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Neujahrsbrezel

Deb Zuroski, , , , Leave a comment

If you work on the street near a coffee shop, what are you going to do? Get a coffee from there, of course. When my daughter worked at the competing coffee shop nearby, she said that they had frequent visits from the area workers.. 

Sometimes, they’d even swap products: burgers for coffee, baked goods for coffee. She claims though that the Apple store employees did not give her charge cords for coffee. That’s the deal I would want  especially since the coffee is equal in value to the drinks.

There’s a big jewelry store down the street from the coffee shop. Yes, I know where your mind just went. Wouldn’t that be the deal of the century: jewels for coffee. Sadly, that’s not where my story is headed. It’s raining today but the security guard who works at the jewelry store needs his coffee before the store opens. 

As he leaves here, I see him pause for a moment, possibly a mental debate, before he crosses the street to the bakery. A few moments later, he’s leaving the bakery with a bag and his drink. It’s raining, though, so now he has a conundrum. He wants to eat his treat but he hasn’t enough hands to hold his umbrella, the coffee and the treat, especially not while he’s eating said treat. 

What’s a person to do? I’ll tell you. He leans the umbrella on his shoulder, propped against the telephone pole, while he unwraps the treat but holds the bag around it, possibly to keep his fingers from getting sticky. Now, he can stand at the corner, eat the treat and drink his iced coffee without getting wet. Genius.

The bakery has been busy since they opened early this morning. Some people are buying neujahrsbrezel, which, in case you aren’t familiar, is a sweet pastry shaped like a pretzel. It’s quite popular in Pittsburgh and supposedly brings good luck in the new year. I could use some good luck though I don’t think it will come by way of a pretzel.

How, in particular, do I know who is buying neujahrsbrezel? The box is a dead giveaway. Most people who leave the bakery carry either a small waxed bag or a square box. The pretzel is large, decidedly so.

A young woman in bright yellow rain boots is leaving the bakery right now. She has a stack of three pretzel boxes and then a smaller bakery box. The woman has to look around the side of the top box to see where she’s going but her smile is bright. She’s looking forward to whatever event those pretzel boxes are going to.

The diner next to the bakery is packed to the doors with customers. Some are waiting under the overhang, trying not to get wet. When the door opens, clown-car-esque, a hoard of people spill out and the external group squeezes inside.

As I’m watching the diner, Chocolate Moose, the dog, not the candy store, walks up to the coffee shop with a tall, older man. After the man ties the dog to the bike rack outside, he enters the coffee shop. Since I’m sitting by the door, I ask if I can pet his dog, of course. The man is quick to tell me he’s just watching the dog for a friend. He’s flustered so I ask again if I can pet the dog. He says yes and calls to me as I go outside … “Chocolate Moose,” he says. “The dog’s name is Chocolate Moose.” 

And that’s how I find myself squatting in the rain beside Moose, scratching behind his ears. He’s a sweet young chocolate lab (of course), enjoying the rain and puzzled about why the walk has paused in front of this store. 

Technically, dogs are allowed to enter the coffee shop to get their puppuccinos but Moose is not very well-behaved. I’d call him overly loving. That’s why he’s sentenced to sit outside. He doesn’t understand why he can’t go up to every single individual in the coffee shop to ask for pets. That confuses me too because … DOG. Anyway, my day can continue joyfully now that I’ve spent a solid five minutes in the drizzle with Moose.

I hope your 2022 included a Chocolate Moose equivalent and that your 2023 introduces many of the same.

Happy New Year!

Much love.

Neujahrsbrezel

Outgrown

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It was Christmas eve and slightly below zero. Add in the wind chill and it was about -25F. I was on my way to my son’s house to pick him up. I’d offered to drive him to and from work because of the temperature. He usually walks; but as any northerner knows, temps this low can injure or kill a person easily. 

There were people waiting at the traffic light beside the Aldi grocery store as I pulled up to the intersection. I watched, thinking how cold they must be. The wind gusts were so strong that the people swayed a bit as they waited for the light to change. 

