Pittsburgh Pierogi

Anna Begins

2012-01-24T23:01:00.000-05:00

You promised me

you'd never leave

you'd make me laugh

you'd hold my hand

you'd be here

You proposed to me

a lifetime of smiles

a lifetime of understanding

a lifetime of together

a lifetime of love

You vowed to me

your heart

your body

your mind

your life

Until you suddenly

left

alone.

My heart aches

not a woman

not a job

not an addiction

but death

in its consuming finality

And now it is only me to remember our plans

And now it is stolen from my future

your hands

your home

your children

your gray hair

But wait

Even as I cannot comprehend

why you chose to leave a life, full
and a love, true

I made promises too

I will remember you

I will cherish you

I will love you
I will never stop.

Toodles

2011-09-15T22:06:00.001-04:00

My grandmother had many names throughout her 82 years on this earth. Her given name was Rose Marie, and she was quick to tell you that the name was TWO words, with a space in-between, instead of one big long Rosemarie. She was called Rose, Rosie, Rosie Posey, Ree, and Ree-Ree. “Po” was the nickname that finally stood apart from all of the rest, short for Posey. Her two daughters simply called her Mom, and her son affectionately dubbed her his “large fat Mama” (in all fairness it certainly was an accurate name). Of course, my brother and I - along with our first cousins - knew her as our Grandma Po. Out of all of those names, I've managed to convince myself that “grandma” was the name she cherished the most.

Now if you never had the pleasure of meeting her, you may be picturing a gentle, gray-haired, and soft-spoken octogenarian. Certainly not so! In her grandmotherly prime (as I knew her to be in her 70’s) she was indeed large, quite forceful, and she would never dream of letting her hair go gray. She was an Italian grandmother, so what she lacked in height she made up for in voice. She would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, her brown eyes peering in at her reflection through her big glasses…armed with a comb in hand as it expertly coiffed her light brown, almost reddish, pompadour into a high circle around her head before putting on the finishing touches of hair spray. “Rouge” and lipstick were always applied before leaving the house with the latter properly blotted on a tissue, and then both would get placed somewhere in her abundant bosom for safe-keeping and later use. Having lived through the Depression like many others of her generation, the woman was practical to a fault and she couldn’t discard a tissue until it was not only used thrice, but literally, grossly, falling apart. Tissue manufacturers hated how this one woman diminished their profit margins but rejoiced when her Texan relatives came to visit, and she would bemoan the rapidity with which they would deplete her paper products. She scoffed at their naive single use idealogies. She would sprinkle baby powder into her decades old black slip-on shoes, turn off her constant companion TV with the plunger (more on this later), and grab her garage door opener along with her purse. The last ritual before going out was to kiss her hand and place it on top of her black Bible while whispering a prayer. So that's how she made it safely down her steep basement stairs all those years!!

The aforementioned purse was anything but a dainty accessory. This thing was heavy and it was a workhorse. What would this looks-like-a-purse-but-functions-like-a-small-piece-of-luggage haul? Oh, just some things any ole’ gal might need: more lipstick, pens, her wallet, keys, more tissues just in case, lots of gum for the grandkids (this is how my addiction started), Necco wafers, and Tums. Except Po wasn’t just any ole’ gal, which was proven by the fact that she also carried: pliers, sandpaper, a hammer, a mason jar full of coins, and clean "bloomers". The woman loved tools, she used the sandpaper to “clean” her pencil erasers, almost never spent change unless absolutely necessary, and well, you just never knew when a clean pair of bloomers would come in handy. Do you know anyone who actually cleans the lead off the eraser? Even though I knew its contents, I would still marvel at the weight of her purse when she asked me to hold it for her; no wonder the woman was so strong. I should really rethink my gym membership. There was a brief period of time when she was tempted by the latest wallet-on-a-string fad and traded everything in for the self-described “cute” very long strap that she would wear diagonally across her chest. Not having to use your hands or half of your body strength to lug around most of your possessions? Very convenient! Not having all of your tools when you want them and not being able to make exact change for a purchase? Luckily the fad fizzled as those things typically do and life went back to normal. Whew.

She openly made fun of everyone and yet she also loved everyone too. Stealing one of her favorite phrases, she was “bad but good”. This was the way she described her late husband, my grandfather, who passed away before I was born. Together they raised three wonderful people who I love very much. I could not possibly have a better mom and I thank God for her every day. Grandma certainly teased and scolded plenty, but then she would also save all of the table scraps “for the animals” and place it outside, realizing that every living creature had the same basic needs. At times the woman seemed to be such a contradiction and those surprising inconsistencies are part of what made her lovable. Her jokes were hilarious and oftentimes were bawdy and not politically correct, but you had to laugh despite trying not to do so. She would lower her voice so as not to get caught by my mom when she told borderline age-inappropriate jokes to her grandkids with a conspiratory smile. Because of this and her hollering ways, she was… bad but good.

Some memories about her that I don’t want to forget:

I remember – the way she said hello when she answered the phone... she drawled out the word, slow on the first syllable and short on the second, yet still taking much longer to say the word than most people. We have all tried to imitate it but it has never been successfully done.

I remember – the way her eyes shone as she stood clapping for me, smiling through happy tears as I stood triumphant on a stage. My parents and my brother were there too, but the memory of her presence is what I remember the most, seeking her face out of the crowd. I was thirteen at the time.

I remember – her booming voice and how she could yell so much when she frequently got mad, usually until she coughed (and then you’d get in trouble for making her cough).

I remember – her own made-up vocabulary. The “F” word was NOT permitted and God help you if you said it. My cousin would say it purposefully to get a reaction out of her and I was always amazed at his unflinching courage beyond his years. He was younger than me! I sat stoic, mute with fear. Jarret: “It’s not a swear word, it’s just Fart”. He’d say this casually as if it were any other F word, like saying “food” or “football”. Grandma Po, wide-eyed: (Gasp! Thundering fist striking the table!) “How DARE you say such a thing in my house! I don’t ever want to hear you say that again! I mean it!” Her tirade continued. Her preferred word for the term, which no one could explain or defend, not even her, was “Tommy”. Seriously, Grammy Po, where did that COME from?? Growing up I never understood why anyone would name their child Thomas until I eventually realized that was a made-up term on her part. She also called the remote control the “plunger” and she called the plunger the ….? That remains one of life's many mysteries.

I remember – the way she’d wave goodbye from the living room picture window every single time we drove away.

I remember – her mean streak sense of humor to us kids - how she would talk about her “demise” and suddenly shut her eyes and drop her head on her chest, taunting us to look. This absolutely horrified us as children and made us laugh as teenagers, protesting her to please stop! because deep down we didn’t want to believe it would ever happen.

I remember – spending the night at her house as a child and how she would tuck me in – so different from the way my parents did it yet still just as comforting.

I remember – how she came to every dance recital of mine and my cousin’s, even in the sweltering summer heat before every single building in America decided to create an artificial season known as the AC-induced-winter-in-summer, with her tiny hand-held fan as she cheered us on, always telling us afterwards that we were “the best ones”, even if we weren't. (I just added that last part to be nice ... of course we were the best!! At least we had the best fans.)

I remember – the chinny-chin-chin goodbyes that my brother and I enjoyed and my mother disapproved.

I remember – coming home from Kansas City after her first of many big surgeries, when she was allowed back in her home for a brief period. I had never lived so far away from home and was fearful that the world was turning in the wrong direction since she became ill. So many people do not get similar second chances with loved ones and we were all lucky to have many of them with her. When I saw her that day, we both cried because she knew how scared I was… I knelt down by her chair as I usually did and buried my face in her arms, taking in her familiar scent while she stroked my hair, and we spent the afternoon together talking out on the front porch. I was twenty-three at the time.

I remember – a breakfast feast of cinnamon sugar atop buttered toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice. Yes, 12 slices of cinnamon toast and that was just my breakfast on one Saturday. My brother probably ate 2 loaves that particular day. Grandma Po probably rested afterwards. She was the ultimate chef in the fine cuisine of toasting… with many people denying such a skill even existed, secretly trying to hone their own skills, and making fun of us grandkids for even suggesting this notion. They changed their opinion when they were fortunate enough for her to graciously make them a slice…this was if she had any bread in her home after her grandchildren left.

I remember – her holding court in her chair, entertaining young and old alike with stories of her “making a man”… using perfect comedic timing and feigning innocence just as we were all gathered to eat one of her delicious meals.

I remember – playing cards with her, and even the cards weren’t exempt from taking orders. Canasta was our favorite game to play together. “Nnnyyeah BE THERE!” she’d shout at the deck as she whipped up the top card, fully expecting to see the one she needed most in her hand through sheer will. This action was also frequently mimicked and usually brought on fits of giggles.

I remember – the only time I ever, and I mean EVER, that I saw her listen to someone else. It was the weekend and we were visiting my great-grandmother. My Grandma Helen and my Grandma Po started bickering over something, while my mom and I watched silently. I had a friend who was with us for the day’s adventures, and she stood silent as well. She didn’t come from an Italian family so even then I knew this was shocking for her. Finally my great-grandmother had heard enough, and she shouted “SIT! DOWN! and SHUT! UP!”. My friend and I were incredulous. First, back then kids listened to adults and therefore we listened to my mom. Second, a grandma is even older so naturally we had to listen to her too. But a great-grandmother who can make my Grandma Po sink silently in slow-motion and tight-lipped into a chair? That took some power. I lost touch with that friend, but I am positive that she still remembers it too. I need to find her on this high-tech thing that is the book of many faces and find out. I was twelve years old at the time.

I remember – her kind eyes. I have known many people with lovely eyes, but only hers and one other person that I’ve ever met have had eyes that would make me describe them as “kind”. It’s like you can see the pure goodness of the soul and the emotion behind them. I could only see this in her in rare flashes, but when it was there it was unmistakable. (In case you are wondering, the only other person was one of her very favorite people, her nephew Bobby.)

I remember - the game shows, the stories, sitting on the front porch swing, picking up sticks and buckeyes, the lemon and chocolate bundt cakes, blast-offs, people watching at the mall, the spaghetti (omg, the spaghetti!!), puzzles, green beans, the big hats and strip teases that were a staple of every family reunion (I guarantee it was all PG. Maybe PG-13.), New Years' Eves, my basketball games, her love of pigs, shopping at Big Lots and WOW, the way she took her coffee with overdoses of cream and sugar, the clean & crisp smell of her linen closet, the high school float flowers even though it was a beautiful waste of tissues, her soulful off-key renditions of Christmas songs and popular Elvis and Vince Gill songs.

I remember – all the things she did for her family – the big sacrifices, the frequent prayers, the little things that usually go unnoticed, and I am very thankful and blessed that I knew such a remarkable woman, my Grandma Po, for 27 years of her 82 on this earth.

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P.S. If you knew my Grammy Po, please share a memory with me! Thank you! :)

Three Things

2011-03-16T22:12:00.001-04:00

My one cousin doesn't have much to say. Years ago, I started asking her to tell me three things - could be about anything - that's happened or that she wants to tell me since we last talked. It's worked pretty well and so I decided to try it here.

