writing

A MISH MASH

Deb Zuroski, , , , 2 Comments

Pittsburgh, like all cities, has a seedy side, a section of town where, I have discovered, one can unexpectedly watch a stranger’s M-M porn selection playing on a big screen television next to wide open windows as the pink light of dawn floods the morning sky. How do I know this? Well, it turns out that Amtrak and Greyhound both depart across the street from the big picture window of Liberty Bail Bonds. And that’s all I have to say about that … well, other than: “learn something new every day.”

In completely unrelated news, Pride month is underway with a full line-up of activities, including a festival in my neighborhood. An acquaintance cheerfully informed me that I can get a free drink when I get my free STD test at the festival. Thanks for the info, I guess? Since I don’t drink, they suggested a Shirley Temple, which made me wonder if STB appreciated having a drink named after her very young self. A quick Google suggests that she hated it, which seems particularly on brand for her. Adult life after a childhood owned by others must have been something of a trial for her. 

Apropos of nothing in particular, I was both mis-gendered and mis-labeled (as butch) on the same day that I was offered a free STD test and got an eyeful of porn before I’d even had an iced tea. Do these experiences make me or Pittsburgh chaotic neutral? Perhaps both. 

In service to all of you, I discovered, through application, that the weight of a box of tiles is equal to the number of stairs to be climbed x the outdoor temperature x the number of boxes to be carried x the distance traveled with each box x the height to which each box has to be lifted. This formula was tested extensively (by me and my eldest). In addition, we believe there may be a direct correlation between the amount of sweat produced and the number of activities scheduled immediately after the last box of tiles has been carried, i.e., the more one sweats the more need there is to be presentable directly after (or perhaps during) sweat production.

In news you don’t want to read, I went bra shopping with my daughter. She is helping me, in the first of many children parenting the parent moments in my future. Generally, I hate shopping but being with her while I tried on bras and subsequently contemplated my future as a Ren Fest cosplayer was legendary. If you’ve ever attended a Ren Fest, you can visualize the possibilities. I mean, seriously, why do two bras of the same size provide such astonishingly different fits? One was too big and another was so small only one of the girls was actually in the bra. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard during an experience that could have been frustrating and humiliating. Daughters, my friends. They deserve accolades.

Recently, my sister’s dog and I were at the coffee shop. We’re not allowed inside (except to get our drinks) but she’s perfectly happy outside, getting pets and greeting all the dogs. She absolutely loves dogs. We’ve made friends with a Bernese mountain dog and two bull terriers so far. Sadly, we did not get to visit with Fred, the miniature long-haired dachshund. 

Unfortunately for Regal’s patience, the people at the table next to mine were eating bagel sandwiches that smelled absolutely fantastic. Regal tried crying, sitting on their feet, putting her nose on the table, and crying again. I stopped all of her efforts, to her disgust. The women sitting at the table were very sweet about it. They spoke Dutch to each other but addressed me in perfect English, when Regal clothes-lined one of them (yes, she absolutely did). I think it was all part of Regal’s plot to steal the food, practical from her perspective but embarrassing from mine.

We left shortly after that to visit the chickens. Regal has a fantasy about chickens that seems to involve eating them. They don’t care about her at all. In fact, they’re very used to dogs; it’s the life of city chickens. They live beside the sidewalk, chicken wire protecting them from invasive snoots, of which Regal’s is definitely one. Sadly, we were not able to stay long, staring at chickens. There was a very small dog with a very loud bark. It was scary, more scary than chickens are amazing.

After our walk, I returned alone to the coffee shop to continue working (which I am currently not doing because words are hard). My first act upon sitting was to spill some tea – the liquid kind, sadly. It made surprisingly little noise – a squishing sound rather than a crash. Two men rushed to help, one actually cleaning up part of the mess while I begged for a mop. Twenty years ago, I would have evaporated on the spot but no longer. These days, I swear and move on, which was, apparently, the right response because the customer sitting next to me laughed when I cursed (quietly).

The Appalachian Trail trip starts tomorrow – way too early in the morning. I’m completely ready (hahahahaha). Last night, I finished tick-proofing my gear and today I’m rethinking all my life choices. JK. I also bought new hiking boots. I know. I know. But my options were sore feet from bad boots or sore feet from new boots.  