One of the women took off her scarf. As I watched, she wrapped it around another woman, tucking, then unwrapping and re-wrapping until she was satisfied that the other woman would be warm as they waited. 

I couldn’t see much of them, bundled as they were against the cold. Were they friends, siblings, lovers, mother and daughter? It doesn’t matter. The love was clear in that woman’s behavior. It wasn’t her sacrifice. It was the careful way she wrapped, then re-wrapped the other woman in the scarf. 

Her actions reminded me in that deja vu way of a winter night many years ago. I was at a stupid party off-campus at the rugby player’s fraternity. The party was continuing but I had an early shift at the country club. As I got ready to leave, he took my scarf from my hands and wrapped it around me just like that woman on the sidewalk. 

He was, for sure, more than a little tipsy and I was as sober as ever. That’s the thing about non-drinkers – we’re always sober and thus often remember things that reside in a fog for others. How would 20-year-old me feel if she knew that thirty years later a woman on a street corner on a cold winter day would bring back that wisp of memory of a pretty boy from so long ago? 

The leaf-birds were all blown from the trees by last week’s heavy winds. Now the branches are empty of those last brown leaves that clustered like sparrows in small groupings on our neighborhood trees. It’s a stark, rather lonely reminder that we are still in the early days of winter. The dark of January and bitterness of February await. 

The coffee shop is warm, though, and bright. Pedestrians are back, striped Sephora bags swing from their forearms, coffee cups are clasped in their hands. Fred the dachshund hasn’t passed by yet. He usually walks his owner every day but the cold temps or perhaps a trip for the holidays have absented him from the sidewalk outside the shop. 

A man walks by holding three cups in his hands. He’s with three young women – his daughters? – who are weighed down with bags from Cheeks and Lululemon and Apricot Lane. He looks tired but I hope he’s also delighted to be included in this shopping trip. This snapshot of his life – as I’ve crafted it, of course – reminds me of this quote: 

We can drink hot tea and talk about
the future, how hard it is to be outgrown.

From Mother Talks Back to the Monster by Carrie Shipers

As I wait in line for my iced black tea (medium in a for-here cup), a woman rushes up to the lady in front of me and they hug. I don’t know what they say to each other. It’s mostly in Italian but the sentiment is clear through their smiles, if not their constant touches. They are glad to see each other. I wonder why we wait until the holidays to come together?

Along with all the holiday visitors in the coffee shop, there are many familiar faces. One that is missing today, we’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name), comes in most days to draw. He sits in near stillness, often leaning back in his chair, his drawing hand holding a pencil, moving over a pad. Who has he sketched in his time here? Does he make up stories for his subjects like I do? 

Last time I saw him, I was here late and he had fallen asleep, his head tipped back against the brick wall. It was closing time and the manager asked me, as I was leaving, if Andrew had awakened yet. “No,” I said and we exchanged a smile. Sometimes the third place is better than home, even when your eyes are drooping. 

The coffee shop traffic has not stopped today. Right now, there’s a family ordering drinks and laughing with the barista. The man has an arm around the woman. Their child, a teenager, is smiling too as they search through the coffee cup beside the register. It’s always full of free stickers that vary by the season. My computer is currently festooned with small Dancer, Rudolph and Ho-Ho-Ho stickers, courtesy of that coffee cup. 

The floor is cold where I’m sitting. My table is near the person-door, where the floor is brick and there’s the barest hint of a breeze from under the big garage door that will remain closed until next spring. It’s always warmer in the back but also more isolating. I like the activity by the register. Usually, I pop my earbuds in and listen to music (right now it’s an oldie, Tears for Fears, “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”) while I write. If I get stuck I can look up and be entertained by the activity around me. 

Today, that activity includes a child squealing two tables away. He’s thrilled with something, though I can’t see what it is. There’s another group blocking my view of the table, though I can see the little boy’s blond head and a bit of his smile. 

A woman stands beside him. She’s thrown her arms out in a theatrical jazz hands gesture, making everyone at the table laugh. That’s what she intended so she smiles, delighted with her success. It’s a heady thing, making people laugh. 

