Operation Granola Bar

The man smiled very warmly at me and he said proudly, "I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Laverne."

Laverne was beaming at me and then she said, "Yep, I'm his wife, Laverne, just like the TV show 'Laverne and Shirley', and my husband's name is Raymond, just like 'Everybody Loves Raymond'!  We're quite the pair!".


Since I am a fan of simple humor (such as knock-knock jokes) that might elicit eye-rolling from those who can only find the funny in more sophisticated comedy, I chuckled at this one and suddenly the three of us were in a grinning contest.  We chatted for a couple minutes and then I walked away, happy to have met them.

I was bewildered by Raymond and Laverne.  They were as friendly as can be,  as seemingly normal as any couple that you might meet.  What I had just given to Raymond, he immediately and graciously gave to his wife.  Unfortunately, what I gave him was a measly granola bar. 


Even more unfortunate is the fact that they are homeless.

I didn't glean any clues from our conversation that could explain the mystery of their situation.  I didn't ask probing questions or tell them to get a job already and they didn't complain to me or ask me for money or make me feel uncomfortable.  Maybe one or both of them are struggling with substance abuse, maybe they lost their jobs, maybe they're not very bright, maybe they're mentally unstable...who knows.  Maybe they were just like us until they couldn't stay above water anymore.  When we see homeless people begging for money, it's easier for us to assume that they are lazy or shake our heads about their assumed addictions and keep on walking rather than entertain the preposterous notion that they could be similar to us in any way.


I do know a couple things about Laverne and Raymond.  When I met them, their eyes were clear.  They were extremely grateful, and they each told me how much they appreciated what I gave them.  I was embarrassed and mumbled something about how I was sorry I only had one and they tried to make me feel better, saying that every little bit helps.  They put me at ease with their polite and easy-going banter.


To give you some background as to how this came to pass, I use the bus for my work commute in the warmer months of the year.  In the colder months, I park on one side of one of the rivers and walk over a bridge or take a shuttle, depending on the weather.  I started to notice that there was a man sleeping on the cement near the bridge, out in the open by the river, with a bunch of blankets around him.  Then I noticed more blankets, more piles of people, and this was how I eventually came into contact with my sitcom couple.  Sometimes as many as five or six piles, but usually just two.  What were they doing there?  Isn't there a shelter they can go to?   Are those shelters filled to capacity and turning people away?  How could they get any rest on the cold concrete?

I'm like most people and I dislike being cold.  Except I hate it so much that I bundle up like I'm going into a blizzard even if I'm just walking very briefly from one heated place to the next.  I'd wear a snuggie over my coat if it was socially acceptable.  I take a shuttle because I can't stand a ten minute walk which could be invigorating and (gasp!) even good for me.  So then I imagine how the homeless must feel in the bitter cold, and I hate thinking about it...so...it's easier to just NOT think.  Thank God that we've had a mild winter.

I was afraid to go up to Laverne and Raymond.  What if they were rude?  What if they got angry?  What if they demanded money?  Was this a safe thing to do?  Don't worry Mom and Dad, I approached them with one hand on the granola bar and one hand ready with the pepper spray in my pocket (which felt very silly after I met them).

On the way home that night, I was relieved and happy and ashamed and sad and encouraged all at the same time.  I stopped at a gas station and I bought a loaf of bread.  The next morning, I made two PB&J sandwiches to bring for them... except it wasn't enough.  With anxiety, I saw that there were five piles of blankets the next morning.  Everyone was covered up.  How would I know which blanket pile housed my two new friends?  Did it matter?  Why didn't I think to make more sandwiches?  What if they have peanut allergies?  I didn't know what to do... so I just took a guess and placed the bag near one of the piles.  The man heard me and flung back his blankets with an angry stare.  I told him I was dropping off food and then I ran off, cowardly for some reason, before he could say anything.  I hope he shared.

I'm not telling you this so I can pat myself on the back for doing two semi-slightly good deeds.  If I was trying to do that, it would have made sense to actually do something that is notable and praise-worthy instead of giving them a lousy half-lunch that most adults don't even typically eat. 

I'm telling you about Operation Granola Bar and his ambitious buddy Operation Peanut Butter and Jelly because I want suggestions on how else to help.  Are there other Operations that I could do?  What if every day someone tried to help someone else out, even if it was through something as small as a granola bar?*  What is a good volunteer organization that I can link up with?  What to do?  I'm also writing this down so I don't forget my experience and this desire to help... because I should help.  I have the ability, the time, and the patience (that last part is debatable at times but I'm certain I could manage).  Aside from trying to learn how to play the piano, I need another really good excuse as to why I'm not writing "my novel" which is about as fictional as it can get. 

As much as I like to complain about my inability to fold sheets properly or the fact that I can't sleep sometimes ... at least I don't have real problems.  We all take pride in our homes... where we pass our time with friends and family, maybe dreaming about plans for a future home someday or thinking back to memories in previous homes... but what if we didn't have one?   How would that feel?

Laverne and Raymond are real people.  And they are really nice.  And I hope and pray that they are not really cold somewhere right now.

 

* The importance of kind words should never be underestimated.

P.S.  I read an article awhile ago that got me thinking.. the embedded link here is from a real writer (my definition of "real writer" = one who writes consistently, esp. one who gets paid to write) with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.  I don't know what the author typically writes and I don't know what his politics are (nor do I care, uggghhhhh politicssss, election year, blech), but this article made sense to me... so therefore you are subjected to it in this post.

P.P.S.  In case you were wondering, I continue to look for Raymond and Laverne and unfortunately I haven't seen them since.  I hope they have been able to get off the streets.  I hope their absence isn't indicative of the fact that I must be an incredibly lousy PB&J assembler.  :(



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....".

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?

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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?

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