1. As any astute pierogi blog reader would know, I have been taking writing classes for the past few weeks which is sucking up both my time and any thoughts worth writing. I've written about eight pages for class so far and it's taken me almost ten hours. Here is an example of the writing caliber you can expect from this blog going forward as we shall pretend that all "quality work" is being SLOWLY poured into the novel that I am trying to write.

Writing is a bore

Writing is a chore

And yes, writing is a whore.

Can you believe I thought of that on my own? (Don't answer.) I didn't even ask any misbehaved children for help. (I wrote misbehaved because I'm pretty sure that word was off-limits when I was growing up.) When I was trying to write for class, I became infuriated that writing is so difficult and that's why I called it a whore. You'd think it'd be easy. Especially when I think up ~~genius~~ lame-o jokes like that.

Say, Mr. Rogers, where is my plot? I started to concoct a disjointed one on my own but I'm sure yours would be much better. Maybe I should change into a button-down sweater and sing a song to help the creative process.

P.S. To My Dear Friend Writing - I'm so sorry I called you such a harsh name. I was just angry with myself. You're never boring. You're my favorite. I love you.

2. I have a new boyfriend. His blog name shall be Allen. Thank you very much for your jaw-dropped shocked reaction to this news... now please shutyo mouth before you start drooling like me. I haven't determined yet what his quirky qualities are to add to my dating hiss!-story list because he's quiet like a church mouse. Actually he's not really that quiet, it's just that it's hard for him to say anything since I turn into Chatty Cathy when I'm around him. I'm sure that won't get old anytime soon. Men love to hear women talk incessantly about nonsense. Right? RIGHT?!!?

If you were paying attention to the crush post, you'll know that I used to have a thang for MacGyver. Well, new boyfriend has shown that he has strong MacGyverism potential.

Examples (plural!):

a) I had a headlight out. I told him it was still under warranty and I would drop it off the next day to get it replaced. He bought a bulb and replaced it himself. Ok, so maybe not exactly something as daring as MacGyver would do, but Mr. RDA would have been proud since there were no guns involved.

b) He said, "Let there be wireless internet in your apartment." And thus he configured it accordingly.

c) He said, "Let there be one super large cord thingy with 3 attachment thingies to hook up to your TV instead of one cord thingy with only 1 attachment thingy in order to give you a better picture." Ok, so I admit those were my words instead of his to describe what he did. And thus he configured it accordingly.

d) I said, "Do you think you could please help me with my new ipod, because I am severly technically challenged?" And thus he hooked everything up without shaming me like a middle-aged parent who is trying to compete in a texting competition. (Hint: Use your opposable thumbs instead of your pointer fingers!!)

e) I said, "My mail comes in through a slot on my garage door and falls into a basket attached on the other side. Every other day when I come home from work and open the garage door, the mail falls from the basket all over the place and I have to get out of the car to pick it up. I've tried attaching plastic bags and it doesn't work. What do you think I should do?" And thus he *MACGYVERED* a magical catcher thingamajig to my basket so I never have to get out of my car until I choose. It holds like a champ.

f) He made me bacon. Enough said.

He did these things in about the time it took me to get showered and dressed. It was less than an hour. He was able to do all of the above AND diffuse the bomb amidst television commercials, with only common household items at his disposal. I didn't even have any duct tape. Very impressive.

And here is a comparison to an ex-boyfriend, because along with loving girls who don't know what the word 'silence' means but they will attempt to explain it to you anyway, men absolutely LOVE it when you compare them to an ex!!!

I said to old boyfriend Jeremy, "My DVD player is stuck shut, do you think you could pretty please look at it sometime when you have a minute?" And he said quite smart-assily, "What do you think I'm going to do about it?" as he pushed the Open button and confirmed that it wouldn't work. And I said, "Uhh, well maybe try and fix it, please, if you could, and see if you can get it unstuck? So I could use it?" And he crossed his arms, shook his head, and said firmly, "There's nothing I can do about this. I tried the button. You saw that it won't open. I'm sorry, but there's just no way I can help you with this. I don't know what you're expecting from me."

I ended up feeling very guilty for asking such a Herculean request. Jerkface. I spent ten minutes with the DVD player one day and was able to fix it myself. Ten minutes may seem like an extraordinary amount of time, but don't forget that I am the turtle child of parents Bill and Karolyn Slowsky. This must explain why writing for class takes me FOREVER. (Happy Birthday Dad!!) :)

Allen - don't worry - you don't need to be like MacGyver all the time. I have a silver sequined glove waiting here for you to help me with my handstands the next time I see you. And I will buy some duct tape just in case you need it to get some peace and quiet from that girl who never shuts up. I think her name is Cathy.

3. I've been getting some great advice lately from other bloggers (thank you!), but one tip that I've been receiving across the board is causing me major consternation. It is this: "Blog regularly." I get it. I totally understand that if people are interested in your blog, they don't want to waste time visiting the site only to see that it hasn't been updated since three months ago.

But... honestly... where do you other bloggers come up with ideas? And where do you find time amidst everything else going on, this thing called life which is swirling all around us, to sit down and write something? I'm pretty much out of ideas, people. And time. From my globally expansive fan base, I do have one blog request to write someday soon, but then that's it. Consider this a warning for the upcoming blog hiatus and prepare yourselves accordingly.

I wish there was a blogging fiber that I could buy at the drugstore in order to have regular finger movements. Maybe I'm just not getting the recommended daily value from the foods I eat each day and I need to take a supplement. Or perhaps I simply need to pay more attention to the foods I buy at Giant Eagle and switch to the ones that have extra blogging fiber.

Any suggestions on foods that don't taste like keyboard?

It's just a little crush

2011-03-08T21:57:00.000-05:00

Remember "Crush" sung by Jennifer Paige in 1998? No? Listen to it here.

I was thinking about the assortment of celebrity crushes that I've had over the years and it dawned on me that some of them could be considered.... interesting perhaps? Let's review.

1. Michael Jackson - before you snort and hiccup with laughter, keep in mind that this crush was back when I was probably about five or six. My crush on the man was short-lived but my fascination with him and love of his music and dancing remains. The man was a genius. I feel really bad about how weird he became, the appearance, ridicule, etc.

I was playing at my friend's house up the street when somehow we got into an argument over Michael. It went something like this:

Me: "He's mine."

Friend: "He's mine!"

Me: He's MINE!!

Friend: "HE'S MINE!!!"

Well I had heard enough of her mouth so I marched over to the wall, moved the stepstool so it was right beneath his poster, stood on my tiptoes, and reached up with one hand as high as I could. I splayed my palm out over his gloved hand on his chest and looked back at her with the meanest look I could give. I told her, one last time, that HE.WAS.MINE. I don't remember getting kicked out of her house, but I do remember seething on the walk home at how it was so unfair that I didn't have a Michael poster of him wearing silver sunglasses and his silver glove when I was his biggest fan.

2. My Dad - before you cringe/gag/make a face/make a joke next time you see me, again I was probably around the age of five. And I do know that my dad isn't a celebrity although sometimes if you squint he does kind of look like Mike Clark from Channel 4 news.

One time I was sitting on his lap and I asked him if he could "kiss me like they do on TV". I remember he kept not wanting to and he kept saying No and trying to talk about different things. He kept refusing, so finally I grabbed his cheeks, puckered up, and yanked his head back and forth side to side while I moved mine in the opposite direction. I thought this was how it was done.* This lasted all of 1 second because I remember his eyes were wide open in shock and he pulled away. This thought went through my head, "I feel bad for Mommy. Daddy doesn't know how to kiss like they do on TV." For anyone who finds this post disgusting, yinz gutterheads better remember that everything was completely G rated so don't try and twist it into something it's not. Every little girl should be so lucky as to have a Daddy she wants to marry someday.

*This is how it's done, right? Please tell me yes, else I'm going to have to change my smooth moves pronto.

3. MacGyver - I was around nine when MacGyver ruled my universe. The mullet, those eyes dark with concentration, the perilous shows where he always saved the day... (be still my heart!!). The man was so handsome and he would totally save me someday, I just knew it. I would always set myself up on the couch several minutes ahead of time so that I wouldn't miss a second of action.

It was either for my 9th or 10th birthday that my parents surprised me with tickets to go see one Mr. Richard Dean Anderson at a celebrity hockey game at the Civic Arena. Except they didn't tell me where we were going or what we were going to see. I was excited for the surprise. Once I knew it was for a celebrity hockey game, I was excited for that too. In my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined that HE would be there. How could I? We were in our seats as the players warmed up. We were sitting behind one of the goals, and my parents pointed wayyy down to the other end of the rink. They asked me, "Do you know who that is?". There was a player skating with his back towards us. As I looked, my young eagle eyes saw the glorious hair sticking out from underneath his helmet. I saw "Anderson" sewn on his sweater and I saw the body movement that I studied carefully every week. Instantly recognizing my hero, I shrieked, "MACGYVER!!!" freakishly loud enough that he turned around, skated over towards our side and then winked, waved, and blew me a kiss. To tell the truth, I did yell out his character name but he didn't do that last bit... I think that part came from my daydreams. If he had, I would have passed out from the sheer force of a MacGyver air kiss, stronger than a hurricane gust that most mortals cannot withstand.

4. Eddie Vedder - I first heard EV's voice when I was making my bed, somewhere around the age of 14. Better Man was on the radio and that song, that band, that voice burned into my memory and I bought Vitalogy at a record store when we were on vacation, just so I could get that one song. I listened to that CD over and over and over and over again and I fell in love with the mystery front man, who had the best music/lyrics/voice I had ever heard. Mind you, I had no clue what he looked like. I had no clue about his radical political views that my parents always harped about. It wasn't about that... it was about the music, man. Just the music. And yet there were flannel shirts. And comfy corduroys and a song called Corduroy. And then one day I saw his picture and it somehow all clicked. I bought all of their cds and fell in love with the music even more. So I don't know if it's EV himself or the band as a whole, but either way it's fantastical.

5. Elvis - Oh, to have lived when Elvis was in his prime! I would have been one of those screaming girls swooning over him. Sometimes I honestly wonder if people in the world "get" how great his voice was... yes I know he's still one of the world's biggest celebrities and makes millions even though he's dead and people trek from all over to visit Graceland... but do they do that because of the hoopla? The outfits? The showmanship? The tragedy? Or do they realize and respect just how powerful his voice was and how much talent the man had? There's also his hair, his lips, his cheekbones....but those are self-explanatory.

6. Mario Lemieux - Um, this one is quite obvious from the facts: I am a straight female. I live in Pittsburgh. Ergo, I must have a celebrity crush on Mario Lemieux. When I was 18, I lucked out and got to be in the VIP tent at one of his celebrity golf invitationals. My friend and I went with a lady who was actually volunteering and somehow they let us in the tent with her. Lemieux gave a quick speech that I don't remember because I was dumbfounded in his presence.

He then sat at a table and was available for autographs. I had several requests, such as: one for the lady who brought us there, one for my boyfriend, one for my cousin who is the biggest hockey fan I know, and one for my brother. I got in line and got one autograph, feeling like a baby in front of The Man. He smiled at me and I stared. He handed me back my piece of paper and I barely managed a "Thank you".