As I walk back to my seat from the bathrooms, I notice a man playing chess on his computer. The man at the next table has a background picture of a stunningly beautiful woman. He has a window open. It’s positioned on the screen so it doesn’t block her face. I hope, and in the story I tell myself, it isn’t a coincidence. 

Don McLean’s “Vincent” is playing now. That seems a suitable song for ending the day, don’t you think? 

Much love.

Outgrown

Chocolate Chip Couples

Deb Zuroski, , , , 1 Comment
Boxed Christmas cookies that were not chocolate chip

Someone walks by the coffee shop wearing a hoodie that exactly matches the color of the sky today. It’s winter-chilly, though most of the week has been warm. The people walking in this neighborhood wear a mix of clothing that screams “we have no idea what today will bring.” 

Think I’m exaggerating? The man who just walked by the bakery is wearing shower shoes. The woman walking toward him has on a winter coat, hat, and gloves. Truly cold days are easy to spot because people who have cold drinks carry them in gloved hands. Apparently, I am not alone in thinking there is nothing worse on a chilly day than carrying a cold drink in a bare hand. 

It’s the perfect day for the parking police. I want to knock on the window and remind people to pay for their parking. Instead, I watch as the ticket writers wander the sidewalk every hour or two, sliding the slender white dread under windshield wipers of the guilty. One day, an overly confident fellow attempted to negotiate with the parking police. They don’t care. Really. 

The bakery is particularly busy today. I assume people are purchasing for holiday parties and gift-giving. Yesterday, a woman brought a tray of cookies in for the baristas. They were delighted, hurrying over as soon as the woman left. I could hear the soft “oohs” and “aahs” at my table across the room. Everyone loves a treat. 

A man has left the diner across the street and, stopping in front of the bakery window, is now looking at the goodies while discreetly scratching his butt. Hehe. Yes, I have memorialized this for all internet time, not to embarrass this man though. You don’t know who was feeling rather itchy this morning and he’ll never know that I documented his transgression from politeness. 

I write about it because it was a delightful moment of absurdity. The sun shone directly on his jean-clad rear. He outlined himself quite effectively, all dark blue clothing against a light background of the bakery window. He felt so anonymous and truly he was. However, he was also as visible as if he’d stood under a spotlight. I love people-watching!

My favorite thing, lately, about the coffee shop is the number of couples visiting. Just now, a young woman came out of the restroom and accidentally passed her person without noticing. Of course, he saw her and stood, catching her attention. I only noticed because his chair pushing back created a loud noise that caused me to look up, just in time to see him give her the sweetest smile, the smile that says “I wanted it to be you. I watched to see who it was. To my surprise and delight, it was indeed you.”

When I left the coffee shop earlier today to grab lunch with a friend, I saw a couple sitting on the sofa with their baby. One person was working on a computer, not, technically, paying attention to person two but their shoulders pressed together. 

Yesterday, there were two people sitting at a table, very close to each other. He was MONOPOLIZING the conversation, holding her hand, leaning toward her over their coffee cups. 

I’m not 100% sure that they were going to continue being a couple – she wasn’t doing as much leaning in as he was, IFKYK – but it’s fun to watch the attempts at connection as well as the actual connections. Honestly, give me the confidence of a middle-aged white man who thinks he’s scoring with the pretty lady at the coffee shop when he’s totally striking out. 

A few weeks ago, I sat on one of the conversation sofas across from a couple snuggling, head of person one resting on the thigh of person two. They were sharing stuff on their phones and laughing. I have to note, however, that if Grumpy Barista had been working, there would have been no lying on the sofa. Grumpy Barista does not allow feet to be anywhere but on the floor or crossed on your own knee. This is a fact. I have seen Grumpy Barista scold many patrons for having impolite foot manners. 

Double Chocolate Snowballs

I suspect that my stories suggest to you that I spend my day staring at coffee shop visitors. This is a falsehood. I do not stare. I look subtly and return to my computer screen before discreetly glancing again. 

