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.
Looking Up P.S.
I just had to post a p.s. that today, on my way home from work I saw a rainbow. And it was enormous and vibrant and I’m pretty sure the people in the car next to me thought I was deranged.
I truly wish I could have taken a picture, but I spied it as I was merging on to I-79. It was arching somewhere over about Wexford, and it looked like it was touching down on Warrendale-Bayne Rd. So close that it appeared to be moving as I drove.
And. There was a second one starting up behind it.
And. I saw a bit of one as I rounded the bend on 279 near Venture St.
And. There was rainbow glinting off the Venture St. exit sign.
So there’s that.
Looking Up
21 years ago tomorrow, a dear friend of mine gave birth to a beautiful, sweet, and very cool kid.
She went through some of the toughest times a kid can go through, fighting cancer before she’d even started school. That is not my story to tell. But today I am remembering the day her Mom hosted a Make-a-Wish block party to celebrate the very happy end to that fight.
It was a great day. A joyful celebration, with a petting zoo and a jumpy castle and a bunch of running, giggling happy children, with neighbors, family, friends, with sunshine and bright moments. (It was also, behind the scenes, a tribute to the bravest and most amazing Mom I have known in my generation.)
It began to rain as I was driving home after the party, and, as I was getting out of my car, I looked up and saw (only one I’ve ever seen) a stunning DOUBLE rainbow. Yeah, I stood, I stared, and I laughed aloud in the street with tears rolling. Then, I ran into the house to call my friend and share the moment. And she told me something even more phenomenal.
Throughout her daughter’s illness, they had told her that rainbows were for her, a sign of hope and health. And, back at the party, while cleaning up, they saw the rainbows, too. And the child looked up and asked, “Is that my rainbow?”
Well–say what you will, believe what you want, unexplainable doesn’t matter–yes. Hell yes.
And now two decades have passed. I’ve learned the tough lessons that I had no clue about back then–that all endings aren’t happy. That sometimes hope, bravery, and believing aren’t enough. That life can, and often will, take a turn for the worst. I am, I admit, a bit forlornly but taking that fighter’s stance, yeah, a bit proudly too, much more cynical and much less hopeful than I was 21 years ago.
But. I won’t forget that day.
I can’t and won’t promise that miracles happen, that good always triumphs over evil, that “things happen for a reason.” But. I can avow without a hint of doubt or cynicism that wonderful things can and do happen, too. Tonight at midnight, I will raise a glass to wonderful moments and say Happy Birthday to a beautiful, sweet, very cool adult. A life preserver who will always hold a very special place in this old broad’s heart.
And tomorrow? Well, the Weather Channel says sunny, partly cloudy, with a chance of rain. I’ll be keeping an eye out.
hpy bday 2 u
I promise you, you don’t really need 152,000 megapixels to take a high-quality digital photo. A movie is way more enjoyable (at least for the people around you) if you turn off your phone. I also suspect that none of us actually needs to be able to view two different DVDs while driving.
I’m not saying technological advancements are bad. Some of them are downright miraculous. But I propose to you that the frenzy over the latest and greatest blurs judgment and we’re all so busy trying to read new manuals and load updates that we don’t actually notice the fix we’re in.
A very tiny case in point. My ISP recently “upgraded” its email interface. Next week my friend (Lee Ann W.) turns a year older, and I needed her contact info to address the envelope of her Birthday card. I conducted the following experiment using a stopwatch.
Scenario 1
1. Open browser.
2. Log in to email.
3. Click on “Address book.”
4. Click on the W.
5. Scroll to Lee Ann’s listing.
6. Click on “View.”
Time: 32 sec.
Scenario 2
1. Pick up address book.
2. Flip to W tab.
Time: 4 sec.
The book won’t disappear if I change ISPs. And upkeep and accuracy on either list is going to come out the same. Unscientifically quantifying how many times I need an address, I calculated that I would save 2 hours (minimum) a year doing this task the old-fashioned way.
