writing

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

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

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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)

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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

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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

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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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bennet Daughters

Gothic Poems?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

Gothic Poems?

TIRE(D)

Deb Zuroski, , , 1 Comment

I’m in my car on the side of the highway, returning from a visit to not-my-Aunt G. Passenger rear tire blew. It’s 93F and I’m waiting for AAA. Could I change my own tire? Possibly. It would depend on how tight the lug nuts are. But it’s really hot. It’s an air quality action day – bad for folks like me who have asthma (thanks for smoking, Mom and Dad. Maybe that’s snarky but I’ve paid my entire life for their choices. A little snark seems minimally fair.). It’s smarter to call for help than to try to do this myself. 

The car rocks side to side every time a truck passes. It’s a busy pre-holiday Friday, which means the car is in nearly constant motion for over an hour while I await AAA. It takes that long because my AAA guy is coming from the town 20 minutes ahead of me and has to drive to the town 15 minutes behind me in order to get on the south side of the highway. All of that is fine. I’m lucky to be relatively safe in a car with working AC. 

Lou (his real name) arrives in a modified van with a yellow flashing light – good. More visibility on a breathlessly hot day during the drowsy hours of late afternoon. He tells me that a tow truck spotted me and called in my location to help Lou find me since I’m not stopped by a mile-marker. This makes me wonder how many kindnesses benefit us without us ever knowing. 

We chat as he gets right to work, handing me a clipboard with a form to fill out while he excavates in my trunk. Thanks to my recent tidiness vow, the trunk is empty of detritus. 

As he jacks up the car, Lou tells me how much he likes working holiday weekends. “People are more generous tippers,” he tells me. “Already today, I’ve gotten a bottle of whiskey and some fireworks.” 

Internal question answered, I dig through my pocket, readying the last of my cash. It’s so hot that Lou can’t hold the lugnuts in his hand and has to drop them in the grass. The tire is just as hot. Being the “learn by doing” sort myself, I burn my hand throwing it into the trunk. We joke a little about how lucky we are to have AC, even as we acknowledge that it’s going to escalate the speed at which humanity kills itself.

Lou tightens the still-scalding lugnuts on my tiny, brand-new spare and tells me to drive slow. I know this but appreciate the reminder. He suggests that I buy my replacement tires (because I can’t buy just one, of course) at the nearest town and even offers to escort me there. I’ve already had my bad luck though and plan to drive the rest of the way home on the spare. He laughs, pockets my $19 tip (since I don’t have any whiskey), and waves me back onto the highway.

Costco, not home, is now my destination. It takes me two hours of driving like it’s the 1950s but I arrive safely. The tire guy, Sam – a name I’ve chosen since I didn’t get his, is enthusiastic. We have to go out to the steaming parking lot because I’ve forgotten to note the size of my tires. I know I should have had this info but my brain has become the texture of the asphalt, too sticky to work properly. 

Sam doesn’t mind. He’s just looking forward to his sister’s barbecue this weekend and to having the 4th off. Costco is closed Monday because, he says, it’s a good company that cares about its people. Nice. I tell him that I don’t want to give my money to a company that treats people badly. “Same,” he says. We smile. Common ground is uncommon these days. 

My tire appointment is tomorrow. Sam says it will take awhile so I should get a strawberry smoothie at the Costco cafe and sit. He’ll find me when they’re done. Not going to lie, a strawberry smoothie sounds pretty good right about now but my youngest wants a Costco pizza (second best bargain they have IMO). I order one and sit on a cool plastic bench while it bakes. 

The store and the cafe are crazy busy. A young worker fills food orders with remarkable grace, spinning from counter to steam table to pizza oven, handing food to customers while also preparing the next order and calling out order numbers. There’s a rhythm to the work that I’ve never noticed before but there’s still an hour left on the clock. Will the worker or the work slow first?

“703,” I hear and watch a woman pick up her pizza. My number is lower so I walk up to the counter. “Hey, did I miss my order?” I ask. Yep. It’s sitting on the counter. Apparently, I’m even more tired than I thought, lulled, perhaps, into a dream by the music of their work. 

The drive home is equally slow but now the pizza fragrance reminds me that I haven’t eaten in nearly seven hours. Maybe I could eat a piece while I drive, I think. But no, I have a new, no-eating-in-my-car policy that I can’t break without someone finding out Mom’s a hypocrite. Besides, the tiny tire makes the car harder to drive. It’s really not safe to eat pizza when the car has a donut. 

Finally, I’m home. I haul the pizza box and my tired body into the house. The youngest may have requested the pizza but every (human) mouth in the house is now full of lukewarm, greasy goodness. Everything is far from right in the world but for a moment, we’re all, blessedly, okay.

TIRE(D)

BTW: I Didn’t Get Arrested

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 3 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

BTW: I Didn’t Get Arrested