I promptly went to the back of the line and waited for my turn again. Each time he looked up, smiled and nodded politely, and once he gave me a curious look that said, "You again??" I am ashamed that I got so many autographs. I felt incredibly guilty taking advantage of his time. I was scared silly that he was going to yell at me for being so greedy. Yet he smiled graciously and I was grateful that he did not admonish me, else I would have surely melted into a puddle of tears at his feet.

And yes, there's this other detail about him.... where he used to play hockey extremely, exceptionally well for the Penguins for years and then he went on to save our team. He seems to be a geniunely nice guy, so what other choice is there than to like Lemieux?

7. Daniel Sepulveda - review the part in #6 about straight females living in Pittsburgh. Also this thing where he plays football for my favoritest football team in all the land.... also this thing called his sculpted physique... also this thing where he is a man under thirty who actually attends church and isn't ashamed of it.

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Honorable Mentions: Brad Pitt, Jordan Knight, Uncle Jesse (aka John Stamos), Shemar Moore, Jason Kendall, Will Smith, Gavin Rossdale, Roger Federer, Marky Mark, Jeremy Piven, Paul Rudd, Rafa Nadal.

What happens to a dream deferred?

2011-03-06T11:32:00.000-05:00

Yes, I stole my title from the exceptional poem "Dream Deferred" by Langston Hughes. Check it out here if you're not familiar with it, but hopefully it was required reading at some point in your life before you slid so low as to read bizarre posts from a delusional Pittsburgh Pierogi.

I hate to break this shocking information to you if you haven't already watched it on the news or read it on the Internet. Please make sure you are seated. Please know in advance that I am very very very very very sorry to have to tell you this. It pains me so!

I am not going to be a pierogi.

...at least not this season. There, I said it. You can commence with crying and throwing things. Throw your hands up in the air like you're doing the "Nichole Why". I'll give you roughly two seconds for your tantrum.

The answer to the question "will she or won't she become a pierogi?" is going to have to wait until 2012. In case you're wondering what happened, I sent an email on 3/1 asking for details on the upcoming try-outs that were supposed to occur sometime in March. I asked about being a "runner" full-time versus once. Check out the response from the nice gentleman who controls pierogi fate at the Pirates:

"Unfortunately for 2011, we are not going to have tryouts to add to the staff. We have a full staff heading into the season. If anything changes, I’ll be sure to email you ASAP if we need to have a date for everyone to tryout.

In regards to the “guest pierogie runner” we do not allow this anymore. When we did, some people made a total mockery of this, ruining the chances for others like yourself who would truly cherish the experience."

Reading this email was a punch in my doughy pierogi gut.  I wish I could change the mind of the one man in the universe who has the ability to pull pierogi dreams out of his pockets as easily as lint. I'm pretty sure Oprah doesn't even have as much power in Pittsburgh as he does. If she did, this would have been one of the top giveaways during her favorite things episodes. A pierogi dream for you! And you! And you! You're ALLLL getting pierogi dreams come true!

So what does this mean? This means that I definitely won't need to train as hard at the gym as I was originally planning to this month. This means that my couch will get some quality time with my ass. This means that the name of this Pittsburgh blog - even the blog itself - is in jeopardy. How long can I keep up a blog calling myself a pierogi if I most certainly am not one?   Sadly, I'm not even a pierogi-in-training. I hate to disappoint my five followers. Even you too, because I know you're reading.

What happens to a dream deferred?   I think in this situation it is only appropriate to take a cue from the Pirates.

"Maybe next year....".

Tostitos: Snack or Sword?

2011-03-03T20:36:00.000-05:00

In case you didn't know it, eating alone can be dangerous. Aside from the risk of choking to death after panicking because you can't give yourself the Heimlich, there is also the risk of overeating. With someone else in your vicinity, she could either force you to share... or stop... or at least remind you about your new pants that just barely fit.

Pathetically, I had a quite scary "I eat alone" Tostitos food attack the other day. No, I didn't start choking. I wasn't overeating either since I only had one bag of Tostitos and Yesterday Me already ate half the bag. Half of a bag in one night = modest portion control.

(Sidebar: I recently observed that I have five boxes of microwave popcorn. Two movie theater butter, one extra butter, one homestyle, and one very large good-deed-for-the-day-but-thankfully-it-still-tastes-delicious box from the Boy Scouts. Is it strange that I have five boxes? I find it worrisome that I only have one microwave that was new back when The New Kids on the Block were, um, new, and not middle-aged men attempting a sad comeback circus. I should probably buy a microwave just in case the other one breaks. I don't ever want to live through a terrifying popcorn shortage disaster. My parents didn't sacrifice and work hard to help me get an education and a good job only to go popcorn-less, of all things. That would be disgraceful and quite an embarrassing phone call home. "Hello, Mom? Can you please come over as soon as possible with some freshly popped popcorn?" ...And here I am accusing NKOTB of having issues.)

I was happily chomping away on my couch as I watched TV, ignoring the fact that my lips were tingling with salt overload, when It Happened.

I crunched into a perfectly crispy Tostito, and a piece of that bugger flew right up into my unsuspecting wide-open eyeball. Usually my eyes only like to take in things that are pleasing, such as the sight of Sepulveda shirtless. There's nothing like getting bombarded by a sword flying into your eye in the supposed comfort of your own home. Why in the world is my eye-blinking reflex so slow? Is this why the optometrist says I have dry eyes? Too many Tostitos? Help!!! Is it still in there?

Can you believe that the optometrist actually told me to "remind yourself to blink more often"? As if there aren't enough things in life to think about... like bills, or Silly Putty, or Girl Scout cookies.... things that aren't supposed to be automatic, things that you might actually forget to do and... oops... hold on while I blink.

It's amazing how a piece of chip can burn and stab like it's a marble-sized piece of rock salt. Or a sword covered in rock salt.

Getting back to my earlier point that eating alone is unsafe... did I run to the sink to rinse my presumably red eye with water? Did I at least put the bag down and back away slowly, giving it the appropriate mixed regard of respect and fear, knowing that it could strike again, much too fast for my remaining eye to handle?

Of course not.

No one was there to save me aside from Ryan Seacrest and JLo and... oh... I guess they weren't really there either.

In the words of bad-ass George Thorogood, "I eat alone... yeah with nobody else... yeah you know when I eat alone, I prefer to be by myself!".

What are you saying? The lyric is "drink" instead of "eat"? Guess it depends on your mood or your blog post topic. Check out the song here if you don't know it.

Anyway, I plowed through the rest of that bag bleary-eyed and considered it a small personal victory over the company that I help keep profitable (Frito-Lay). Not exactly sure why victorious was the emotion, but you should allow me a pass on this one since I was wounded in an unarmed attack.

Dangerous, indeed.

Be careful out there.
Use the buddy system.
Remember to blink.
Time the big crunch for when your eyes are shut.

This is world-class advice from someone who knows... and you can't find words of wisdom like this anywhere but a pierogi blog. Now if you'll please excuse me, I must go play with Silly Putty.

Fail Me Not

2011-02-16T20:21:00.000-05:00

Failure is something that I never want to be. It's akin to beauty in the sense that it's in the eye of the beholder. I never want to be a failure, so I never will be one. It's as simple as that. I choose to have a successful and happy life.

Failure is the unparalleled motivator... the unseen driving force that is actually "a fear of failure" but to which we usually give no name. For many it does not exist even if you would ask, but it's still there hidden below the surface. The taste of failure is bitter and it's smell is rancid; it stirs up anger and frustration and a whole host of unwanted feelings. I think most people are motivated to avoid it, although some are not. Some are motivated to succeed for a singular act or purpose, some are motivated through their faith, or for their children, while some hardly have a drive at all. I have pity for those people who are wandering aimlessly and go through the motions of life either blindly or on the whims of others. Dream it!  Live it! Do it! This is your life; do not waste it. You might not succeed in the eyes of anyone else at whatever it is you're trying to do, but making the attempt is worthwhile. Failing at a task does not make you a failure, but never trying just might. One job, one critique, one relationship, one rejection does not define you. Not everyone has the same capabilities, or smarts, or chances, or gumption, or support, or desires, or means, or je ne sais quoi... but everyone can try. I believe it is completely acceptable to be motivated via a fear of failure as long as it does not consume you. You cannot let a fear of failure paralyze your life, because what kind of life would that be?

This almost sounds like an underlying message for an after-school special. Are those still around?

This post is annoying me with it's preachiness so I'm going to end this portion with a dismount. I am attempting a landing off the balance beam with a difficulty degree of 9 out of 10. Quiet please. Deep breath. Pirouette like Mendenhall. Full steam ahead. Up in the air... and... stuck! A perfect landing!

Did you expect anything else from a pierogi who chooses happiness and then writes it in for herself?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been pondering the question posed below.

Aside from learning how to cook (better), sew (yawn), and become a pierogi (fun!)... I'm not sure what else to seek right now. I better work on creating or finding a time machine, because apparently I've approached an elderly stage of life when "learn to sew" is on my list of things to do. Seriously?  I bought a sewing machine last April and pictured myself clutching fistfuls of cash saved by hemming my own pants.  Unfortunately I overestimated my ability to follow directions where you must be either over the age of 90 or a genius to comprehend such wizardry. The first period of positive cashflow is still pending and pants with tags on them are still hanging untouched in my closet.

Except... waaaiiiitt a minute... does this mean that I failed? No. There's still time. And remember that I don't fail at life.  So far the sewing machine has failed me by being ridiculously complicated and temperamental and generally not fun to be around. She doesn't work well with others. And by others I mean me.

Oh, yes, I could always attempt the Big One. The Big One = writing a novel, but I can't think of a plot. A plot is a very minor detail in fiction writing, to be sure. It can almost be considered an afterthought because as long as I get my book jacket squared away then I'm pretty much set. But if you have a plot sitting around in your attic collecting dust... I promise to listen to your idea and give it thorough consideration. Some might call it cheating but I just call it neighborly... like something Mr. Rogers would do if he was still around. I'm sure he would wrap up a snappy plot just for me and put a beautiful gold bow on it, because that kind man was giving, brilliant, and proud to be from the resplendent city that is Pittsburgh, PA.

Not all hope is lost, because I signed up for a creative writing course - starting next week! - at CCAC. I'm pretty sure thousands of esteemed writers started out at CCAC and went on to bigger and better things, such as blogging, that do not require trifling external validation from highfalutin publishers. Blogging means that u type, u click, n just like that... tadaa! ...even ur a writer.   Gag.

(Sidebar: Notice my geriatric use of the word "highfalutin".  I'm hoping this will get me brownie points with the sewing machine.)

So what about you... what would you attempt? Would you sing?  Believe? Apologize? Travel? Run? Call? Leave? Paint? Write? Dance? Forgive? Adopt? Volunteer? Create? Speak?

Would you love?

The Shot Heard 'Round the World

2011-02-04T20:33:00.001-05:00

It was the fall of 1995 and the gym was completely packed to the rafters. I'm not exactly sure what "packed to the rafters" looks like, but it was extremely full. People were actually standing to watch us play. I think they were confused and didn't realize it was a high school girls basketball game. You mean this isn't the NBA Finals featuring the dynasty of the 1990's Chicago Bulls?