We’ll be hiking the Shenandoah and my plan is to take about 3 gazillion pictures. My other plan is to not die or significantly injure myself but we’re playing that one by ear, as they say. 

For any thieves thinking I just confessed to an empty house, don’t be fooled. The house will be more full of people than usual thanks to parties being thrown in my absence. Lol. Also, I have a large and protective bull terrier. She loves me but she will absolutely hate you if you try to break into the house. You do not want to know what she does when she hates something. Facts.

All the dogs know something is UP. Every time I move, the puppy train connects to my heels. They absolutely will not let me move without following me. Tomorrow is going to be ruff (sorry, not sorry) for them.

One more sleep and one more shower before the big adventure. Ten miles a day and a nightly snooze in a hammock. Life goals.

See you on the flip side.

Much love.

A MISH MASH

To My Mother

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment
Mom’s high school grad picture

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. 

You left us 26 years ago on a cold day in January. The 9th day to be specific. At the time, there were three grandbabies. You met all three though, I’m sorry if this hurts you, they never really knew you. 

Now there are six grandchildren – three boys and three girls. I talk and write about you but it’s not the same. Of course it isn’t. How could anything but your presence paint more than a rough portrait of you? 

I’ve told my daughter – almost 25 years old now – all about your sewing skills, your drawing ability, your fashion sense. She asks sometimes what you would think of something she made. Like the blankets she crocheted. I told her that my sister and I taught you to crochet when we learned in our Home Econ class in high school. 

Mom on her wedding day, 08/25/1956

You were always a quick study, learning new skills at will, though never giving yourself credit for the effort that takes. Instead, you beat yourself up your entire life for not going to college. I’m not even convinced that you wanted a college education, though you totally could have done it. I know that your mom wanted you to go to college, perhaps because that wasn’t an option for Grandma. 

My kids all know about your green thumb, Mom, about how you could get anything – except violets – to grow. Do you remember how I used to tease you because I could grow violets? I was so proud of being able to do something you couldn’t do. Having a special touch with violets made me feel 10 feet tall. Somehow, after leaving home, I completely lost my skill. I haven’t been able to keep a violet alive since I was 20 years old. Rather suspicious, don’t you think? 

You also taught me about secrets, though it may have been an unintended lesson. I’ve never met a better secret keeper than you. In truth, it’s unlikely I ever will. My children learned, instead, the danger of secrets. We are open books, thinking, perhaps, that talking is a better way of living. I don’t blame you. I doubt that there was any generation more emotionally unavailable than the children of two world wars (my grandparents). How could you possibly be open when your own parents were so stoic, so remarkably inaccessible?

I miss you every day, you know. When I pull out your cookbook or the recipes written in your elegant script, I think about what it was like to work in the kitchen with you. Your pies were the stuff of legend. No one who bought them from the many, many bake sales for school events and Girl Scouts ever knew how often you cried while you made the crust. No matter how much you fussed that you’d lost your touch, each crust was perfect, flaky and delicious. I’ve never – even using your recipe and your rolling pin – made a crust as good as yours. 

My eldest son has stood beside me – 5 inches taller with a full beard – to make pies just like you and I did. Strawberry, apple, rhubarb, key lime, lemon meringue – we’ve made them all. Do you remember how much you hated the graham cracker crust that we made for strawberry pie? You’d say, every time, that the graham cracker flavor was overbearing. And I say, every time I make one, that you never liked that graham cracker crust. What do you suppose my kids will say when they make strawberry pie in their own homes?

Sometimes, when I make a meal using a recipe that isn’t yours, I’ll look at your version just to remember, again, what it was like to sit in the kitchen doing homework while you and I talked. My kids don’t do homework on the kitchen table with the tablecloth rolled back. They work on laptop computers in their rooms. But they know, because I’ve told them, what it was like to sit there talking to you until Dad got home. How, if I was fast enough, I’d run to my room before he saw me and took a swing.

It’s not your fault, though. I get that you couldn’t figure out how to stop him, that you were protecting yourself too. I’m only a little mad at you for putting your own safety ahead of mine. I’d have put your safety first too, you know. If only you’d asked. You didn’t intend it but you taught me about my own strength. His hands hurt me so much less than they would have hurt you. I’m mostly at peace with it – well, with some of it anyway – and I hope you are too. 

