Toodles

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

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

it

fell

silently

in

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

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

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

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

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! :)