Thank-you Tom Russell
I believe that each of us in this life is granted a few special messengers outside of our biological family, who cross our path to teach us something important, to provide vital guidance if we’re paying attention.
In the early 80s, I was in college and, thank heaven, paying attention in my Intro to Journalism class.
I had every intention of being a schoolteacher when I grew up. But, in my Sophomore year of college, I took a Journalism class “just for fun” and wandered into Professor Tom Russell’s classroom with a new notebook, a couple of pens, and nary a clue.
He was a retired newspaper reporter and an Air Force veteran who served in World War II. He dressed a bit like Mr. Rogers. He commanded, never demanded, respect. He did not tolerate laziness, bad grammar, or cliche. Sharp witted. Friendly. Un-sugar-coated. Brilliant. He was tough – but tough in a good way, in a way that challenges and inspires.
I can recall, with vivid clarity, The Moment—as I walked out of Biddle Hall after one of his classes—when I made the decision to be a writer, to do what I loved instead of what was safe and expected. It was one of the first big things I fought for, one of the only decisions I’ve been 100% sure of, one of the few things I got right in my life.
I truly don’t know if I would have discovered my place in the world or found the courage to pursue it if not for Tom Russell.
Now, I may not have attained exactly what I dreamed of that day, but I use the things he taught me every single day of my life.
We’ve exchanged cards and catch-up letters for more than 25 years at Christmastime. His hand-writing on an envelope is one of my Favorite Things. I sent off my card and letter to him last week, with a promise to print out and send a couple of blog posts in a separate envelope. This morning, at the office, I used the internet (instead of my address book at home) to check his address to get those into the mail. As I scanned the white pages’ search results, I saw one with a notation: “Passed in 2011.” Oh no, no, no. But, yeah. I found the online obituary next.
He left this earth in May, so this paper is late. He’ll deduct points for that. And he’ll roll his eyes at this “armchair fluff.” But I owe him a good-bye. And a stronger word choice than Thank-you. And a novel.
Fare thee well, Mr. Russell.
# # #
The Strange Goings-on on 34th Street
Email from my bank: You have a new bill from Macy’s.
Odd. I haven’t used my Macy’s card in about a year. But I check. And, yep, instead of my beautiful zero balance, there’s a charge for 50 bucks with the description “Hotline.” The bill also includes a “Have a question about your bill? Call Macy’s Customer Service!” So I do.
I’m on hold being bombarded with two-second snippets of songs followed by minute-long advertisements. Then, I’m arguing with an automated voice.
Hi. I’m a machine pretending to be a person with bad hearing who, golly gee, didn’t quite hear what you just said. Could you please try again to tell me your social security number?
And I say (again), I’m not going to give you my social security number. Let me talk to a person.
It feigns confusion. I repeat. It repeats. I repeat. And, then (machine pretending to be a human with a prefrontal lobotomy) it suggests I speak with a person.
I’m on hold a while longer.
Finally, a How can I help! and my explanation and Oh, you have to call the hotline company for that. Right. And so I call the hotline and a machine asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number, which I do. And then a person gets on and asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number. (123 Deja Vu Lane?)
She asks me many questions. They have no record of me. I am put on hold. I am transferred to The Analyst. She asks me the same questions and more questions including, “Does 2009 Main Street ring a bell.”
[An aside to the Piker Family: Does it ring a bell?! HA!]
Uh yes; I used to live there. And, suddenly, The Analyst is done with me and getting off the call and I’m sputtering like Ralphie on the Santa slide as the boot comes down.
Me: Wait. Wait. I didn’t have a Macy’s card when I lived there.
Analyst: The charge is for a card protection service that was initiated through Kaufman’s.
Me: I cancelled my Kaufmann’s card years ago.
Analyst: Kaufmann’s bought Macy’s.
And I want to say I know that you stinking smarmy dipwad; my point is, Why the heck am I suddenly being charged for a FREE service that I had on a different card from over 20 years ago? but, The Analyst, she is gone. And I am left with original tele-person who desperately wants to update my address in their system. I inquire why she would bother. I don’t want this service; I’m not paying this charge; Why do you need my current address; And why am I suddenly being charged for a free service that I had on a different card over 20 years ago?