You were never able to forgive yourself for any of your humanity – your flaws, your choices, your life. I hope you have found peace, wherever you are. One time, shortly before you died, my son held your finger and you said to him, “Remember me.” 

It was a lot to ask of him – barely 1 year old when you died. It was a lot to ask of me, too, really. Sometimes I feel like I was just an adult-in-training when you died; but I have kept you alive, in my own way, through my own memories. Perhaps that is enough.

Love you forever, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

Back row: My grandparents-C. Park and Marion Graves
Front row: Charles Park Graves, Jr, Mary Ann Graves Ainsworth (my mom), Patricia Graves Thorr, William Graves
To My Mother

The Second Best Chris(lite)

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Hospitals are strange places. 

I’m sitting in a waiting room that’s playing 80s music but not the good stuff. The sound is probably supposed to be calming but I think it might be just increasing the ambient noise level without adding any benefits. It’s very busy here, with people arriving every few minutes. Most patients have a designated wait-person (like me) who stays in the waiting room after the patient is called to go through a mysterious door to ‘somewhere else’. 

A surprising number of people in the room are listening to things on their phones. I know they are because none of them have headphones. I’ve listened (unwillingly) to news reports, songs, game sounds, voice messages, and phone calls. Is it rude to do this? Since so many of them are doing it, perhaps I’m the anomalous person in the room. 

“Soulfight” by The Revivalists is playing on my playlist. They’ll be at the music festival I’m going to later this month and I cannot wait to see them perform. The sound is very bluesy, melancholy even, which sort of fits the day.

Across from me is a neurodivergent man with his elderly father. They’re waiting for Mom, as the elderly man keeps reminding his very impatient son. The adult child has a good throwing arm, which he just demonstrated for the entire room. I caught the action in my periphery. It was a solid effort, fast and possibly very accurate, if the woman he hit was his target.

Should I wait elsewhere? I wouldn’t embarrass the father but I also don’t think I have the skills to avoid being clocked by a water bottle hurtled across the room. On top of that, I’m not sure I would be as gracious and undisturbed as the woman hit by the last one. Not that I would yell. More likely I would do something stupid like burst into tears. (Yeah, I’m a crier and it’s a burden.)

Many years ago, I was at swim class with my son. It was one of those baby classes so I had to go in with him. Someone’s child who was running around the pool area, unattached to a parent, grabbed the pole that holds the flags warning backstrokers of the pool edge. (I was a backstroker. Those flags are essential to solid flip turns and head-bump prevention.) 

The poles aren’t heavy. He easily pulled it out of its hole but immediately dropped it, directly on my head. It all happened so fast. I wasn’t watching him, you know? I was carrying my baby, watching my footing on a slippery pool deck. CONK. I immediately burst into tears. To this day, I cringe when I think of that. My sweet MIL was there to collect baby Tristan while I examined my life choices in my mom-suit, squatting on the cold pool deck. LOL

Next up on the playlist – “Like Real People Do.” Hozier’s lyricism is remarkable. I want, once in my life, to write emotion the way he does. 

An important note: the hospital events are over and I am now at the coffee shop doing my coffee-shop things. Weirdly, I am grumpy, however, and not much enjoying the coffee-shop life atm. There aren’t any dogs here but the “people who do not use headphones” set has followed me, which requires that I turn my sound up so I don’t hear conversations, news reports, etc. Background noise doesn’t disturb me at all but I can’t seem to tune out a cell phone speaker. 

It’s graduation/end of semester time here in the city of colleges. The students across the street all moved out last weekend. Pitt students are also out or mostly so. CMU graduation is this weekend, also known as the weekend when students dump their unused cleaning products curbside. That’s a mouthful, though, so I just call it graduation.

Cleaning products are not, of course, the only things overly optimistic parents purchase for their kids to not use while at school. Hangers, sheets, garbage cans, clothing (tags on), lamps, tables, shelf-stable food, garbage bags, ziploc bags, storage boxes, notebooks …. I’ve written about this before. The new or nearly new reusable items to be found curbside are plentiful. 