Not a great deal of time in a big scheme, I admit. But time enough to plant and smell some roses, bake Tollhouse cookies and pour a glass of ice-cold milk, get 100 miles closer to the nearest beach, watch Meet The Robinson’s and spend the additional 25 minutes laughing hysterically at my nephew saying, “I’ve got a big head . . . and little arms,” ride Kennywood’s Thunderbolt 33 times, read a few chapters of Jane Eyre or one paragraph of Moby Dick, do happy hour (twice), or write a post that mentions an old friend while pondering that, when I met her, there were no portable phones, personal computers, portable GPS, CDs, DVDs, DVR, iThises, iThats, Droids, IMs, emails, facebook, websites, or, for that matter, blogs.
Dang. I should have gotten a card that makes fun of her age.
A Superior Innovative Quality Post
Yes. I’m a writer. I’ve been studying, learning, practicing, and making a living with the English language for more than 25 years. But I am not one of Those People. The ones who spitefully note grammar or spelling errors in friends’ emails or facebook posts. The ones who can spend two hours arguing whether or not the phrase anal retentive requires a hyphen. I couldn’t care less if my friends know the difference between who and whom. I truly sincerely assure you, I am not one of Those People.
However.
If you are being paid money to communicate a message. And you bungle it out of what can only be stupidity or laziness. You. Annoy. Me.
Freakin’?
This morning, I heard a radio commercial that claimed its product was “freakin’ great.”
Yikes. How crass and unprofessional. Yes, I realize it’s not actually the F-word, but it’s a slang that exists only as a stand-in for the F-word. (And, let’s be clear, I’m not nearly as offended by the F-word as I am by bad writing.) If you can’t think of a better adjective than freakin’, you should probably change careers.
Word Choice Matters
The words less and fewer are not interchangeable. (Used incorrectly in a financial services ad couple of weeks back, which made it extra amusing.)
Every day and everyday are also not interchangeable. Although I admit this one’s borderline pet-peevian.
People n’ Things
When referring to a human being, the pronoun is who, not which or that.
The Apostrophe
Learn how to use an apostrophe. The Joneses will thank you. The Joneses’ cat, however, will not care.
Lighten Up, Frances
Must we really muddle meaning and/or mangle grammar simply to avoid using words like mankind? Really?
Interesting to note: The word mankind derives from the word humankind (not penis).
Hackneyed Smack Need
You do not offer educational solutions; you’re a college. I don’t want creative banking or innovative toilet paper. Buildings, paper products, shampoo, cars, etc., are incapable of being environmentally conscious. Or any kind of conscious. Can we all admit this kind of sloppy writing is a problem (and not an opportunity)?
Stop It with the Ellipses
And
Also on the annoying list are reviewers who high-and-mightily, completely aghastly, so-oh-oh condescendingly spout things like, You can’t begin a sentence with a conjunction!
Yeah. Okay darlin’. Why don’t you take that tone and your 1902 diploma and go ask your doctor to bleed you with leeches to ease your blood pressure a bit.
Which Reminded Me
I once had a client call a boss and complain that I was a bad writer because I used prepositional phrases. And the boss called me into his office. I expected a chuckle of commiseration and time spent figuring out how best to interpret the feedback and magically edit the text in question. Instead. I got a lecture on the importance of customer satisfaction, a dramatic portrayal of his disappointment in my skill as a writer, and a stern warning to stop using prepositional phrases forthwith.
Which, you know, meant I was thereby forbidden to say, “Up yours.”
Hire a Professional
If you need wiring done, you call an electrician. If your pet is due for shots, you go to a vet. If you want to communicate clearly and effectively to business-related audiences, if you want to promote a professional image, if you want to get the most out of your media buy, use a professional writer.
Speaking of, how about a shameless plug for fellow-writer Christine Hollinger of WordPlay Writing? She’s a long-time colleague, kind blog follower, situational grammar consultant, and supporter of sanity. In other words, a life preserver. And a darn good freelance writer.
Snail Mail My Email Project
A few weeks back, via a friend’s facebook post (thanks Brett), I heard about snailmailmyemail.org, a site where you could type in an email and have it turned into a letter and mailed for free. When I went to take a look, I learned that they had been completely bombarded with responses and were looking for volunteers to help transcribe.