Moving on … not-my-Aunt G has expressed her passionate appreciation for chocolate chip cookies on many occasions. I frequently bring the requested cookies to her but I warned a couple weeks ago that I would be bringing Christmas cookies throughout the month of December. 

When I visited earlier this week, I brought double chocolate snowball cookies. They have a deep cocoa flavor, lightly sweetened by powdered sugar. Honestly, they are incredible. Not-my-Aunt G was horrified. As she said, they were not chocolate chip cookies. As such, she absolutely refused to even try them. Hehe. Don’t worry. They won’t go to waste. And, lesson learned, I will bring her chocolate chip cookies on my next visit. And shortbread bites. I am incorrigible.

Time for cookie baking. Talk to you again soon.

Chocolate Chip Couples

Forgotten

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Deb and not-her-Aunt G

On Wednesday, I spent the evening with my not-my-Aunt G in the skilled nursing facility. It’s her permanent address now. The cognitive decline she masked so well in her home of 40+ years is painfully visible. Sometimes she knows that she’s confused. She has the cruel moments of clarity that remind me what I am losing but more often she is almost a stranger or perhaps, I am to her. 

She was sitting on her bed, her preferred seat, and I was teasing her by sitting in her wheelchair, using my feet to steer myself around the room. She was laughing and called me her ridiculous boyfriend. Not-my-Aunt G rarely recognizes me these days but the boyfriend label was a bit of a surprise, I have to say. I asked her if she knew who I was. 

She looked at me with those dark, deep-set, green eyes and said again, “You’re my boyfriend.” There’s a lot to unpack with that statement, right? How do I even respond? Do I, as current thinking suggests, just meet her where she is and play along? On Wednesday, that was hard to do. Usually, it isn’t a problem because I maintain my identity. It’s just our location that changes – we’re on Parade Street, we’re working at a deli, we’re in her house.  

This time it was different. She was lost somewhere in the past. I told her my name. She didn’t recognize it. I mentioned some other people she knows but they too were not familiar. She was afraid, telling me that we were in a “bad neighborhood.” She knew she was safe with me but she kept asking me not to leave her, to please take her home, as though I were about to abandon her in a place where she wasn’t safe. She was trying not to cry, standing at the entrance to her room, waving at me. I had to go. The doors to the wings of the SNF were already closed for the night. Her night nurse promised to check in on her regularly. Would that even help?

Her experiences melded with mine as I drove home – a long dark drive on a mostly empty highway – to a cacophony of voices and sounds in my head. How many times have I left someone in a place they didn’t want to be? How many more will I experience? And what will happen when it’s my turn? Do people avoid visiting nursing homes because they fear the elderly or because they fear their own mortality, their own lonely futures?

Next time I see her, not-my-Aunt G will not remember the details of this latest visit. That’s probably a kindness. It would be better, of course, if her strongest memories were more joyful, if those memories influenced her current experiences. That doesn’t seem to be how it works. Instead, she talks about her mom as though we’re both teenagers and her mom is struggling to stretch their income to feed everyone. 

It’s hard to shake these thoughts. It’s the worst time of year: cold, darker. There’s pressure to feel or pretend a joy that is probably antithetical for many of us. After every visit, I listen to my noisy thoughts as I drive – the sounds of the elderly crying out for a help that no one can provide, the fear in my not-my-aunt’s voice, the dismissal of caring but criminally overworked caregivers. The sounds of my husband, my mother-in-law, my mom, my grandmothers blend like car noises on a busy street. 

What’s the answer? If only I knew. I visit not-my-Aunt G selfishly because it gives me comfort to see her, even though she is nearly lost to me. It is a melancholy choice. It’s so easy to remember people the way they were. Actually participating in their current lives definitely offers unexpected gifts but spending any time among the forgotten elderly will change you in ways you can’t choose and probably wouldn’t. 