For a highly vocal generation that marches and protests about climate change, it is noteworthy but perhaps also unsurprising that a very wealthy minority is apparently disinterested in or utterly unaware of reusability, rampant poverty, and the importance of not adding to landfills. If only we could connect the various organizations – 412FoodRescue, the Free Store, Construction Junction, the Center for Creative Reuse – with this predictable opportunity to prevent waste.

Told you I’m a little grumpy today ….

“What’s New” by Ax and the Hatchetman – a work of art, in my opinion – is currently playing. They remind me a little of Huey Lewis and the News and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. HORNS.

A guy at the table diagonal to me just said “Well, I mean, you can die anytime.” Yep, and yet, I’ll bet we could all have gone the whole day without thinking about our own mortality, so thanks for that. But fine. You’re right. I guess I’ll get the roof repaired. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience on my deathbed. 

Musical interludes continue with “All We Ever Knew” by The Head And The Heart. 

The coffee shop window is open. The sun is bright in a nearly cloudless blue sky. The weather is such that you can find every type of outfit here: hoodies, shorts, tank tops and that’s just the three women at the front of the coffee line. (Rim shot here)

Chris Pine’s doppelganger was here a little bit ago. He was a bit younger than the actor and clean-shaven. The Chris from his Princess Diaries days, wearing the bluest shirt I swear I’ve ever seen. It rivaled the sky in blueness. I’m not exaggerating. It also did some very nice things for his eyes, so there’s that, I guess. 

He’s gone, much to the disappointment of my friends, for whom I was to kidnap said doppelganger. Now, I’m sitting in the coffee shop with rope, duct tape, and a VERY innocent expression on my face. 

Maybe he’ll come back for a refill.

Much love.

The Second Best Chris(lite)

Cookies for Breakfast?

Deb Zuroski, Leave a comment

Behind me, a toddler is eating a chocolate chip cookie approximately the size of her face. She is doing this because she is currently alone with her father or perhaps her uncle. As I write this, it is 10:12AM, which is a marginally important element of the story. 

My favorite seat has been in high demand due to the recent warm weather. Because it is currently 45F, there is zero competition for the seat beside the door – the door that opens to the outside approximately once per minute. Of course, I’m sitting in it.

I’m a little less than 20,000 words from finishing my latest novel. Friends tell me that I’m always 20,000 words from finishing. Yeah, that was two novels ago. Please. Like writers can stop when they finish a book. It’s 18 months to two years from “The End” to published and available in stores (aka, making money). If we stopped writing after finishing a book, we’d all starve (except maybe Emily Henry, whose movie deals on ALL her novels have certainly made it possible for her to never write again, should she choose).

It’s still too chilly for pedestrian traffic which means I’m going to have to work on the novel for a bit instead of procrastinating by people watching. Except for the two girls who just walked by wearing those little plastic hands on their fingers, talking animatedly while their finger-hands wave in the air. That’s exactly what I’m here for, exactly why I’m shivering beside the door.

I think someone (the dad behind me?) might be starting to figure out why it’s not a good idea to give your toddler a cookie the size of their face. She’s super cute but she’s got a lot of sugar zipping around inside that little body now. Honestly, I’m rather enjoying Dad’s irritation. (He’s on his phone.) Doesn’t he carry two crayons and some paper everywhere he goes? I STILL have crayons in some of my bags. Okay, okay. They’re for me, to entertain me when I’m bored but they used to be for the kids. I swear.

They’re leaving now. She stared at me as she walked out the door. I’d like to think she did so because I smiled but I think it was because my hair is blue. It’s quite a feat that she made it out the door since she isn’t looking where she’s going (in the way little kids have) AND her hands are full. 

Dad gave that little charmer a FULL cup of water with no lid. She’s walking down the sidewalk, carrying her cookie bag in one hand and her full, lidless cup of water in the other hand. Any bets on how long it will take her to spill it? Any bets on where it goes:  on Dad, on her, on the sidewalk, some of the above, all of the above? Sadly, we’ll never know because I’d have to follow them out of the coffee shop.

I was in an ultrasound room last week (not as the patient!), watching the procedure. I asked the technician what the ultrasound of Kane’s (John Hurt’s character in Alien) stomach would have shown. She thought that was a weird question (I mean, sure). No one has ever asked her that before but to be fair, she’s finishing her training so how many ultrasounds has she even done? Also, she was like 10 so maybe she hasn’t seen Alien.