We were in enemy territory. Hostile territory, even. Our team bus was escorted into the city by two police cars to ensure our safety. I found this partially unnerving and equal parts unnecessary. What reason did they have to guide us into the city? What did they expect to happen? You know those high school girls always carry around spare thousands in their backpacks, just in case. Turns out the cops were needed later, but they weren't there. My guess is they were watching the enthralling game inside like everyone else in the vicinity. One cop asked the other, "Hey man, I thought you said MJ and Pippen were making a surprise appearance soon? Isn't that why everyone's here?" Some boys thinking they were men or thinking they were thugs came on the bus while we were playing ball and stole things, like one of the girl's watches. None of my stuff was stolen. You mean teenage boys don't like The Steve Miller Band Greatest Hits 1974-1978?

It was hard not to notice the huge crowd. The gym was designed so that there were only bleachers on one side, opposite the benches. We had a brick wall behind us. Oops, maybe that's why the gym was so packed. Anyway, I was a sophomore and did not become a starter until my junior year. The game was not off to a good start in the first quarter. Scoreless!! ...except only our team was scoreless. They had won the tip-off and immediately scored. And then stole the ball and scored again. And rebounded and scored again. And scored again. And then... you get the point. Finally Coach called a time-out and I tried to find a few friendly faces in the crowd. Where were our legions of fans? They were outnumbered.

Nothing was working. The crowd eventually quieted down, because even in the meanest town and with the meanest fans... they felt sorry for us. The first quarter ended and it was 18-0. Gulp.

Coach didn't substitute at all during that time and she started the same group for the second quarter. I was getting irritated that I was still warming up my spot on the bench. I didn't care how the bench felt, it was warm enough and it could have my awesome Starter jacket if it really need it to keep warm. The stupid bench was zapping all of my heat and I was getting cold. I wanted to play; besides, our starters were getting tired.

In a moment of exasperation, Coach yelled my name and I saw spittle fly. Her face twisted in anger, her eyes flashed, and she jerked her chin towards the game. I sprinted over and knelt down on the sideline, awaiting a whistle. She boomed, "WOULD SOMEBODY JUST MAKE A DAMN BASKET!" I saw the icky white-crusted corners of her mouth turn down with a frown. My best friend Jess was sitting helplessly in the seat right next to Coach and our eyes locked in her moment of desperation. I shuddered in disgust for her and thought, "Shake it off, Hawks!". It's go time.

You know what's going to happen, right? I got a couple touches on the ball, ran up and down the court a few times and started to warm up. The other team was "resting" while playing zone instead of man-to-man and I saw my opening. It all came together... so easily like that last puzzle piece. I clapped my hands once and started stepping into the shot at the top of the key while the pass was en route from the wing. In slow motion I saw the crowd fade further away in the background as the orange-ball-that-I-love came closer. I squared up and shot. I held my follow-through and stayed on the tips of my toes as if I was shooting a game winner in overtime. Instead of swishing through the hoop as I had practiced thousands of times, the ball clanged noisily on the rim in slow motion. Everyone in attendance held their collective breath while I held the shot. The crowd was mute.

The basketball bounced once

then hit off the other side of the rim

then

fell

silently

through

the

hoop!

The place exploded! Figuratively. The gym was so loud I swear every person there cheered except for the opponents on the court. 26-2!! I saw the crowd rise to its feet and several arms raised high as I transitioned to defense. Ask anyone who was there that day and he will tell you just how well that shot is seared into his memory. For a brief moment, life changed. Friend and foe were high-fiving, ex-lovers embraced, and one cop said to the other cop, "This is better than if the Bulls could win another three-peat." Outside the gym, boys on the bus suddenly felt remorseful and decided not to steal the impressive Sony Discman with the funny-looking CD inside. If you weren't there, I'm sure you heard it and it affected you as well. You probably decided not to curse at the driver who cut you off and you couldn't quite fathom why. Think back to where you were one cold November night in '95 and I'm sure you'll recall an evening that just felt right... now you know why it did and what that clanging sound was that you heard and yet couldn't place.

I'm sure someday I will tell this to fidgeting children who would rather do anything but listen to this story, whilst I am sprawled on a couch with a can of Iron City propped up on my ginormous belly, talking about the "glory" days. Wait, take that part back... I'm not a dude and so I won't have a jumbo belly double-functioning as a beer coaster and potato chip crumb catcher, as convenient as that may sound. Also scratch the part about glory days, as I think you had to be on winning teams and you also had to be super good to reminisce. Or do you just have to think you were super good?

I don't remember the rest of that game, how many points I scored, or even if we won or lost. Since this is my blog though, sit back and I will tell you exactly what happened.

We went into the baddest part of town and came away with a stunning victory that made the other team bemoan their fate and cry to the basketball gods. Their fans were so distraught that they threw rocks at our bus on the way out of dodge, which required police escorts for us noble and valiant warriors of the hardcourt. Some of our opponents quit as soon as the buzzer hit zero, never to touch a basketball again. I've heard since then that a few of those girls are still in therapy for a recurring nightmare they have about the shot. Others discussed ending their season effective immediately that night; how could they go on after losing such a large lead halfway through the second quarter?

And to think that the courageous comeback all started with one lone jump shot.

Pittsburgh

2011-01-25T20:36:00.001-05:00

In the way that your skyline looks on my morning commute
in the way that you light up at night
in the faces of those who tread the downtown sidewalks
in the conversations held with accents unique

in the way that your people have scattered the globe
in the way that each one still loves his first home
in the heart of every Pittsburgher beats strong
in the values and hard work that is in your blood
in the hopes of your sports teams lifting us up

in the way that you are always unpretentious
in the steel that fashioned you so true
in the tunnels and bridges and hillsides and rivers

in the way that black and gold are lovely
this is why you are my one and only

The Visit

2011-01-17T23:01:00.001-05:00

I went to see an old friend today. Actually, using the term frenemy would probably better describe our relationship. We've known each other for about fifteen years and at times I think I hate him.

Before seeing him, I had been thinking about him nonstop, even dreaming of him occasionally. I knew I owed him a visit and he knew it too. When I got to his place, I walked into the room as nonchalantly as I could. I already felt his eyes on mine; the weight of his stare created a knot in my stomach while I tried to check out the other men in the room. I didn't want to be with him, but he knew very well that my other options did not suit me as well as he did. I sidled up to him and gave him a resigned smile. I apologized for not coming to see him in so long. I touched his arm and the feel of my old friend melted away my fears and misgivings. He expressed happiness in seeing me too and we started to walk together slowly as we caught up on all that had happened since the last time I saw him. We were both polite and I was glad I made the time to go see him today. Our conversation was friendly and quiet; he spoke to me in a comforting whisper.

Except that was just the beginning. If you've ever been in an abusive relationship, you'll know what happened next. His tone shifted on me. His true feelings came out... he was angry and jealous that I did not visit him sooner. He started getting agitated, talking faster and louder and making me walk faster to try to keep up with his long strides. This happens every time I see him, so I don't know why I am always surprised at how swiftly he can take my breath away and confuse me with his mean words. I protested. I pleaded.

He was relentless and wouldn't slow down. Earlier when I thought he was happy to see me, I realized that he had tricked me. He lulled me into a false sense of security. He promised me this wouldn't happen again. I hated myself for believing in him, just like I did the last time and the time before that and the time before that one, too. His mocking, sneering smile berated me for staying away so long. My feeble excuses of "But I don't have time!" and "I wanted to come see you!" were drowned out in his maniacal roar and the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. He told me it was all my fault and through clenched teeth I broke down and told him he was right. Once he knew he had defeated me, he finally started to calm down. I was near tears and felt emotionally, physically drained. This is what he wants. I know it to be true and yet I still can't leave him. Furthermore, he knows I won't leave... and this gives him all the power. He knows about my pierogi dream and he cruelly reminds me every visit of how much I need him. He is a cocky son-of-a-bitch and for good reason. When things are great between us, there is no one who can make me feel euphoric like he can. No one. Like any other man, he loves it when I turn him on when I first see him. Instead of wanting to be with him, I'm ready to walk away after a few minutes. Like any other woman, I love it when I abruptly shut him down at the end of our visits. I feel invincible, strong.

My friend and I have a tortured relationship when all I've ever wanted is for it to be harmonious. I haven't been able to commit to only him though, and so he does the same by seeing other people frequently and making things worse by comparing us. I've lived, nay - I've struggled - through this relationship for so long that I don't see how it could possibly change after all these years. He never budges and I'm always the one who has to move. Maybe you have a frenemy like this and you can relate. Or perhaps he is your friend too and you love him / hate him just as I do. I've attached a picture of him below so you can see what he looks like.

What a smug bastard... he always has to have the last word.

Sunshine

2011-01-08T19:31:00.000-05:00

It was a perfect July day. She carried the blanket and he carried the basket towards the lone tree in the middle of the field... their field... the place they always went to be together. They smiled at each other. She kicked off her sandals to feel the lush grass beneath her feet as they walked. She carefully unfolded the blanket, setting it just outside the tree's shade so they could bask in the sun and then move to the shade when it became too hot. He immediately began to take the items out of the basket, knowing that she would want to eat right away. She watched him display everything he had meticulously packed... the chilled wine, cheese, strawberries, and chocolate. They talked and laughed as they ate, and he thought that the vibrant blue sky was no match for her blue eyes. They laid on their backs after eating, listening to the wind and drifting in and out of sleep. Conversation was not necessary and time was not an issue. As she contemplated the beauty and wonder of nature, he rolled on to his side and propped his head up on one elbow. He asked her plainly, "Will you marry me?"

Her eyes snapped open and she blinked rapidly against the brightness of the sky, devoid of any clouds, and against the starkness of the question itself. A smile slowly spread across her face.

She laughed at the absurdity of his question and replied no, for what seemed like the tenth time. Unsurprised by his best friend's reaction, he laughed too. Even though her answer was always the same, he asked her anyway. He knew that one of these days she was going to see that they belonged together, just like the blue sky paired perfectly with the green grass all around them. He was a patient man and he knew that sunshine cannot be rushed.