On my next visit, I’ll take a half dozen Christmas cookies and since I make a huge selection of cookies throughout December, I suspect that I’ll get to continue giving her new varieties all month. I’ll wear my holiday socks and tell her stories that I’ve already told her. Perhaps I’ll play a different role next visit. I don’t much like being her boyfriend but maybe we can work together at that deli, making turkey sandwiches.

Wishing you good health and good friends this holiday season.

Much love.

Forgotten

Train

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The color lightens for some of us on the silent smoothness of this train. There are occasional interruptions, the lonesome call from the train, hushed snores from a passenger sleeping upright, a rustling as someone digs through their bag. 

There are houses visible out the windows on the left. The view on the right is better, a mix of brush and small trees taking over ground once occupied by humans. The buildings are broken, the windows dark without glass to reflect the snow and early morning light. The yellow bricks are covered now with creeping vines and the painted initials of street art. 

The tracks flow beside the river, metal and wood paralleling water, movement of the train making the water seem still in the early sun. Seven geese swim sleekly through the green gray water. The lines of their bodies make a different kind of V, a rippled reflection of the sky. 

As the river slows, small patches fuzz like a window with a layer of frost, not frozen exactly but ready to be so. Watching the river this way, on this moving train, offers up little gifts: two dogs, one brown, one black and white, standing together at the river’s edge; a small herd of deer in an open field across the water, a painting in the early morning art museum of my life here on this train. 

The ground opens as our speed increases. Our movement makes the sun seem to flicker as we pass by the filter of trees and brush. If I lean down a bit, it shines directly into my eyes, brilliant yellow white against a watercolor sky. There’s no snow here, the ground red brown with fallen leaves. 

I look over at my companion. He too looks out the window, a silent watcher of a silent scenery. There’s something peaceful about the gentle rocking of the train, the curve that causes all the passengers to lean slightly right or left. 

This journey is toward something. It adds a promise, a hopefulness unlikely to be fulfilled but right now no one questions it. Instead, we all face forward…looking toward that promise, that possibility without the cynicism of reality to dim the morning light.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate.

Much love.

Train

Socks and Soothes

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

I’m procrastinating this morning. I *should* be perfecting chapter one, now that the novel is done. Instead, I am doing anything that will enable me to avoid working on that damn chapter. And by anything, I really do mean ANYTHING, including writing the book review that I have tried to write three times previously. I hated the ARC so much that I’ve been writing my feelings. That’s a bit like eating my feelings but fewer calories, more mean words. 

It’s been weirdly beautiful in Pittsburgh which doesn’t seem fair since the AQI was 223 on Friday and above 150 yesterday. Shouldn’t Mother Nature send us apocalyptic imagery to warn us of danger? Instead, she’s been giving us glorious clear days with warm temperatures to entice us outside to be poison  …. Hold up. Nice play, Mother Nature. Well done, you.

I’m working on a craft article – also a procrastination strategy except for the money aspect, of course. Writing about writing is difficult because the advice will always be the same. If you want to be good at anything, including writing, you need to dream about it, think about it constantly, and hope. No, no. Sorry. I was thinking about something else. If you want to be good at something, you have to do it over and over and over again. That’s it. 

You won’t necessarily become good by practicing a lot but you’ll definitely get better. I, for example, will never be an opera singer but I can get better at singing by singing. My youngest son knows this because I do it all the bloody time and he is … unsympathetic to my goals. Also, I haven’t improved much, to be fair. That won’t stop me, though, because you should not ever let external voices stop you from trying to reach your goals. 

Socks, the puppy who lives a few doors down from us, likes to hold his own leash when he walks every morning at about the same time that we leave the house. Yes, that’s right. A golden retriever puppy – maybe three months old? – goes for a walk on my street every morning and holds his own leash. I don’t know why but that feels like the external realization of my life goals – doing what I want and holding my own leash while I do it.

My therapist retired. She told me that I’m the client she has known the longest, which should be awesome but feels like it is probably depressing. I don’t feel depressed about it but I suspect that if I were to talk about it, other people would give me that look, the one that says “god damn, you’re actually crazy.” Shouldn’t we spend our lives working to be better, healthier versions of ourselves? God knows that I’ve had the kind of life where that sort of work should be a constant. 