River just arrived and confirmed that the ONLY reason for life is DOGS. He’s an older goldie and so, so sweet. In addition to people watching, I get immediate access to all dogs by sitting at the entrance. I am a dog whisperer, at least in my own mind. Max, one of the neighborhood dogs, would beg to differ. He runs to me for a treat but absolutely forbids pets. I get it. I wouldn’t want strangers touching me either. 

Time for a story about one of the many ways people suffer for fashion:  next to me, a young woman has just taken a seat at a table. She’s wearing a very cute square-necked dress in a pretty pale pink and beige flower pattern. The dress is short, very short. As she sits, I hear a gasp because her dress is too short to cover the seat. And yes, the seat is COLD. Who has not experienced that shock of suddenly freezing or burning your butt off? This and the lack of pockets are the two things I regret most about my earlier fashion choices.

One of the big sidewalk benches is placed directly opposite me. You know how, sometimes you look at the same view for days and weeks and then suddenly something changes but you don’t notice the change immediately? I don’t know when the bench moved but I sure hope it was last night. 

Anyway, there’s a couple in bright jackets sitting on the seat. She’s in red. He’s in orange. And they have a bakery bag, which they’re currently sifting through. AHHH. Cookies. They each take a big chocolate chip cookie – just like that toddler. Not going to lie. Those chocolate chip cookies are damn good. I buy them every week for my not-my-Aunt G. 

The couple is sitting in the sun, knees touching, while they munch away on those cookies. I think I’ve changed my mind about whether one should eat cookies in the morning. Suddenly the success of Cookie Crisp cereal is less confusing to me.

Much love.

Cookies for Breakfast?

A Scoop of Birthday Cake Ice Cream To Go

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

I’ve been working on a blog post for days. DAYS, I tell you. Something hasn’t clicked though and all of those words, thousands of them, have gone to the digital trash heap in the cloud. (IYGIYGI)

Recently, I got into a … verbal altercation … with someone. This is unusual for me. I am not the kind of person who invests in that sort of drama. It shook me, if you want to know the truth. The woman, unfortunately for me, works at a store that I go to relatively frequently and now I’m debating whether I can return. I may be leaving the country and changing my name.

Technically, I was not at fault, as she started it. Nonetheless, I have gone over my own behavior (a post-mortem, you know) and I think I could have handled the situation more effectively. Blergh. There’s nothing to be done other than to determine whether I can bring myself to go back to that place again. Conflict sucks.

I’m at the coffee shop, working on a book. Up until today, it’s been going well, making me laugh, though this afternoon I spend most of my time reflecting back the light of a blank screen or pressing delete to erase badly constructed sentences. I sigh and look up to see a couple in line to get drinks. They’re turned toward each other, laughing, bits of their bodies touching in that way that couples sometimes have. It’s as though their whole beings are slightly magnetized so that if they’re close enough, their bodies automatically make contact – two fingers, their shoulders, even their hair. It’s so lovely to watch the dance of their connectedness.

The day itself is sharply melancholy in that way a day can be. It’s beautiful – warm with the crisp scent of spring and the bright light of a cloudless sky – but all of the things that make it beautiful are things that, in the coin flip of daily life, also create the perfect conditions for melancholia.

Groups of people gather, their chatter incessant, almost boisterous. A couple sits at the window, their hands clasped on the table. As they get up to leave, she takes his arm and snuggles into his shoulder before he slips his arm from her grasp and, instead, takes her hand, twining their fingers together. They walk out of the shop smiling at each other. 

Someone asks to take the extra chair from my table. I’m alone, of course, so it’s empty and available to them. I nod and they slip the chair into place at another table, one that already has six chairs stuffed around it. Now those people sit around the tiny table. It’s so small that their ring of chairs creates a moat of knees encircling the table. They too are loud with the found joy of their togetherness, sipping lattes, hot teas, espressos, and a loan Americano.

Enough of this mood. I head home and make my youngest a meatball sub for dinner. He’s delighted by my attempt to alter the energy of my day but I still haven’t accomplished that. Fine. I can do better. I text my daughter and offer her and her roomie free ice cream. I defy anyone to feel gloomy with handmade ice cream. 