Little Love Letters

2011-01-05T18:39:00.001-05:00

For some of the best people I know ~

Names have been changed to protect the innocent, nicknames the same to maintain the silliness... and perhaps someday they will all want to be a pierogi too, like their crazy but extremely lucky aunt. Hopefully I can show them how it's done. ;)

1. Nichole Sunshine (brother's first born) - Oh my sunshine, where do I start? You've taught me a lot about babies and now little girls and somehow you even managed to convince me that pink isn't the worst color in the world. Yours was the first diaper I changed, yours was the first voice I heard so tiny, yours was the first smile I saw that made me deliriously happy and in love. You are the exclusive inventor of the "Nichole Why". You're a comedian with the things that you do and say now that you're three and a half (although you've been doing and saying cute things for a long time now!). You told me this at age two: "I'm a big girl, because I know what to do and I know what not to do. I know what I want and I know what I don't want." We should all be so wise. Your big beautiful blue eyes are curious and you question as much as you can. Your dimple shows when you smile and your little personality is getting bigger all the time. You are incredibly smart and I love to hear your thoughts, logic, and "ideas". You are full of wonder at everything you see and you are, well, just wonderful to me! :)

2. Denali Pie (LEL's first born) - My pumpkin pie, how I love you so! Since I already had a niece, I was able to realize and understand more fully all of the fun and the love that I had to look forward to when you arrived. Before you were born though, you and your doctors gave us all quite a scare...because we didn't know if you'd be a healthy baby. I prayed and prayed for you, as did so many others, and when you were born you came out miraculously perfect. The first time I saw you, I was overwhelmed with just how tiny you were but I was also overwhelmed with gratitude for your good health and happiness for your parents. Your mommy and daddy let me reach inside your incubator to touch you, and I'll never forget the smallest knee propped up in the air and my finger stroke on your knee that touched my heart. You had the cutest cry as a baby and I couldn't help myself - I had to smile when you cried (and your mom would just shake her head in amusement at me). Every time I see you, I'm amazed at your precious little features on your beautiful little face... and how tall you're getting at almost age three. You're a very good big sister. You're quite a rambunctious little girl who also has excellent manners, and I have the best time when we play together. Your hair is an impossible to describe but superb light brown color that I wish I could bottle.... so that I could use it when I have to dye my hair in a few years! :)

3. Marie Love (brother's second born, my first godchild) - Love of my life, you are so lovely! As your daddy would say, you broke the "cute-ometer" like your big sister. It surged to the MAX point and then it broke trying to record your levels of cuteness. You're one and a half now, and you're the happiest baby, so pleasant and smiling all the time. You want to do everything your big sister does and you try your best to do it. Your baby laugh makes me feel like I am The Absolute Funniest Person in the World when we play peek-a-boo and our made-up games together. I wish I could have your sheer joyfulness resulting from practically anything you see. I'm amazed at how big you're getting (much too quickly for me) and I wish I could see you more often.... I can hardly believe that you're already counting in your little baby voice! I marvel at how I got to be so lucky as to be related to you and your sister. God has blessed our family with the two of you. Again, as your daddy has said, "How did it happen that I won the Powerball twice with these little girls? And this is even better than winning the Powerball." :)

4. Elizabeth Sweetheart (LEL's second born, my second godchild) - Sweetie pie, you're sweeter than all the sugar in all the marshmallows in the whole wide world. Your parents couldn't decide on a name right away after you were born, so when I met you on your birthday, you were a sweet unnamed angel. Since you're almost ten months old now, you still have those beautiful chubby cheeks that I admired on your first day in this world. You have the softest hair, which I am pleased to see is growing into a perfect color like your big sister's. You have your mommy's eyebrows and nose and your own little machine-gun laugh that I love to hear, with two centered front teeth on the bottom and just one coming in on the top! I am lucky and proud to be your godmother and I think you are very happy about it too....you smiled frequently as I held you during your baptism ceremony. I was doing my best to pay attention to the priest, but I had to keep looking down at you because any time I stole a peek, your little baby mouth turned up into the biggest grin! I hope I never forget how sweet you were that day! :)

5. A fifth niece! (JLC's growing babycakes) - Mystery baby, I can't wait to meet you! I hope you have your mommy's enthusiasm for life and your daddy's patience, your mommy's expressiveness and your daddy's perceptiveness. I hope you have the strong faith and kindness of both of your parents. I already know you'll have lots of love in your life and I can't wait to be a part of it to love you too... you mean so much to me and you're not even here yet! :)

He will bring us goodness and light

2010-12-29T21:02:00.001-05:00

(I wrote this one before heading to Florida for Christmas so I could lazily - uh, I mean easily - post it on the appropriate day. I got sick and obviously I'm a little bit late here! Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!)

The following text is from a sermon at church about a month ago. I enjoyed the priest's message and I wanted to write it down so I won't forget it.

Some days it's difficult to get out of bed in the morning. We think about all the things we have to do that day and we think about all the things that are troubling us. Maybe we're having a tough time with family members, with our jobs, or with illnesses. That's why Christmas is a perfect time to think about and reflect on why Jesus came to earth for us. What is Jesus offering us? Is he offering us a life without pain? A life without any form of suffering or hurt? No. Jesus is offering us Love. When he came here as a man, he experienced our ailments, our hurts, betrayals, and sufferings. He knows what it feels like. It is a very important distinction to remember that he is offering us Love and not a guarantee of painlessness, and he wants us to experience his love. Having love is more vital than having a pain-free life... keep that in mind anytime you are feeling discouraged.

If you want to be a true disciple of Christ, you must take up your cross and follow him. No one ever said this life was going to be easy.

Unfortunately though.... for as much as we might like this to be true some days..... certain things are not for us to decide. We cannot choose for our cross to be made with styrofoam!

Merry Christmas!! :)

Can you give me a hand here?

2010-12-19T22:41:00.002-05:00

I just had another extremely productive Sunday evening. I must have gotten too much sleep this weekend, because I am fighting off an overabundance of energy. The Steelers game was a good opportunity for me to wave some of it off and lift my (little) hand weights while watching, but even that wasn't enough to reduce the high energy level. After the game was over, I literally ran around my apartment and later jumped/danced like a maniac to the radio for a few minutes (It is a sad evening since the Steelers lost; I had to push myself through the silly motions).

Then I thought, "OMG, how awesome would it be if I could do a handstand?!!?". Doesn't everyone think of stuff like this? I unsuccessfully tried to do it a few times before I had the ingenius idea of looking up instructions on the internet. I swear to you that I am a 29 year old female and not a 13 year old boy, although I can identify with them... Breakouts? Check. First-kiss jitters and sweaty palms on a date? Check and check. Moustache slowly growing? Check.

Anyway, for those of you who are married with children or even just married, you're probably wondering 1) why the hell would she try to do handstands in her free time? and 2) what is free time? The answers are relatively simple. 1) I am supercool. 2) Free time = this is what single people have if they have already cleaned the apartment, done all the laundry, talked to the folks, and caught up with friends on the phone. Yes, there are things I could and should do such as volunteering or a part-time job, but I'm working on those. In the meantime, I am supercool.

On one episode of Sex And The City (SATC), the characters are discussing their "Secret Single Behavior" (SSB). In a way, attempting handstands could count as one of those except for the fact that it is not a secret and it is not something that I routinely do (until next Sunday night, of course!). On the show, they didn't want their boyfriends finding out about the SSB they do when said boyfriends are not around because they were worried it would scare them away.

Back to the point - so after I watched some experts online and got some tips, I decided it would be smart to clear a space in front of a wall so that I wouldn't flip over. Good idea? Yes! Was it a tip I learned from the internet? No! I awkwardly slid/crumpled on my first attempt which caused my wrists to crack in a bunch of different places and made my neck feel funny. Undeterred, my second attempt was so bad I'm not sure what really happened... it was a blur. There was a loud thud against the wall, my hair was disheveled more than it normally is, and I decided to wait until there was another person around for fear of getting hurt. See, this proves I'm not a 13 year old boy. The boys would just do it anyways and then damage something. I am much more sophisticated/mature than that (read: I really don't want to drive myself to the ER to explain how I broke my wrist and then have to explain all over again at work on Monday. Not everyone understands the plight of the brave).

Unlike the SATC characters, I'm not afraid to share this SSB with anyone and this is exactly the reason why having a boyfriend around would sometimes be useful. I'm sure I would be a shoo-in at the pierogi try-outs if I could do a handstand. The Pirates staff would exclaim, "Oh look, how novel! That pierogi is upside-down! Just what the crowd paid money to see!"...Even though an upside-down pierogi probably doesn't look much different than a normal pierogi, assuming there is such a thing as "normal" when a person is standing in a pierogi costume.

I better get to bed and rest up... my social calendar is surprisingly free tomorrow night, if you can believe it, and there are all kinds of fun I could end up having. And no, shaving/bleaching/waxing off my moustache isn't one of them... at least not yet.

Look at how much fun this is, especially the nineties clothing.

Just say it

2010-12-16T19:28:00.001-05:00

Just say it - throughout the course of a day, there are probably eleventy-billion thoughts we think to ourselves that we'd like to say (or shout) but instead we keep our mouths shut. (Sidebar: Thank you Saturday Night Live, for many years ago giving the world the number eleventy-billion...the amount of which no one can fully comprehend yet I'm guessing it's more than ten billion.) In my case, I've decided to just write it. Unbeknownst to some, I do not always blurt out everything I think and that very limited censor will remain intact...except for these few things. In no particular order:

Stop licking the pages! I think everyone I know does this except for me, so that would make me the outlier in this case. Close friends, family, respected coworkers, professors, classmates, even people on TV do it. They try to quickly flip through a stack of pages and then...they run into stuck pages...and they lick a finger or two and touch it to the page to continue flipping. Yes, technically they are licking the finger and not the page, but the saliva still remains .....on ......that.....page. I have tried this once to see what the fuss is all about and I didn't find it effective, but maybe it's because I don't practice. Really, it's gross when you think about it. Unless you washed your hands five seconds ago and then decided to find one piece of paper out of fifty, how clean could your hands be? Are you the only person who has to touch those pages today? I love many of you who do this, but I don't love this behavior. Please, just stop. Struggle through those pages, you can do it!
Learn how to drive! This sentiment is said in a variety of words and phrases to all of the cars around me, because apparently I am one of the chosen few who were taught how to drive properly (thank you Mom, Dad, & Brother). Unless you are lost or new to the area, you really don't have a valid excuse for not staying in your lane or going slow in the passing lane or going half the speed limit or not using turn signals or braking at green lights or letting four people go in front of you (and in front of Me!) instead of taking your proper turn. I'm all for being nice, but being fair is a form of kindness too. I'm also pro-cautious driving particularly as weather, road conditions, and visibility permits. The driving problem that irritates me the most is when people drive way under the speed limit and ride the brakes for no reason. (Long Sidebar, Prepare Yourself: Once I had a very strange guy friend who was interested in dating me. I told him no, and we remained friends. My mom wanted me to date him, because "what could be so weird about him?". I told her that he is a good friend, but he's just...you know...weird. She didn't understand until he came over one day for dinner. As we were all eating our spaghetti, as people were talking to him, as he was chewing his food... he was literally not paying any attention to the people or the conversation. His head was doing slow turns upwards and around, taking in the bare sight of our dining room ceiling, as if he was contemplating the meaning of life and the concept of eleventy-billion Skittles thrown into a bouncy ball gym. "Would the Skittles get lost among all the other colors? Would pandemonium break loose and would the children "swim" to the bottom to eat them? What else would they find down there? How could you know if you found them all if you don't know what that number represents?" After he left that evening, my mom said to me - "You were right, he is weird".) Anyway, there was a point to that ridiculously long sidebar and it is this: Under the speed limit driver with your foot on the brake - I picture you as my very strange guy friend - looking around at the sights in bewilderment while gripping your steering wheel, instead of focusing intently and thus safely on your driving task at hand. You are thinking in a Patrick the Starfish voice from Spongebob (Click here if you don't know his voice.) - "What is this I see? What is this road before me, what are these trees and what is this blue sky? Oh no, what are these other cars doing around me? Why are they here? What is this pedal next to my brake? Where am I?" And you continue to ride the brake while I fume helplessly behind you. As my brother eloquently states, "You should always drive fast. You never know when the person driving behind you is in a hurry because he has to go home and take a crap." Well said, elder one. Other drivers, please take notice.
Men - trim your nose hairs if they extend past your nose. This is a sad and defeated plea of mine. No, I'm not criticizing and yes, I feel terrible that you have to shave your face most days. I really do feel for you on that one, but please take care of business before I succumb to the thoughts in my head and ask you to do so in a tone that I think is perfectly reasonable and calm but you would think sounds like a mouthful of pure crazy that hurts your feelings.
Stop saying like, like every single sentence. This one plagues me because I myself am a struggling-to-recover like girl. I try not to use it when recounting conversations, but it's a hard habit to break. The word comes spewing out like a baby who spits when she doesn't want to eat any more pureed peas and it makes a mess everywhere. Like the baby, I don't know whether to laugh at the ridiculous goop on you or cry because the taste is horrific. Yes, I realize I just used "like" in the past two sentences, well three if you count this one, but these examples are not indicative of the incorrect usage. As awful as it is to realize you're saying it against your own will, it's even harder to listen to when it comes out of other people's mouths. Example from a friend of mine: "I was like 'what?'... And then he was like 'whoa'.... And then I was like, I was like....". Yes, that example was totally pointless. My point exactly. Imagine if we showed our speech patterns in written form to someone from a hundred years ago. Example: The man entered through the doorway and shook the snow off the top of his hat. He brushed more snow off his shoulders as he wiped his feet on the mat before removing his shoes. He was like, "Damn snow." Aside from the quotation marks giving it away, the person from a hundred years ago might ask... "He was... like?...damn snow? Meaning he was cold like the snow? Or does he like the snow? If so, why would he swear about it?" Oh, you mean that he muttered "Damn snow", or he said or he stated or he cursed or he scoffed or he sighed or he declared or he shouted or he cried or he joked. It's bad enough when anyone rocking in the free world can write as poorly as they wish on a pierogi blog about nothing at all....please do not contribute to the English language's downfall by continually saying and abusing like, a word which can mean so much when a certain someone whispers in the correct context, "I really like you".
Stop using comic sans font! In case you haven't realized just how atrocious this font is and you think I've officially gone over the edge....check out this website here. It's not just me. Seeing the font makes my eyes hurt and my face scrunch up like I just bit into a lemon when I was expecting a banana. My understanding is that it was created for use in comic books, which actually makes sense. Ergo, it was NOT created for people to use as an everyday font in the workplace. Its proliferation makes zero sense. One of my former coworkers was a very smart man; his emails carefully dissected GAAP and FASB complexities in clear language that made commoners like me comprehend. His words were authoritative but his font was comic sans....which blew the whole tone. It was difficult to take the man seriously. Maybe he thought he would finally fit in with all of today's cool kids since he was using the coolest font from 1994, and they would forget that he was the leader of the bookworms back in high school. Any other font, even webdings, is a vast improvement. There is an amusing video regarding the font at the website given above, but I've attached a direct link to the youtube video here. The video is rather crude and long, so viewer beware.
Who do you think you are? Is your time more important than anyone else's? Are you too good to respond in kind when someone says "Hello" or "Good morning"? Do you take yourself too seriously? Are you a "taker" instead of a "giver" type of person? Some people do not realize how good they have it... the lives that we lead, the freedoms we have, the jobs that keep us housed and clothed and full.... the opportunities and basically the beautiful life and world that is out there for us to explore and experience in our time here. Yes, I'm complaining today about minutia... but I realize it's just that and not important at all, which is why I remain quiet most days. I don't have any more answers than anyone else, but I do have a modicum of perspective!

So there you have it. A few of my unspoken thoughts that you wasted your time reading. I'm sure some of you are wishing you had the five or ten minutes back into your life that it took you to peruse this post, but for the overwhelming majority of you (that's three of four followers, people!)...I think you should come right out and just say it already....

You missed me.

Terrible Advice

2010-11-27T17:04:00.004-05:00

One of my best friends recently received her first Terrible Towel so that she will be prepared to attend her first Steelers game when we play the Ravens in Baltimore. I love her immensely, except she is the only Steelers fan I know who did not own a Terrible Towel up until now....I can hear the collective four gasps across Allegheny county... how strangely shocking, indeed. No matter, I'm going to dismiss that detail as long as she follows my advice. I hope her allegiance doesn't falter....she has a new boyfriend who lives in Ravens country and apparently loves the team that is (gag) Purple like a certain (un)popular children's dinosaur. She tells me he is a great guy although I have my doubts based on team selection. He must be girl smart for choosing my friend but it sounds like he lacks in the football smarts. At least he's taking my girl (his girl?) to a Steelers game so I'll reluctantly give him some credit for that one.

Miss KMD - this one is just for you, with much love from your Fire Doodle. I expect you to know this verbatim with your super-duper memory skills before gameday to ensure you are ready. Have fun, be careful, and please don't let me down!

Terrible Towel (TT) Advice:

1. Always carry your TT to the Steelers games. This includes all pre-game tailgating activities and any post-game tailgating activities. If your apartment is burning down on your way out the door to the game and you had to choose between your ID and your TT, you choose the TT and continue on to the game, calling 911 from your vehicle. Take your chances on not getting carded and wink/smile at other Steelers fans if you must in order to imbibe responsibly as you wish.

2. Always use the proper technique to wave your TT. The basic swing is helicopter style above your head, with your arm extended as high as you can lift it and your hand clutching the end of the towel, using your wrist to flick the towel around. Most of the time I use my dominant hand so I can wave the TT as fast and as hard as I can to help spur on an offensive march or a defensive stand. You can be sitting or standing depending on the situation. A frenzied pace is the norm, as a slow helicopter turn may cause the TT to fall on your head...plus you will need plenty of room to do the slow style properly by swinging your whole arm, and it should only be used in special circumstances. Sometimes the TT can be used in a tomahawk style chop using a downward arm movement if you are angry and need to hit something. I usually do this on inanimate objects such as my couch or the floor, but feel free to do this on the nearest opposing team's fan if you think he will be a good sport about it and not cry like a baby since you hit him with a piece of cloth. Feel free to scream and holler loudly while waving the towel.

3. Always wave your TT with pride. Wave it as a hello to other Steelers fans, wave it as a taunt to opposing teams' fans, wave it to release pent up adrenaline before kickoff, wave it in the parking lot if you love hot dogs and burgers and peanuts and beer and nachos and the great sport that is football. Wave it at kickoff, wave it for any good Steelers play, wave it in encouragement after any bad Steelers play, wave it on all third downs and anytime the black and gold scores. Wave it for missed opportunities for the other team, wave it for injured players who make it off the field. Remember that these are just a few suggestions since pretty much anything can justify a rousing wave of the TT...just don't forget to wave it proudly using the aforementioned technique.

4. Never, ever allow a non-Steelers fan to hold your TT. They may seem innocent, but do not trust them, even if they "just want to see it for a minute". Yes, this includes your boyfriend. I know it's hard, but I don't make up the rules. Oh wait, I do, and he is not allowed to touch it. Trust me on this one. I would not steer you wrong. Opposing teams' fans are jealous of the TT and may try to harm it. Guard your TT and protect it with your life.

5. Never wash your TT. I'm sure there are conflicting views out there on this, but I mandate that you treat your towel with the respect it deserves and don't try to pretty it up with detergent, fabric softener and those Bounce dryer sheets you love so much. The TT is functional, durable, and not once has it ever been called The Clean Terrible Towel.

6. Always keep your TT within reach during the game. If you're not holding your TT at the ready in your hands, it can also be worn as an accessory. I normally hang it over one of my shoulders or around my neck, and you can also tuck it into your jeans pocket or your waistband if you need your hands free for carrying food/drinks back to your seat. You are much more creative than me so I'm sure you can think of something else, just make sure it is securely on you so there is no chance of losing it and so you don't miss a prime waving opportunity.

7. Always give the TT a prominent place in your home for display, especially during football season. I suggest making it the focal point of your living room (or whichever room where you watch the games). Color-coordinated furniture, such as a sleek black leather couch, is not necessary but would be a nice touch to enhance the gold TT. If you have multiple towels then you can display one in each room.

8. Always carry your TT with you on any trip where you might want to grace everyone with a little bit of Pittsburgh pride. This is a valuable instruction when traveling to any place in the U.S. where an NFL team plays, but it is especially important when traveling to other teams in our division. Nothing makes Cleveland residents happier than seeing you wave your towel for no reason other than you feel the need to thank your lucky stars that you were raised right. Cleveland fans might even give you a special wave back with one finger. You can hold up six fingers in response. Throw in a little dance if you feel like shaking it to the "Here We Go" song playing in your head and then follow that up with another wave of the towel for good measure.

9. Always carry your TT with you on any trip where you have even the smallest chance of getting on TV. Nothing can bring a tear to a tough Pittsburgh Steelers fan's eye quite like seeing a TT held up for the world to witness behind Matt Lauer's head at the Olympics or any other place for that matter. This will provide encouragement to those Steelers fans who are having a bad day and happen to see you with the TT...they will know they are not alone and the Steeler Nation is alive and well. It's actually not a bad idea to carry it with you year-round, because you never know when it might come in handy.

10. Always consider giving someone the gift of the TT if he does not own one already or if he needs more than one. It will become a cherished possession and it will never go out of style...the TT fits every budget and it's on everyone's wish list, so you can't go wrong. Nothing says "I love you and want you to be a part of the best sports team ever" quite like a TT. It will be a good friend all season long, through the wins and hopefully playoffs and hopefully the Super Bowl, year after year, and it will absorb your tears in times of loss.

HERE WE GO STEELERS, HERE WE GO!!!

Dating Hiss!-story

2010-11-23T21:13:00.006-05:00

This post is not going to be caustic as the title might suggest.... just a little bit of insight to those of you who find this subject absolutely fascinating (I really don't know why that is the case since my life is happily ordinary, but you know who you are). Think of the "hiss!" coming from the black cat silhouette with it's back arched against the moon in the background.... you know, the Halloween cat. It's a "hiss!" because anybody who's spent time in the dating trenches would be a little bit battle-weary as they approach the ripe old age of twenty-nine. (I'll give some of you time to roll your eyes at that remark..........ok, let's continue.) Also, as with a couple other things rattling around in my mind, this is a way for me to remember things that I would otherwise forget with the passing of time and to feebly attempt the ancient art form of writing. All names have been changed to protect the mostly guilty parties.

I hit the dating scene early; my first boyfriend was in kindergarten. From what I can recall, he was the cutest, funniest boy in class and he just so happened to be interested in ME. I remember being at his house for a play date and then returning the favor at my house. Everything was fun and games while we were jumping on my brother's bed, until I had to flaunt my leaping prowess and come crashing down, not timing the landing correctly as little kids do. The tears flowed, my embarrassment was at an all-time high, and he was not my boyfriend shortly after that. I was so smooth. Through the years, it turns out that he wasn't the cutest or the funniest, but neither was I. We both became something in the middle and became good people, which is a very high compliment in my book. We remained cordial friends and say hello when we see each other. I hear he's married now with a family and I'm happy for him. Besides, I don't know how any kindergarten relationship could survive after the traumatic lesson I displayed in the physical dangers of jumping on the bed, especially the ego-bruising kind.