She can’t answer me that so I say, Okay, let’s just cancel this then. And she begins a sales spiel about how this service can protect me from fraudulent charges.
She. Has. Absolutely. No. Idea. How. Funny. That. Is.
She explains that I’ll get a refund and I inquire how that will occur. Do I pay and get a check? Do I not pay and get a credit? I do NOT want to end up paying any finance charges on this.
Her patronizing response? Oh, you’ll have to discuss that with Macy’s.
I will indeed have a chat with Macy’s. Or, at least, I will have a chat with a machine pretending to be a person who is bummed out about me canceling my credit card.
It’s a busy time of year folks, but keep an eye on those bills this month.
Motto/Sign from 1960s Macy's Campaign
Um, Hi?
So, this morning, I’m sitting still in rush hour traffic. I’m in the left lane.
The right lane is (of course) moving. However, a guy in the right lane just stops next to me and honks. I look over, he’s waving and smiling. He is stopped in rush hour traffic to smile and wave. The following thoughts went through my head, in this order:
1. I bet it’s one of my cousins! (There are a bunch of them in the neighborhood.)
It’s not a cousin.
2. Must be . . . some-bo-dy I know?
It’s no one I know.
3. Is there a pie on my roof?
Long-time-ago funny family story, my Dad once drove home from my gramma’s with a pie on the roof of the station wagon.
4. Do I have my purse?
Ah heredity. I once drove quite a ways with my purse on the trunk until a kind, honking, waving person pulled up next to me at a light.
5. Is there a fake bumper sticker on my car that says, “I [heart] cross-dressing”?
Practical joke once played on a co-worker.
6. Is there something wrong with my car?
Blessed Mary Mother of God, please don’t let me be the disabled vehicle in rush hour. Not here at this intersection. Not again.
7. Too old to be hitting on me. Too young to be senile.
I may have had a good day here and there, but let’s all be honest, men aren’t hitting the brakes in rush hour to meet me.
As all of the above finishes going through my head, I realize that my hand is in the process of rising up to wave back. In slow motion, halting, but it’s involuntary. Another human being is smiling and waving; I’m telling you, the wave-back is reflexive. (Your fingers just wiggled a bit right now, didn’t they?)
So I wave back. And the person gives me a great big thumbs up, nodding like a bobble head, smiling, thumbs up again, and drives away.
All of the above took place in about 5-10 seconds. No time to roll down a window, ask a question. Barely time to pull my hand down, glance around a bit sheepishly, and chuckle.
And now, dangit, for the rest of this day at least, my brain will be doing Rewind Play Rewind Play, my already faulty synapses trying to put a name to a face or a rational explanation to an odd and random moment. Who was he? What exactly about the situation warranted a thumbs-up? What was the dealio?
Am I absolutely certain there’s not a pie on my roof?
Un-shopping
I love getting gifts for other people. I enjoy shopping. I adore the Christmas season. But, from now until sometime in 2012, I won’t go anywhere near a mall.
Not to shop. Not to get my hair cut. Not to pick up a free TV. Here are a few reasons why.
People suck at parking in parking lots. And no one seems to be paying any attention to my suggestion that SUVs, Hummers, and mini-vans be given separate parking areas where they can take as many spots as they want within that area and park as close to each other as they want.
Note: It has been calculated that, on average, it will take approximately three shopping days to find a space, requiring a lot of gas, a lot of time, the patience of a saint, and the bladder of a camel.
There are many criminals in the mall parking lot this time of year. (I always wonder where they park.) It’s not a good idea to leave packages in the car. It’s not a good idea to be walking through a parking lot over-laden with packages. It’s also not a good idea to put packages in the trunk and then go back into the mall. (The trunk is easier to pop open than the car door.) Better to put stuff in the trunk and then move your car to a different parking space so the criminal will think you are leaving.
Of course, by the time you find another parking space, Christmas will be over.
Let’s say you actually do find a spot. The people inside the mall are only a little better than those lurking in the parking lot waiting for a chance to rob or injure you. Mall shoppers on the best of days are rude, obnoxious, self-centered, and on a cell phone. This time of year they’re twice as bad and there are more of them. It’s Walking Dead with a little less biting but less respect for personal space.