They meet me at the ice cream shop. It’s called Treat, apropos for an ice cream shop. I get a scoop of salted caramel, though the lavender raspberry was a very close second. My guests get mint chocolate chip and a combo of creamy peach and lemon drop custard. It’s all great, honestly. Unfortunately, it is also unsuccessful at releasing me from this funk. Ridiculous. If even a scoop of ice cream enjoyed on a shady bench can’t brush the dour mist from my gaze then it might be smarter to just start again tomorrow. 

There’s no point in continuing to write comedy when the words flowing from my fingers lack even the wit of the grave.

Hoping that tomorrow brings me counsel and you delight.

Much love.

A Scoop of Birthday Cake Ice Cream To Go

Magnolia Petals

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There’s a weird muddle of things in my head. I may have expected the month change to clear that muddle. Alas, it remains in place. Happily, though, the rain that washed away the last of March brought April in a glorious fluster, pranking us with a day of wind storms. I fully expected that my beautiful magnolia, which blooms for less than a week every year, would be bloom-less by Saturday’s end. Surprisingly, those soft white blossoms have held on. 

I know my neighbor is watching out his window (there’s no curtain so I actually do know this) to see if he can get out his petal-removal tools. Every year, magnolia petals cover my yard (and part of my neighbor’s) in a whitish brown blanket which he then inevitably leaf-blows onto my yard before the day reaches noon. (He brought out the leaf-blower yesterday though there were not yet any petals for him to blow. It matters not to him; he finds many reasons to wield that leaf blower. How he loves that thing.)

Leaf-blower’s wife is also quite elderly and terribly lovely, both in her heart and in her face. Today, she told me that her son’s been coming over every weekend lately to help out around the house. Isn’t that lovely? Okay, now to Paul Harvey this story. Her son is nearly 70. I forget, sometimes, just how old she is – 93 next month, she proudly tells me. What a gift that is. I would offer up significant tribute to have my mom alive and as healthy as my next door neighbor. I would, in fact, be delighted to visit Mom every weekend and help out around the house.

Of course, about 15 minutes after her chat with me, Mrs. and Mr. Leaf-blower got into a robust bickering argument that caused me to slink gracelessly into the house to avoid making eye contact with either of them. (Close proximity is one of the many delights of city neighborhoods.) Usually, their arguments are funny but today’s involved some questions that are not safe (i.e., do you think I’m stupid?). I did not want to stick around in case he actually answered her.

I’m a week into car-lessness, resulting in some delightful snafus, for example, when I ordered Chinese food for pick-up from a restaurant two miles away. A roundtrip walk of four miles is not the problem. A backpack filled with chicken lo mein is. I borrowed a car for food pick-up. 

As I walked this morning, I met another neighbor whose dog is Max. I am sorry to report that I have no knowledge of the neighbor’s name. He claimed, during our Max adulation session, that he spotted a kestrel sitting on our street sign. I cannot confirm the sighting, sadly. I can report, however, that Max licked my palm. Achievement unlocked.

Many, many students have come into the coffee shop today, some of them debating the merits of wearing orange. I’m assuming that they’re talking about protesting but I can’t tell if there is a walk-out underway or not. Last week’s swattings here were devastating. There’s been a lot of chatter since about what it’s like to sit in lock down for five or more hours. Trauma does not require gunfire so much as the fear or anticipation that it is coming. 

The kids are leaving now. I’m seated at my favorite spot, inside the coffee shop but right by the door. The big garage door is open to today’s promise of later warmth. The sky is the color of my mom’s eyes, though it holds less sorrow and fewer clouds.

One of the fun things about my current seat is the bouquet of scents that I get to experience. Let’s start with the knowledge that the coffee shop shares this street with a Sephora, a L’Occitane, a hot yoga studio, AND a gym. In addition, lots of people “sneak” their pizzas, burgers, and cinnamon rolls in here … lol. As if we don’t all smell the food, the musky sweat, the overindulgent flowery perfume. It’s a delight for the … scentses (sorry, sorry. I tried to stop my fingers from typing that but they insisted).