My next "real" boyfriend was a much older "man" due to the fact that he was two years older than me. I remember having those long and important phone calls that were so important I can't remember a single thing we discussed, aside from one defining moment when he asked my age. I had to think fast for a second since I had just turned fifteen a few days before. My brief panic turned into relief and I casually replied "Fifteen".... as if I was on the verge of turning the blissful sixteen and the fact that I was still fifteen was beyond boring. He then asked me to "go out" with him and I said yes. My answer was the same when he asked me to the Christmas dance. Wow! He was so grown up that he even had facial hair when most of the freshman boys in my grade did not. Needless to say, my dad did not like the idea of the two of us together. I was baffled as to why he wouldn't want me with such a distinguished, older man who was almost a senior and oh-so-cool. My whiny defense of "but Daddy he dated his last girlfriend for two whole years!" did not help matters and again I was perplexed. Obviously this meant my new boyfriend was interested in a committed long-term relationship, right? Um, wrong. He never even kissed me. After the dance we were sitting in his truck outside my house, listening to music while I waited for the kiss that would never come... instead I was astonished to hear the break-up speech. Somewhere in the hazy mumbo-jumbo of words I heard "Your brother said he'd kill me if I touched you". The relationship spanned two entire weeks and to this day I don't think I've even asked my brother if he did indeed threaten him or if that was simply his excuse to find a more mature woman of sixteen or seventeen. I'm pretty sure that one turned out for the best and I'm guessing that my dad was secretly pleased.

All of that extensive and valuable dating preparation led me to my actual first boyfriend who was around for longer than two weeks and who didn't leave after seeing me cry for the first time. We were both sixteen when we met. If I ever thought another boy was cute up until that point, it all changed when I saw Demetrius. He had chiseled features, perfectly shaped kissable lips and a straight, proportional nose. His eyes, oh my goodness, those eyes...well, everyone who met him would tell me how he had the most amazing blue eyes they'd ever seen, as if I didn't stare at them every chance I could. His hair was brown and it varied over four years from very short to almost chin-length, while his face looked great with either style. Some even compared him to a young Mario Lemieux, but at the time I thought he was way cuter. One of my jealous friends said that he was too good-looking for me and instead of getting angry I merely agreed with her factual assessment. I didn't see a point in arguing when someone's right, although now I have a healthier self-image where I would at least stick up for myself more... not to mention I now think Lemieux's got it over Demetrius, but I'm digressing. Besides, it really is what's on the inside that counts...and he had that too while I knew him.

Our relationship was a typical high school sweetheart love and we were happy for the first few years, even surviving the first two years of separate colleges, apart in distance but still together. The more I learned about him the more I loved him and it worked in reverse too. Isn't that odd how that happens? When it does happen, it's fun and exciting and addicting. I loved basketball and he loved soccer; we'd cheer each other on from our rival high schools. Demetrius was more than just a pretty face and we'd spend hours discussing our thoughts on life...not unlike most other couples although we thought we were unique. I remember the tears in his eyes when he saw me for the first time after I had emergency surgery; I remember him playfully teasing me about drooling all over his arm when I fell asleep during a movie in my freshman dorm and he didn't have the heart to wake me up; I remember the way we'd laugh and laugh about all kinds of silliness, delighting in each other's company.

Our last year together is when the inevitable slide started - neither wanting to admit that our lives were getting crowded with other people and new things to experience - wanting to move on to become the people we were meant to be and yet wanting to hold on to each other in the process. Lots of bitter fights and tears ensued and we broke up on September 11th, 2002. I thought that my break-up was tough but I knew it was nothing in comparison to what the victims' families were going through and would endure for years....that was certainly much bigger than me and my boy problems. Demetrius and I tried to stay friends for a couple years which (not surprisingly) failed. He was a good first boyfriend. I don't regret my time with him and I would hope that we are both better people for our time spent together.

Jeremy was my second serious boyfriend. He was the anti-Demetrius in some ways... his hair the color of wheat, his body built more for football which caused me to feel secure in his embrace...his eyes were a wonderful blue and he was also handsome. Now Jeremy would tell you that his eyes are green, and those pesky arguments over nothing are one of things that we did best. Oddly enough, I find crooked teeth attractive and his top teeth had just the right amount of imperfection. Jeremy could be a gentleman at times and he was funny and very sweet. It puzzled me how he managed to be both innocent and cynical at the same time. He had strong beliefs and valued family, with that last quality beginning to carry more weight as time changes us from college-aged to late twenties. Like Demetrius, we'd laugh together and have fun doing mundane things with each other such as going to the grocery store. However, he kept wanting more than I was able to give. It became exhausting for me as I tried to be everything in the world to one person and to convince him that I loved him. The constant barrage of questions where I had to account for my time really tested my patience. I had to carefully parse my words for fear of upsetting him, which is something I don't envision myself doing for the next fifty years or so (God-willing). In the end it was Jeremy's lack of self-confidence that destroyed the relationship, although I would bet all of my money that he would whole-heartedly disagree.

My last boyfriend was Carlo. He had me completely fooled from day one. It was as if he knew exactly what I was thinking and what I wanted in a partner, so he said and did everything he could to prove to me that he had it all. His skin was the perfect shade of tan - courtesy of the Mexican sun - and his hair was the color of the Steelers' home jerseys (minus the gold). Carlo's hair was starting to thin and his hairline receding, but it made no difference to me. He had very skinny long legs that I found adorable and dark eyes, full lips. He was a brooding and serious kind of handsome, whereas Jeremy was a happy and bright-eyed kind of handsome. Carlo lured me in with his promises and with some of the best food I have ever tasted...cooking multiple course meals for me on a regular basis with each inexplicably being better than the last. Along with his other fine qualities, Carlo was also a proficient liar. Stupid men, silly me. We wanted different things out of the relationship, which he eventually admitted once he realized the gig was up. Thankfully I found out sooner rather than later. I left that relationship a little bit wiser and very proud of myself for standing up for what I want in my life. Most importantly though, I left that relationship knowing how to make an authentic guacamole so delicious you would swear you're in Estados Unidos Mexicanos.

I have briefly dated several other people aside from the serious five (okay, serious three) above. Searching my memory, I think it's a conservative estimate that I've ruled out at least fifteen other men by way of at least one date each, if not two or three to be on the safe side before throwing in the Terrible Towel. The process of elimination is a powerful tool; albeit one that can be slower than molasses. Unfortunately this man-vetting process is taking a toll on my mom and my close friends. My friends are polite so they listen and ask questions on the latest prospect with interest (mostly genuine, sometimes feigned). "Name? Age? Employed? Religion? Manners? Height? Does he like Pittsburgh sports too? Oh he does?! Good! ...Wait, I'm sorry, which guy are you referring to again? Refresh my memory."

After reading through my own dating hisstory, I've realized that I need to take some of the positive qualities from each person and that would make for a fun next boyfriend. His strong points would read as follows:

-Jumps on the bed just for fun

-Exudes oh-so-cool vibes yet is still afraid of my brother

-Earns approval of my dad

-Cares not about my drool on his arm

-Laughs with me

-Wants a family someday

-Makes me yummy food

I can certainly think of a hundred other things to add to the list, but ninety-five percent would be mostly silly things like some of the ones here....and I think the list above is pretty comprehensive for now, until a new boyfriend comes along to add his own qualities. Besides, he must have the serious qualities first in order for me to get to know him enough to figure out the silly ones. And if nothing else, he's got to have a very good answer to this crucial question that I may pose to him someday... "Does this pierogi outfit make me look fat?"

To Eat or Not to Eat

2010-11-15T17:59:00.003-05:00

I've had a major dilemma on my hands and I'm hoping that you will support me in my decision.

If I want to be a Pittsburgh Pierogi, does this mean that I am allowed to eat pierogies whenever I want? Or does this mean that I am supposed to banish the delicious flavor fusion of butter, onion, cheese and potato from my often spoiled palate? Sometimes my life is so difficult (sigh).

Here are my thoughts on the two options:

1. You are what you eat. If I eat enough pierogies, will I eventually turn into one? My grandmother used to say that our family ate so much spaghetti that the insides of our bellies have turned red. As much as I want to be one of the pierogi runners, I really don't want my belly turning into dough. I prefer it to stay the same - slightly soft, slightly roundish, but overall it's thin enough and made of human skin and tissue (and apparently it's rather red inside). I also don't want my family, coworkers, and the general public wondering what suddenly smells like butter and fried onions when I walk into a room. The only exception to that last sentence would be if Daniel Sepulveda just so happens to love pierogies that much where this could bode well for me...I'm just sayin'...there's a chance, even if it's Lloyd's odds with Mary in Dumb & Dumber (one out of a million for those of you who haven't seen one of the greatest movies ever).

But....I want to eat pierogies! I want to eat them for dinner and I want to go back for seconds and maybe thirds, and then I want to eat them the next day before noon...I want to have five too many and my poor mother will worry that I have an addiction. An intervention might be necessary, but hey I don't have a serious problem, I swear. I normally only have two or three and I can stop anytime I want. I'm fine, really I am, but this could jeopardize my end goal of becoming a star participant in the Great Pierogi Race. I've been called a lot of things, but a cannibal so far is not one of them. It's probably not the right way to make friends on the team. If I do get my shot, the other pierogies would run so fast out of fear that I would most certainly lose the race. But oh, Oliver Onion, sometimes you look so tasty and it just makes me want to nibble on your broad shoulder. Sauerkraut Saul texts me constantly, but I keep telling him I'm all yours.

2. Proper nutrition + rigorous exercise = No pierogies for me. In every novel or movie, there is typically this fancy thing called a "plot", which usually revolves around some sort of conflict that must be resolved by the novel or the movie's end. One of the problems with plots is that there can be several twists and other possible paths that the characters or the story could take which can ultimately ruin something that started out so promising. Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books that were popular in the 1980's? I'm at one of those crossroads here except I would have to wait a year (a year!) until I get to attempt another outcome in the pierogi saga.

Banning pierogies would improve my odds of becoming a runner since training would be a heck of a lot easier if my belly simply stayed the same instead of turned into mush. And unfortunately I don't think pierogies help meet my daily recommended amount of protein, either. Maybe I can have my pierogi and eat it too, as long as I work out twice as much and make sure that my plate reflects the proper overload of vegetables with only a teeny-tiny portion of carbs? Unfortunately, I don't know if I can trust myself to have just one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But chew on this thought for a minute: In cheap slasher movies, they usually have the ditzy blonde "go check" downstairs when she hears a noise instead of locking the bedroom door, calling 911 on her cell phone, grabbing some sort of weapon and deciding either to book it out the window or stay put until help arrives... like any sane woman would do. However...wouldn't it be boring if the naive party chick didn't meet her fate after tripping over her own sky-high heels, squirming helplessly because she somehow forgot her ability to stand, while the killer s-l-o-w-l-y saunters after her in his three big strides? You wouldn't be able to sit safely in your seat, shaking your head. You couldn't whisper impatiently to the screen, "Just get up and run dammit!! I knew this was going to happen and I don't understand why you wouldn't listen to me! Hmmph!" And the expression on your face would change from exasperation to supremely smug, as if such an untimely exit could never happen to you.