Let’s say you’re brave and tough enough to handle the hordes. Department store prices are ridiculous. Sales are virtually meaningless relative to value. And they won’t have the size or brand or color you want.
Gift boxes aren’t free anymore.
Christmas music is some of the most beautiful, sentimental, wonderful music ever written. Christmas music filtered through mall speakers is sadistic and may cause vomiting.
And then there are the extras:
- Spritzers.
- People who want you to eat small bits of mystery food out of little plastic cups.
- Creepy Santas.
- Sticky, frightened, sugar-high children and the mothers who scream at them.
- Carts run by carny folk capable of casting a spell to make really stupid sh*t look interesting.
I avoid it all. I shop online. Choices are endless. Hard-to-find gifts aren’t. Free shipping offers are everywhere. It requires no gas. It can be done while baking cookies, decorating, watching Rudolph, or drinking a martini in a tutu while playing a harmonica. It can be completed early in the morning or late at night, no camping gear required. Items will be delivered to your front door or to someone else’s front door.
And, best of all, you’ll make it through the next few weeks without losing your temper, getting frustrated, or being plagued by visions of stomping all the Who’s in Whoville. You can make it through the Christmas season without growing to hate all of humanity, which is sort of the best part given the real reason for the season.
Peace and fa la la la la folks.
93.7, The (so-called) Fan
Even if (and I still say it’s a big if) Hines is no longer a starter when fully healthy, he deserves more respect than he got this morning from 93.7 FM, The (so-called) Fan.
They seemed inexplicably smug (bordering on happy?!) to note Hines’ minimal play yesterday, talking about him as if he’s some new-kid-nobody who got outplayed and didn’t earn a starting position. First and foremost, I’m not convinced he’s lost his starting position. The man’s dealing with two injuries that would have put a lesser man (a radio talk show host for instance) out for at least 4-5 weeks, if not the season.
It’s a small miracle and a tribute to Hines’ toughness (and perhaps a sign of the Steelers caginess) that he was even dressed and on the field yesterday. The team is in a great position right now with a phenomenal group of receivers, so why not give Hines a bit of a rest when he’s banged up?
They talked as if Hines isn’t as good as Jerricho Cotchery. Seriously? Nothing against Jerricho. Glad to have him. But he’s no Hines Ward. He hasn’t been here since 1998, a catching, running, blocking, fighting, bouncing-backing, smiling from ear to ear symbol of what football means in this town. Jericho’s a nice addition to be sure, but if he had that beyond-height-beyond-speed-beyond-training-beyond-coaching-beyond-explanation spark that somehow makes things happen — like, oh I don’t know, some 6-foot tall guy being the team’s all-time leading receiver or, um, maybe, catching five passes and a touchdown to be MVP in a Super Bowl that brought the Lombardi back to Pittsburgh — I think he’d have played in more than three games this year.
Yeah. I know. There are other talented receivers on the field with younger legs than Hines or Jerricho. That’s icing on the cake. That’s smart succession planning. We’ve breathed a collective sigh of relief in the past few months. Not because we like Brown and Wallace better than Hines Ward but because we’ve known, deep in our blackest-goldest gut, that the day would come when we’d be without Hines. And we’ve worried about it. And we’ve dreaded it. And the whispers in our heads say, This could be it; this could be the last year. I don’t know about you, but that breaks my heart a little. And I, for one among what I suspect are many in Steeler Nation, am in no hurry to see such an iconic, talented, intelligent, and spunky Steeler retire.
In a time when very few players stay with a team, in any sport, throughout a career, we have had the privilege to call Hines Ward “ours” since 1998. He was drafted a Steeler. He’ll retire a Steeler. And, in-between, for one play or one hundred, he plays his heart out.
That’s what loyalty looks like, 93.7.
Buying Jeans
Ask any group of 10 women (who like to go shopping) what their least favorite clothing item to shop for is, and I bet at least 5 of them say jeans. At least.
Jeans are supposed to be the American casual uniform, the thing we get to wear as a treat in the office, everybody’s favorite. I call Shenanigans! I propose that jeans are not and will never be as comfortable as slacks, shorts, skorts, skirts, or dresses.