Thanks to the toxicity of our healthcare payment system and our social rhetoric, mental health is viewed as something taboo or dangerous. By having a therapist, I’m telling the world that there is something wrong with me. Well, there is something wrong with me and you should all thank me for trying to reduce its impact on you. HA

Many, many college students frequent the coffee shop where I am now. Coffee shops didn’t really exist when I was a student (before the time of the dinosaurs). My college had a very smoky, basement dive where I could get a crappy sandwich except that I was dead broke 100% of the time, so, instead, I brought PB&J to eat while I sat there and did homework. It was my favorite hangout but before I discovered that place, I was close with another student. We went to high school together and had the same major for a bit. I had four different majors in college so it wasn’t an extended closeness but memorable. We used to study in the library together, near a table of engineering students. I didn’t realize until much later in life (yesterday) that engineers in the 1980s rarely saw women in their classes. It explains a lot. 

One day, I was walking to our usual table and the guys stopped me. They wanted to know where my friend was. Now, you know, I’m a fairly mouthy person. It might even be safe to say that my personality is BIG MOUTH. This is an important point because, as a 20 year old, I catered to these cute boys for months, flirting and the whole deal, and what did they say when I showed up on the second floor of the library without my bestie? “Where is SHE?” 

If life were a movie, my rage would have caused them to disintegrate. Instead, because they were 20-something boys, they were just confused by my frustrated response, my ‘80s version of “seriously?”. It’s worth noting that those are the men who post on Reddit now talking about how completely clueless they were in college. Yes, yes, you were. Stupid men. 

As far as I know, my friend from those days had zero interest in those boys. She was brilliant, had a full ride and is massively successful these days. I, on the other hand, had a partial scholarship and no idea what I wanted out of life. Still don’t honestly. I did know, however, that I was very interested in one particular boy at that table. I don’t even remember his name, have no idea where life took him, but I do remember that feeling, most particularly that feeling of not being the one he wanted. 

After I told them all to go to H-E-double hockey sticks (I didn’t swear back then), I moved on. There was a super-cute rugby player. Need I say more? He was also a genuinely nice person and I hope that he too is massively successful at whatever he ended up doing.

What did I learn in college? I learned that rugby > engineering. 

Much love. And sorry for the title. I couldn’t help myself.

Socks and Soothes

School(ing)

Deb Zuroski, , , , 2 Comments

It’s a strange day at the coffee shop. Saturdays are always busy in a walking community but today is a mean day, a liar, promising summer’s warmth through its brilliant blue sky but delivering a chill breeze that has many people shivering. 

A husband scolded his sundress-wearing wife for not bringing a jacket. She laughed, soothing a baby in a stroller, and told him that she’d forgotten it. (Yeah, man, she’s already got a lot going on; don’t be mean.) A young man took his sweatshirt off and gave it to a girl, helping her adjust the collar so she looked just SO in it. Then, he walked with her, a little smile on his face. It was surprisingly sweet on this mean day.

A woman approached an older, graying man and asked him if he was who she thought. He bowed. It was rather charming. He was, in fact, who she thought. I didn’t recognize him but I probably wouldn’t recognize Chris Hemsworth if he sat down across from me. This gentleman was not, by the way, tall enough to be a Hemsworth, in case you think I’m hinting something. He seems Pittsburgh-famous, which would still be meaningless to me. I once attended a dinner party with a famous retired Steeler (it was Franco Harris) and had no idea. 

An absolutely beautiful, tall (6’4″ maybe) Asian man walked by a bit ago wearing a full-length black trench coat. He returned a little later and hovered outside the coffee shop, looking like a member of a boy band. It made me laugh. I just finished reading an ARC about a pop star who goes incognito, as if that’s actually a thing. It seemed like our mysterious trench coat man was waiting for someone because he stood, phone in hand, watching the pedestrian traffic. I have no idea what happened to him because I was working and stopped watching him. Perhaps his security team showed up and whisked him away. 