In the same way, this particular conundrum of mine would not be nearly as entertaining if I choose option number two and abstain from pierogies. I realize this puts me in the doomed category along with the blonde, but you don't want the story ending after five minutes without the chase, even if you think you already know the inevitable outcome, do you? And sometimes, the ending may very well surprise you. In my case - I sure hope I don't fall over during try-outs while a large fork looms perilously over my head.

I am choosing option one, and I am doing this for you. Yes, you specifically, and for your enjoyment. Unless you have a very persuasive argument for option number two that comes with free Clinique products and a Flip, I will commence with cannibalism. This will make my fight harder, the race uphill for now instead of pretending that I am on the level and manicured PNC field. Picture your heroine training in a puffy pierogi-shaped costume with her black tennis shoes and yellow laces, dragging her mattressed self up the steepest hill in Dormont that you've ever seen, running towards an imaginary finish line where dinner awaits as the prize.

Obviously I'm going to need all the help I can get. Please, please, pretty please... order some homemade pierogies from your local church and donate them to a worthy cause known as my freezer if you can't make them yourself. Mrs. T is also a very welcome guest in my home and I prefer the jalapeno variety. You can be one of my enablers...I will come home from work and the gym, where I just burned off the previous night's feast...the butter dripping from my pores as if it were sweat....and I will fry up some pierogies, smiling the entire time through dinner as they go down smoothly.

Digging for Gold on the Bus

2010-10-28T22:42:00.004-04:00

When you take the bus to work every day, you quickly learn how to choose a seat wisely. However, this implies that there is an available seat for you to actually sit in. About half of my bus rides are spent standing while trying to touch as little as possible, which becomes difficult because you need to hold on to something lest you fall onto the disgusting bus floor (I'm sure if that calamity does happen you're either minutes away from dying due to a slow and painful flesh-eating disease you just contracted or a hot shower).

I chose my seat very poorly this morning. My decision process isn't overly complicated and it usually serves me well, but today served as evidence that you can't win 'em all.

It goes something like this:

1. Are there any open seats in the back? If yes, move towards the back of the bus (since that is what you are supposed to do instead of just plopping down into the first seat you see only to cause a people jam by the door).

2. Where would you have the most room? The lady carrying her purse, her lunch, her laptop, her carry-on suitcase, and her boxful of God-knows-what does not bode well as a bus partner nor does the man taking up two seats.

3. Assuming this is your lucky day so far and you have an abundant choice of open seats with plenty of room to properly sit the whole way on the seat instead of only half of your one butt cheek hanging on...then you choose by an elimination process that I have termed "Who looks the most normal?". (No matter the bus route or the time of day, it always happens that I am never one of the first few people able to get a window seat.)

The last criteria is the toughest one of all. It requires lightning quick thought-processing time and reaction skills. Tsk, tsk you say. Judging a book by it's cover? That's so not right.

Yes, it's not right, but when times are tough and seats are scarce, it's what you must do if you want a peaceful commute. I've overheard many curse-filled arguments and witnessed pushing struggles because people are exhausted and cranky going in to work and being on a smelly bus that's always running late and full of assorted characters doesn't really help matters. I thought I was exposed to different walks of life just by going to a public high school, but taking public transportation gives you a much larger variety and perspective. I have seen my share of kindnesses happen on the bus too, but it's an extreme rarity...like the odd man out who might actually give up his seat for a woman. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen that happen and I've been taking the bus for seven months.

Anyway...for those of you unfamiliar with the bus's seating chart, there are typically four seats in the very back... one pair on either side. Both of the window seats were taken, so I chose the seat next to the man merely looking at his phone instead of the man with music blaring from his ipod earbuds. He seemed innocent enough.

I got my book out of my backpack and proceeded to read. After a few minutes, I noticed his hand reaching up to his face out of my peripheral vision. I didn't think anything of it at first until I realized that this wasn't a scratch and his hand was still up there. He was blatantly picking his nose on the bus. Not a casual wipe across the bottom of the nose. I put my book down and fully turned towards him for a second to confirm my suspicion. Yup, I was right. I turned back to my book and tried to read but I was too grossed out to concentrate. I looked around to see if anyone else was paying attention and I caught a death stare from another passenger. Great. I pointedly sighed but the man was either oblivious to my passive aggression or he didn't care. I thought about sighing again, only louder this time, but then immediately shot that idea down in case he was crazy. I didn't want him touching me and there was no escape in sight. This seemed to go on for an eternity but in reality it was probably about thirty seconds....which, in my opinion, is an extremely long time to pick your nose (let alone pick your nose in public) and about thirty seconds longer than what is socially acceptable.

I looked at him again - oh wait, he has to stop and play with the mess in his fingers...ok back in the nose again - and I wondered when he turned into my toddler niece when I wasn't looking. At least she uses a tissue if she must do the deed, and I've been a witness to this in the privacy/decency of her own home, not surrounded by strangers...and she's only three! He's old enough to know better...he has gray hair (not prematurely gray either) and I'd estimate he's in his mid-fifties. I feel bad if someone asks to borrow his germy phone later today.

I wondered if he thought he was invisible. Yes, that's it...no one can see us sitting way back here in the corner of the bus and I can do whatever I please! If that's the case, no one clued me in. I could have used that tidbit of info so that I could openly sneer and roll my eyes when warranted by other passengers or the traffic instead of just looking mildly constipated in an attempt to be polite and keep the peace.

And before you start thinking that I am Miss High & Mighty... one of the questions my grandmother frequently asked me when she was babysitting my brother and me growing up was...

"What do you think you're doing, digging for gold??"

Sadly, the Penguins bus is not mine, but it's much prettier!

Rescued

2010-10-25T22:14:00.003-04:00

All he ever really wanted was to be loved.

He never hurt anyone, never said a harsh word. He wanted a warm and dry place to sleep at night and he didn't want to search anymore for food out in the trash, roaming the neighborhood all through the days and nights. Especially when it was raining or snowing... it was just too cold for him! He hated being cold.

He used to get very scared when his owners would yell loudly at him for no reason. He would run around the house as fast as he could on his four little legs, hoping hoping hoping they couldn't catch him. Faster, faster, faster... keep running!! But it didn't matter. Several times the young man didn't even bend over to smack him and would just stick out his foot for a yelp-inducing kick.

He kept up this tiring life until one day on his travels he met a new man down the street. This man didn't have a mean bone in his body and was always happy to see him. The man would pick him up, pet him, and say nice things to him, all the while ignoring his fleas and stench. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would get to go into this man's home where the man would give him a bath and feed him until it was time to leave. This happened every so often and it always seemed like a dream to the little one who put up with so much.

Finally a day came when the new man was speaking to his owner at the front door. He listened intently with his big ears and waited around the corner, afraid to come out into the open where he might be in trouble. He heard his name being called and he had to move from his hiding spot; he hesitantly put on his brave face. When he saw the new man bending down to pick him up, he shook with relief.

Now he is warm and dry and he has his own bed. He lives with the new man and his wife, who are now his mummy and daddy. He never goes outside anymore without a leash and one of them with him, and he never has to find food in the trash. They always have food and water just for him, and he even gets treats! He still runs around the house as fast as he can, but only when mummy and daddy are playing with him and one of his toys.

His daddy has a heart of gold. His daddy still picks him up, pets him, and says nice things to him. He notices that his daddy is nice to everyone...always happy and full of praise, especially to his sister who magically appears home sometimes. Once he heard his sister say... "I have the best parents in the whole wide world and I had the best childhood anyone could ever have." He's not exactly sure what all of those words mean, but he certainly knows that he is loved. He is his daddy's best friend.

November Rain

2010-10-22T00:28:00.003-04:00

I'm gearing up for the first cold November rain. And yes, while writing my very first (and potentially last) blog posting I realize that it is currently October....but who doesn't like that Guns N' Roses song? The piano and the wistful lyrics complement the drums and guitar shredding superbly. It's on my Top 25 list of all-time great songs (which will be shared later, just as soon as I compile it). If you haven't heard the song before or seen the music video, check it out here. Holy hair band and holy short wedding dress.

Anyway, like a lot of people -and I think many yinzers would agree- fall is my favorite time of the year. I like it for the usual reasons that most people give if they have an affinity for this season: Steelers football, college football, high school football, the beautiful and colorful leaves, the autumn smell and chill in the air, hot chocolate, the official start of sweaters and boots season, and the semi-annual Victoria Secret's sale. Ok, so maybe the last one doesn't really count. Did I mention football?

Aside from the standard responses though, the main reason fall is my favorite time of the year is the anticipation it brings. The anticipation of the holidays filled with family, laughter, and times spent together recalling past holidays. The anticipation of Christmas and remembering/celebrating Christ's love for us. The anticipation of the new year approaching and all of the possibilities it could bring. It's a hopeful time even though the outside world is changing and getting colder each day. The first snowfall is always magical. (If I can make the snowfall comment after living in Erie for years with the lake-effect snows-until-you-can't-stand-it-and-then-it-snows-some-more weather, then you should be able to agree.) Of course, I do realize that snow-falling happens in the winter season, but the waiting for its arrival and the anxious small-talk of "so when do you think it's gonna snow?" typically takes place in the fall and is a small part of the fun unpredictibility of life. Wouldn't it be awful if we knew the future? Frankly, I think it would be downright scary to know all of the heartbreak and agony ahead of time, while on the other hand it would also steal something away from the sheer joy in the breathless, happy, and wonderful moments in life if they couldn't catch you by surprise. The one pesky afterthought of course may be to know the winning lottery numbers, but that's another topic for another day.

So congratulations...you have almost made it to the end of my first blog posting (yes, I'm writing to you Mom and Dad....the only two people who would read this!). I know you've waited for quite some time for the blog's arrival since I have talked about it ad nauseum, but now that you have actually read it I'm sure you're anticipating the post's ending with an even greater fervor. I can just hear the conversation now, it would go something like this... My Mom: "So this is what a blog is? Why would I want to sit here and read it? I don't get it." My Dad: "Now hold on just a minute, hush and keep reading. I think there's more down below, maybe she will tell us something important." My Mom: "If she had something important to tell us, wouldn't she have called? Why do we have to check the internet?"

And finally - I have one more new reason to fall in love with the fall this year - even more so than other years. It involves a dream of mine that has been slowly and steadily building. I'm sure there are plenty of other Pittsburghers who hold this very same dream and yet many are not brave enough souls to vocalize it or even to take the first step in achieving it. (Yes, many of these people are probably ages twelve and under, but who's checking ID?) It is a thing of beauty, actually. Everyone who knows me should know that I am competitive and that I love the city of Pittsburgh and Pittsburgh sports teams. I also love to eat. What could be better than cheering on the hometown baseball team in the most beautiful ballpark in the country while running a foot race dressed up as a Polish food staple? Ladies and gentlemen (I mean - Mom and Dad)...I want to be a pierogi. A Pittsburgh pierogi. Fall serves as my official start to get-in-shape season to get doughy for try-outs in March. I will be relentless in my training efforts. Even if there's a cold November rain, I will have to force myself to get to the gym and "lay it on the line" as Axl Rose would say.

Like I said before, I love the fall season because it's all about anticipation. A girl can dream, right? And if this doesn't work out, then I have a fantastic costume idea for next Halloween.