I’m not saying I don’t like jeans. But let’s stop pretending that they’re the ultimate in comfort-wear. And let’s agree that classic-fit-straight-leg-boot-cut-flare-bell-bottom-slim-skinny-boyfriend-carpenter-indigo-dark-stonewash-mediumwash-cleanwash-beachwash-mysterywash-distressed-518-524-535-low-rise-mid-rise-at-waist-high-rise sizing, styling, and fit defy explanation.
The word “Shopping!” for me is usually said with some level of glee comparable to “I just found a twenty in my old coat pocket!” or “It’s my Birthday!” On the other hand, “Shopping for jeans” sounds more like “The dentist says I need three fillings” or “The funeral is at 10:00.”
Shopping for jeans means trying things on beneath bad fluorescent lighting in front of what might as well be a fun-house mirror for all the reality, good or bad, it will reflect; wasting hours and big wads of cash; grinding self-esteem; wandering among teetering stacks of badly folded denim in which scientists calculate that 1 in 1,000 will fit correctly but may or may not turn out to have a great big, ridiculously goofy anchor embroidered on the butt, which you will only discover at home about 5 seconds before your date rings the doorbell.
Aside from a brief period of time in the 90s when I found a brand and style that fit me perfectly, in a material that was comfy, in a shade of blue that was just right, in a line that was soon discontinued, I’ve been in search of the right jeans for about 30 years. Thin and fat, unable or able-but-unwilling to spend a lot of money on jeans, name any department store, it has never gone well.
This week, I had an idea.
Parking was a breeze and I found a spot right near the door. I strolled to a long rack of jeans. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick and I was walking to the register–where there was no line–with an armful of jeans. I spent a total of $24. The clerk was quick and genuinely friendly. I tried the jeans on in the comfort of my own home. And I ended up with two pairs that fit great.
And, really, except for me noting it here, you’d never know they came from Goodwill.
We Hate Potholes More Than You
So Terrell Suggs thinks he’s the Most Hated Man in Pittsburgh. Terrell, honey. You don’t even make the top 10.
We hate Barry Bonds.
We hate Francisco Cabrera.
We hate the guy who decided to trade Sid Bream to the Braves when he wanted to stay in Pittsburgh, when he even offered to take a pay cut to stay and they traded him anyway.
We hate Ray Lewis.
We hate Bill Belichick.
We hate Tom Brady.
We hate Neil O’Donnell. Not because he lost us Super Bowl XXX (which he totally did) but because of his post-game interview in which he said, “It was everybody’s else’s fault and I don’t care I’m outta here.” (I may be paraphrasing.)
We hate George Atkinson. (The Raider who cheap-shotted Lynn Swann, putting him in the hospital and, ultimately, shortening his brilliant career as a Pittsburgh Steeler.)
We hate Turkey Jones. (The evil bastard who nearly killed Terry Bradshaw and then stomped on his throwing hand, too.)
We hate Art Modell, who totally screwed up our hate for Cleveland, which then kind of shifted to Baltimore, which will only ever be a step-child to the One True Rivalry.
You want to be the most hated man in this town? Get used to disappointment.
Go Steelers.
Always Missed. Never Forgotten.
Five years ago today, the world lost one of its best, our friend Damon Garde. To those who know, I say “Always missed. Never forgotten.”
Our lives have, somehow, gone on. Grief abated to a point that let’s us function. We are forever changed, but we have, as people do, found ways to return to almost-normal. We were broken but we have worked together to patch those places by helping each other, by living life, by honoring the uniquely wonderful being that was Damon, by remembering.
The best we can do is to remember.
Remember the freedom of being with a friend who accepted exactly who you are. And try to be accepting and inclusive of the new people you meet.
Remember how he danced. And, given the opportunity, get up and pull someone out there with you. Keep an eye out for those who might not otherwise get asked.
Remember a water skiing adventure or a motorcycle ride. And don’t let too many days or months go by without interrupting the daily grind with a bit of free-form hilarity.
Remember the freely, happily given support, and take the time out of your busy days to lend a helping hand. And. When someone wants to help you, be able, as he once advised me, to “just stand back and receive the love.”