I’m procrastinating right now because I’ve written myself into a doorless and windowless room. I am completely stuck. While my subconscious is working on unsticking myself, I’ve been paying attention to the stories around me. 

Across the street, a new business is going in where the Piatt/Sotheby’s used to be. Contractors painted over the street art on the side of the building. I couldn’t even tell you how long the art was there. It was lovely, a single scrollwork word painted in a multitude of colors that wept like tears. I know street artists accept that their work is temporary but I felt a little like weeping, too, when I saw what the contractors had done.

A young woman comes to the coffee shop pretty regularly, as I would know, of course. She reads whenever she’s here and sometimes makes careful margin notes in tidy, blue-inked writing. What does she think of the books she’s reading? Her expression, particularly her eyebrows, is very fluid. She has a fun face to watch, though I’ll bet she doesn’t know it.

It’s Tuesday, so the pizza shop across the street is closed. I wonder if the shop owner knows how many disappointed customers pull firmly at the door and then try again, as if the door will magically open on the second tug. It never does, you know? It’s a little like pushing the elevator button a second time, as though a second push will cause the elevator to arrive faster.

Many artists work at the tables here. One in particular likes to sketch in pencil. We’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name). He usually comes into the shop in the evening so I only see him occasionally. If I’m lucky, he’s seated where I can watch him and try to guess which customer(s) he’s sketching. (Sorry, Andrew; I swear I’ll never tell your latest muse that you’re drawing them.)

There’s an older man at the coffee shop today who comes in frequently to talk to young women. I think you know what I mean but if you don’t, I will make it clearer. This older man likes to have the attention of younger women directly focused on him. He’s not harmless, though I know it is tempting to use that language. Men who make women uncomfortable have ALREADY done harm. Such men make women think carefully about where they will go, what they will wear, whether they should leave. Nothing about that suggests harmless. 

I talked today to the mechanic who is repairing my car. He called me ‘honey.’ He doesn’t mean anything by it, does he? Except that he never calls his male customers ‘honey.’ I’d be completely fine with the mechanic, if he can’t simply call me by name, using the same pet name for me that he uses for his male customers. And vice versa. Of course, I didn’t correct him. The power dynamic isn’t equal because he’s got my car in his garage. That ‘harmless’ pet name is nothing and yet it’s also everything.

As I write these muddled thoughts, my big old pup is dreaming on her sofa (it’s really my sofa but … never mind). Sometimes, at night, she dreams so loudly in her kennel that I can hear her snuffling noises in my room on the next floor. She runs in her sleep, too, which, when she’s in her kennel, can be quite noisy, though it never seems to wake HER. This afternoon, she snored on my sunny deck, her belly pressed firmly against the warm wood. I believe there may have been rabbits or squirrels in her dream but who’s to say it wasn’t just a romp across the yard that got those feet moving.

Much love.

Magnolia Petals

Mosaic

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 5 Comments

Today, I was talking to one of the baristas at the coffee shop and we agreed that we were not in … er, top form, let’s say … in our 20s. He can’t understand why anyone was even friends with him. I’m not sure why I’m still alive. We did stupid things in our youth. Some of us are still doing stupid things in our middle age. Ahem. 

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about viridianmasquerade’s thoughts: 

What are the experiences, who are the people that make up my mosaic? I still sometimes sing a version of The Christmas Song that a friend and I wrote to celebrate McDonalds, particularly their chicken nuggets. We were 17 and I had a terrible, no-good, very bad job there (that often provided free food at the end of the night). Every Christmas, when Bing Crosby starts singing The Christmas Song on my playlist, I think about sitting at the lunch table with her and another friend as we wrote our new lyrics. ”Happy Christmas to all and please stop back again.”

Did you know that tuna – in water, of course – is my preferred bulk-up protein? When I was a bodybuilder many years ago, Joe, from a dirty little place called Joe’s Gym (still operating in my hometown), taught me the calf exercises I still use and encouraged me to eat tuna after every workout. 

When I was 21, two friends and I traveled to Cancun and nearly got ransomed or sex-trafficked or possibly murdered by two young men we met there. There is a certain (popular) song that I can’t hear without thinking of that trip and the drive deep into the heart of the jungle on a single-lane dirt road while the radio blared top 40 songs. 