The leaves are swirling on the sidewalk, occasionally taking flight or falling from the trees that line this street. I will have to shake the small yellow leaves from my jacket when I eventually stand. They linger, sticking to the soft, dark blue cotton, a rather lovely contrast, a temporary fall brooch.

There’s a melancholy isolation to sitting here. Occasionally, I see someone I know. We nod, say a few words of greeting before I return to my computer and they go about their journey. I am, though, also invisible. Groups of people meet like the tide rolling in to meet the sandy beach and break apart again just like the tide drawing back. There’s a rhythm to all things, isn’t there? I suspect that the ocean does not see the individual fish, either. 

If we are each, truly, invisible, what is the lesson? To be less invisible? I don’t think so. I think the lesson may be that we need not worry over — or more importantly be changed by — the thoughts and opinions of others. If, after all, we are invisible, then our actions matter to no one but our individual selves. Perhaps, on the next mean day, I’ll give that a try.

Much love.

School(ing)

Little Green Umbrella

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

Give me the confidence of a woman who talks to strangers with the justified expectation that her conversational gambits will be successful. She jumped right into a conversation with me by pointing to my umbrella (stuffed into my backpack because it isn’t raining.) and telling me that it reminds her to buy a little one to carry around with her. 

I took my headphones out and responded to her. It took a minute, actually, to pull me out of my work and figure out what she meant. I’m so used to the little green umbrella tucked in the outside pocket of my bag that, at first, I didn’t realize that was what she was pointing toward. 

She told me that no one carries good, small umbrellas anymore. She’s got big umbrellas but they’re a pain to carry around and she forgets them. The little ones break as soon as there is a stiff breeze and what good is that. Honestly, she’s not wrong. 

From there, somehow, we ended up in a discussion of the loss of local shopping options. She doesn’t like malls and hated when Kaufmann’s was sold to Macy’s. Apparently, there were lots of good stores downtown at one point. My favorite was Kaufmann’s – good sales, good clothes, great bakery. It was 11 delightful floors of fun and I miss it, even though I would probably never go there these days. 

Downtown shopping led to a lengthy critique of communities – she mourns the loss of sandwich shops in the community where I’m sitting right now. There really aren’t any good sandwich shops in the area. Hmm. Another good point from my new friend. I see her at the coffee shop every time I’m here and I’ve never considered talking to her. Just busy, you know. Who else has something to share? Who else just wants someone to talk with for a bit?

We chatted for maybe 30 minutes and then she left to catch the bus. She rides public transport from the North Hills community every day to come to this coffee shop because she knows the owner. Also, she likes Millie’s ice cream and would like them to open a store here because there’s no good ice cream in our neighborhood. (She’s also right about that.)

I just turned down my music so I could eavesdrop on my table neighbor. He spends a couple hours here every day, working on a project that seems to be life-changing. It probably isn’t but who doesn’t think their projects are life-changing?! Anyway, he received some bad news today about the project, slammed his computer shut, cursed under his breath for a few minutes and then left. SAME, brother. SAME.

Can we talk about the creepy coffeeshop regular who touched me — very creepily — the other day? Actually, I don’t want to talk about it. Any woman reading this already knows EXACTLY what I would say. Any guy reading this — if you even THINK for a blink of a moment that it was an accident, I hope you get cramps in your calves every night about 15 minutes after you fall asleep for the rest of your life OR until you realize that men don’t run their hands along other MEN’S backs accidentally. Weird coincidence, that.

Lots of stuff – shorts and poems – out to sub right now and the novel in revision. I wish I could type faster to get everything done that I’m trying to do. I have absolutely the most hilarious idea for a holiday novella. I just can’t wait to get to it but I also have two new novels in planning. It’s raining ideas and I don’t have an umbrella…oh wait. I’ve got that little green one in my backpack.

Much love.

