iron railings AND filing for approval from the mysterious and super secret historical society. I mean, what if I have to make some sort of animal sacrifice in exchange for iron railings? 

That contractor’s bid is also the physical proof of the “get three bids” advice. It’s so far above the other bids that it’s clear he thought “I don’t really want this job unless she’s stupid enough to accept this quote.” A second contractor came out last Friday and was great — helpful, enthusiastic about the existing design, and interested in improving things. He even pointed out an error in the original design that I never noticed and now will never be able to unsee (so thanks for that). Unfortunately, even the lowest bid was higher than I expected by a solid $3,000. Should I be surprised that things cost more than I want them to?!

I like to do a lot of the work myself, as you may know from past posts, but I’m not pouring concrete or trimming trees, which is the next project on the list. All but one of the trees are upwards of three stories tall and I dislike agonizing pain too much to dangle from a large tree while I saw off a limb — that we don’t know right now whether that limb would be human or tree just underscores what a bad idea it is. 

The tree trimming is essential. I personally saw squirrels carrying their suitcases across the tree limb bridge to the attic and I am not living with any more squirrels. They are the worst tenants I’ve ever had: playing some weird middle of the night hopscotch, chewing the loudest kettle crunch SOMETHING at 5AM, inviting more squirrels to move in even though their rental agreement limits residency to two squirrels, forever trying to pay their rent in acorns. They’re just the worst. 

On top of that, my next door neighbor, who, as I’ve mentioned before, is in his 90s, climbed out onto his roof to clean off the leaves left behind by MY tree. I spent a solid 15 minutes trying not to panic-watch him, as though somehow watching him will prevent a tumble from the porch roof. He did not fall, but I managed to make myself an anxious mess.

Someone will read this and ask why I don’t volunteer to clean the leaves off his roof. You could only ask me that if you’ve never had an independent 90-something neighbor. I made the mistake once of shoveling his sidewalk because I was outside already. He came out and scolded me like it was this past February in Texas and he was melting the snow to flush his toilets. So, instead of offering to clean his roof, I’m going to the source of the problem. HA 

Moving on …. There was a man painting a house — not painting a house (“miners, not minors”) — on our street during one of the nice weather spells recently and he wants to paint ours. He doesn’t need permission, of course, but I suspect that it’s less weird to talk with owners before setting up your easel in front of their houses. I imagine that can get kind of awkward. 

Anyway, the artist was painting the castle house the day he and I talked. It’s three doors up the street from us and has a round room with a turret. Yes, a turret. It’s a big stone house with a wrap-around stone porch and a three-story turret. The owners are really nice, genuine people who occasionally throw very loud parties to which the neighborhood is NEVER invited. (Isn’t that a violation of the neighborhood rules?) 

Apparently, they don’t know how much I want to see the inside of that turret! (I suspect that if I asked, they’d take me on a tour but I will not, in this lifetime, be that nosy. My sister’s lovely, long-suffering husband would disagree but I actually do have boundaries.) I did ask to see the finished oil painting and it’s just lovely. 

In other news, a lot is happening with my YA story. I usually write linearly but this time I wrote scenes in no order at all. Now, I’m sewing these individual events together, kind of like a quilt. It’s a lot of work without the very satisfying endorphin boost from a significant increase in word count but I can really see the story forming, which is fun and, honestly, a big relief. What if, after all this writing, I couldn’t figure out how to pull the story together?! Yikes. 

Thankfully, that’s not the case. Of course, there’s a lot more work to do before draft one is finished and after that, I’ll need to do a full read-through to see how well the story holds together, where I need to fix, enhance, delete, etc. I already have a bunch of notes about correcting things I changed. For example, I added a dog to the story a solid 10 chapters in which means those first 10 chapters have to change.

Did you recognize the “miners, not minors” reference? If you did, you probably read it in the incomparable Alan Rickman’s voice. The movie is Galaxy Quest, a wonderful homage to Star Trek and the entirety of the cosplay world. It’s funny, sweet, tender, and hilarious. 

Are you vaccinated yet? If not, please talk to your healthcare provider. For someone in your life, the world is a better place with you in it and the vaccine will increase the likelihood of you staying around a bit longer. Get vaccinated for them, if not for you.. 

Please remember that some people will keep wearing a mask. And you know what? That’s okay. Be safe. Be kind. 

Back to my blanket burrito ….

Contractor Blues