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.

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.

 

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.

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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.