My favorite banana bread recipe came from a woman I met after grad school. It was her grandmother’s recipe. My friend, and colleague at the design firm, wrote it out for me late one weekend afternoon while we sat in a local restaurant and ate grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches followed by a shared slice of caramel apple pie a la mode. I haven’t seen that woman in 30 years but the recipe is still great. 

I turn on lights – or use the flashlight on my phone – as I walk through my house because my father made me afraid of the dark when I was a single-digit child. He’d hide in dark places throughout the house and jump out at me. He’s been gone for 14 years (and I moved out 35 years ago) but I still turn on lights wherever I am.

All the wooden spoons my mom used to punish us are long gone. She even broke one of them on my back when I was still shorter than she was but as mouthy as someone twice her size. I remember her advice every time I use one: don’t let wooden spoons soak in water. Wash them by hand with a damp cloth. Even now, that’s the way I wash my wooden spoons, though I’ve never hit a child with one. 

Much of the music I listen is from someone’s recommendation: Affordable Floors, Steely Dan, Sufjan Stevens, Orville Peck, Creepy Nuts. Those songs and those people all included in my story because of a casual suggestion that they probably don’t even remember.

So many people make up that mosaic … it’s mostly dark colors, deep blues and chocolate browns, colors of sorrow and grief; but there are a few bits of lightness to add some beauty to the whole miraculous mess. Also, it’s important to note that it isn’t finished yet, not for a good while. At least, so I hope.

Much love.

Mosaic

Clean Plates And Other Crimes

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

My not-my-Aunt Ginny was doing pretty well this week, on my first visit of 2023 (I started the year with Covid but finally am safe to visit with her). She didn’t know me during my visit but also (a little bit) she did, which made for some of our more unusual conversations. I showed her a recent picture of me with my eldest son. She was surprised by how adult he is and asked if the woman in the picture is his wife. Friends, this is the picture I shared:

Later, she asked me what my mom thought of another picture. My mom would have loved it, so of course I answered that way, pretending for a bittersweet moment that Mom lived to know my children and my sister’s children, that she was alive to share a meal with me and to be recalcitrant about something I wanted her to do. 

Sharing a meal … that’s what I miss most. Not even her cooking, really. I miss the act of sitting together, talking about everything and nothing, eating food that someone else cooked for us. She used to love to go to a little tea shop in Erie. We didn’t even get tea. We’d get sandwiches and she’d have coffee. And we’d just spend a little time in each other’s company. 

For her, it was a major indulgence, an act of defiance against something though I never knew what. Possibly, probably, my father.  He was very controlling. She was afraid of him and most everything, really. Once I was old enough to see a future that wasn’t under my father’s control, I would tell her that I would treat her to lunch when I visited but she became ill while I was still in graduate school. We ended up having very little time for tea shop sandwiches.

Not-my-Aunt Ginny prefers companionship while she eats. When I arrived a little after noon, I found that she had not yet received her lunch tray. It was delivered about 10 minutes after I got there and something in not-my-Aunt G’s world converted that tray to a meal I had ordered for myself. From her perspective, we were in a restaurant and that meal became dinner out. It took some convincing but I finally got her to believe that the tray was for her. 

While she’s eating, I always make up an excuse for why I can’t share her food but she can be pretty persistent. Sometimes I tell her that I don’t like the type of food she’s having. Sometimes I tell her that I just ate and am not hungry. Not-my-Aunt G doesn’t care to hear those excuses. She hates food waste, not surprising since she lived through WWII. 

It would drive her crazy that we aren’t members of the clean plate club. Sure, the origins are understandable and waste is a horrible thing. However, I think it’s important to recognize, to acknowledge, that eating the crust of my bread did not, in fact, make my hair curly. If I could, I would tell my Grandma Myrtle (who died when I was 17), that I finally figured out it was a lie, bold-faced, in fact.

It is also accurate to note that starving children do not want my leftovers. They would, in reality, benefit from compassionate food policies that value human life over profit but I’m pretty confident, having eaten it myself, that they would not enjoy that last half-scoop of tuna casserole with peas and carrots.

Be kind to someone today, possibly even yourself.

Much love.

Clean Plates And Other Crimes

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

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

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