Little Green Umbrella

Autumnal Breeze

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

Is it the shock of the first actually chilly day that has people looking a little disheveled this morning? There’s a young man (he’s my age – that’s still young, right?) walking down the sidewalk away from the diner that’s across the street. He’s in a suit but his shirt tail is peeking out under the back of his jacket. He’s lumbering rather than looping, a tired walk, heavy and a little sad. A very light drizzle, barely a mizzle, has started. It makes him clutch his take-out boxes closer, even though they’re tied into the plastic bag he carries in one hand. 

In contrast, a young woman walks by the coffee shop – the big garage door is open to the fall breeze – but she does not seem to notice her coffee-shop audience. She’s delighting in today’s temperature. How can I tell? It’s a combination of things, I think. She’s wearing a textured brown sweater striped with rusty orange and a deep fall-leaf red. It looks new and I’d bet she’s been watching the weather forecast, awaiting the day she gets to make the big reveal. Honestly, who wouldn’t? That sweater is FIRE. Her lipstick matches the red stripe and it looks goooood. She knows it, too. She’s walking tall – a wide-open stride, her doc martens hitting the pavement with that sound that doc martens make. 

I know this sound well. I’m not wearing my docs today but only because I refuse to give in to the siren call of autumn days. It’s too gray today to celebrate the crisp air and decaying-leaf smell that signals the end of another season. The fall decorations are up across the street at the bakery, big colorful leaves and pumpkins but I remain committed to summer, my only concession to the weather is my jeans.

Musical interlude: Van Morrison, “Someone Like You”

The clouds have broken, encouraging more pedestrian traffic. It’s causing a hypothesis to spring to mind on this autumn day, as another woman strides past. She is wearing a pretty long-sleeved peasant blouse and tossing her shampoo-commercial hair. I want to walk with that amount of confidence on a gray September day. 

The danger of testing a hypothesis is the data cherry-picking that occurs. Case in point, the man walking by in a nice flannel. He’s dressed perfectly fine, not remarkably but hardly disheveled. Instead, I focus on the man walking across the street. He’s wearing vibrant blue knee-high soccer socks, matching soccer shorts, shower shoes – the slip-on kind that guys seem to favor – and a long-sleeved blue shirt that, tonally, is drastically different from the socks and shorts. 

Musical interlude:  Joy Division, “Love Will Tear Us Apart”

We could – if we were objectifying people, which we are NOT doing because it’s wrong – discuss the very affectionate fit of the jeans on the man who just entered the diner. Those are some nice jeans. They’re doing a great job. I’d like to give those jeans a gold star. 

I regularly see a big, bearded man who rides a rental scooter on one of the busiest roads in our community. He fully rides down the middle of the street gesturing angrily at the cars, actively daring drivers to cross him, test him. He wants trouble but he’s angry, not enjoying the challenge that he throws out.

Musical interlude: Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, “Red Right Hand”

Here, though, the scooter riders are almost joyful. The sun is out at the moment and shining brightly on the opposite side of the street. They fly past, those scooter-riders, their hair streaming behind them, their clothes brilliant in the light, their smiles big, wide. The last time I had a smile like that I was riding a bike downhill, my speedometer approaching 40mph. I still think about how that felt, the tingle of terror at the speed, the weightless, effortlessness of it. They’re probably cold but nobody thinks of that when they’re flying and the sun is shining and just for a moment they’re powerful and free from responsibility.

Musical interlude: Yard Act w/Elton John, “100% Endurance”

Perhaps there is something in the air today. A man far too old for me (lol) called me beautiful when he tried to hold the door for me this afternoon. I laughed which probably wasn’t the proper response but I did thank him so there’s that at least. Then, as I was walking home from a diner in Bloomfield where I met my eldest for lunch, a man in a dump truck was … um, politely admiring, which was nice, I guess. I did check when I got home and yes, I am fully dressed and not flashing anything. Must, indeed, be something in the air today or maybe my jeans should also get a gold star? 

Musical interlude: Daniel Nunnelee, “Pick and Choose” 

Go outside, even if just for a minute today, and breathe it in. There’s something in the air.

Much love.

Autumnal Breeze

The Bennet Daughters

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 2 Comments

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