Remember his quirkiness. And keep an eye out in this busy crowded world for those oh-so-rare individuals who will re-define your definition of cool.
Remember volleyball or golf or ping pong or the infamous synchronized swim. And don’t ever forget that fun is out there to be cheered, created from thin air, or jumped into with abandon.
Remember his profession and the signature mailman jacket. And, as he suggested, leave an occasional Twinkie in the mailbox and slip your postal worker a 20 at Christmastime.
Remember his ingenuity. And don’t be afraid to take on a project, to use your imagination, to build something that will last.
Remember that life goes by fast. And make time for your friends, for your family, for your passions, for the things that bring you joy.
Remember his friendship. And, remember that, no matter what life brings, you have been lucky enough.
Remember that great big, genuine grin. And don’t forget, even today, to smile.
Smack!
I am into day 6 of a really nasty cold. Not bad enough that you’re flat on your back, dead to the world, nothing matters, zzzzzzzzzz—but sick so that you feel you must somehow continue to attempt to function as a responsible adult while feeling like absolute crap. Aching muscles, feverish, an impossibility of flem that makes you imagine that research scientists would be amazed if only there were a way to measure the actual volume of it, and moments of exhaustion so extreme that I nearly fell over while waiting in line at the drug store where I had dragged my weary self to buy Kleenex, o.j., soup, cold medicine, and a Lord of the Rings Pez set.
(Yes, a Lord of the Rings Pez set. It was just sitting there on one of those post-holiday 75% off tables. Freakin’ sweet.)
In the past week, I had tried everything in my medicine cupboard: cough drops, cough medicine, Cepacol throat spray, Alka-Seltzer Plus, Mucinex DM, vitamin C tablets, and echinacae tea.
But I trekked to the drug store once again because, obviously, I just didn’t have the right product. After nearly crying real tears over the overwhelming array of choices before me, I selected TheraFlu. TheraFlu! Yes! It has honey and lemon! The-ra-Flu! It has the right symptoms listed on the box. And, more important, as I stood there in the drug store, stupified with fever and unembarrassed by my childlike whimpering, I recalled a lovely wonderful image from TV of a sick person cupping their hands around a warm mug, with steam rising as they drank in the elixir that brings them back to life. TheraFlu! da-da-da-DA! TheraFlu. Yeah.
So, I get home and read the directions. I am hopeful. I am almost breathing easy. I believe I am near relief. (We never give up hope that there is actually an option other than “feel crappy for 5-7 days.” And the drug companies know this.)
Two points:
1. Dear makers of Theraflu, I’m not sure you grasp the simple idea that a sick person—between fever and chills, mangled sheets, body-wracking-pet-startling coughs, some really quite astoundingly funny but loud enough to wake you nose whistles, and extreme stuffed-up-ness that makes you lie there at 3:00 a.m., absolutely certain you will never-ever-ever feel normal again and at 4:00 a.m., paranoid with the knowledge that being found dead from snot-induced suffocation in an unclean house with teetering dish piles and unrinsed soup cans in the kitchen and 1,002 balled up tissues lying about every other room in the house, wearing stinky gross pajamas, sporting the world’s worst flu hair, and with all that I-swear-it’s-not-boogers dead skin under the nose would be a sad way to die—desperately craves only one thing: A good night’s sleep.
I bought the night-time version of this product. The directions say “Take every four hours.”
2. The directions say to dissolve the packet of grainy particles in hot tap water (hot tap water!) and include the warning: “If using a microwave, do not overheat.” (Do not overheat?) There won’t be a little curl of steam? I won’t get to curl up on the couch, hands and heart warmed by my lovely cuppa? Well, hoping (feverishly, irrationally) as I was for a cure, I did as instructed—and nearly had to add puking to my list of symptoms.
That said, I have made it back to work. I’m not proud of how I look, but I am at least no longer wearing the toxic jammies and I have washed my hair, and 80% of the time I feel 57% certain that I will survive this. And when I do, I’m going to find the people who created the TheraFlu TV commercial and kiss each one on the lips. And spit on their keyboards. And lick their phones.
January 12, 2012 at 5:41 am 1 comment