Terrible Advice

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

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

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.