Well. I have decent penmanship. I can doodle a bit. And, although I have embraced the ease and speed of computers, I have also grieved the disappearance of real letters from the world. I still have shoeboxes full of them, but it’s been a very long time since I added anything to the box other than, say, a store-bought card that made me laugh especially hard, feel especially good, and/or came with the signature of a niece or nephew.
So I signed up. Here are a few examples of the emails I snail-mail’ed:
1. There were some really wonderful expressions of love and marriage. Here’s a short, sweet, Serbian one that was headed for a lady in Croatia. I also had letters that were written in German, Polish, Spanish, French, and Hungarian. (Thank goodness for freetranslation.com.)
2. There were letters to and from roommates, colleagues, siblings, parents, children, grandparents . . . and pets.
3. The Award for Initially Baffling But Most Hilarious Request goes to Derek who’s email included this request: “Please include a picture of two (preferably male and female) giant sandwiches getting married while drinking beer.”
Although it will be nice to see the dining room table looking like a table for dining instead of the opening scene of Hoarders as directed by Dr. Seuss, I will miss this project. It’s been an honor to help put words of friendship, love, joy, encouragement, understanding, gratitude, and lunchmeat out into the world.
Cheers and Thanks to Ivan Cash in San Francisco who created the project. And shared the fun.
________________
You can see more about the project, letter destinations, and the coverage the project has gotten on the website. Please note that all images/letters are property of snailmailmyemail, used here with permission.
Things Change
It was about 25 years ago. College graduation was just behind us and we’d gotten together during the summer for a long weekend. It was the first of many annual gatherings, and it was the best. We didn’t have a lot of money–we splurged on a limo one night to go to Atlantic City and it cost us $30 a piece. And I remember pitching in. I remember the excitement and the feeling of being a little crazy. I also remember figuring out how to drive back to Pittsburgh without using a toll road because after the limo and $40 on slots, I didn’t have $10 left to my name. Not in my wallet nor my bank account. I still recall laughing about that as I spread a paper map out across my hood, looking for a way home.
$30. Hard to imagine that that was once a lot of money. But it was. And we spent it. And it was worth every penny. I discovered that night that I am not a casino person, but the limo ride was hilarious and crowded and adventurous and a whole lotta fun.
We were spending the weekend with friends who were among the first to get married and the first to have a home that wasn’t a tiny apartment. At one point in that house, the couple who lived there were busy elsewhere. And a few of us found a pad of Post-It notes and a pen. And we decided to leave little notes. And we scribbled and giggled for quite some time.
Another highlight was that one of our friends, who missed the weekend, missed the weekend because she was giving birth to the first of our next generation. And we all went to the mall and bought baby gifts and shipped them off. Beyond Atlantic City and the mall, the memories are a jumble of uproarious laughter, beers, and hugs.
It was a brilliant weekend. One of the best.
Last week, that same couple came to stay at my house. They didn’t use a paper map to get here. There’s GPS these days. And they were driving an SUV, not a mustang or a purple (or was it periwinkle?) Gremlin. And an SUV has seats for teenage children. One who is about to leave for college. And it’s an incredible feeling to think that she is now as old as we were when we first met.
Incredible feeling as in awesome, nostalgic, bizarre, mind-boggling, joyous, midlife crisis inducing, and pretty darn cool.
They stayed two nights and I played hookie one day to go to Kennywood. Another swingback in the circle of our friendship as the last time I had been to that amusement park was with them and some of the other Atlantic City trip friends about 12 years ago. Of course, that time, I was fighting a hangover when it came to making my way around the rides. This time, my feet hurt.
Things change.
The next day, I left for work and they left for more of their trip. After days of prep and orchestrating sleeping arrangements and sharing one shower, I came home that day to an empty house. Is there a relief when company leaves? Even the best of company? Sure. But it makes me sad. And my little house felt lonely and quiet.
I sighed and straggled to the kitchen to make some dinner. My hand on the refrigerator door handle, I saw it. A Post-It note. And I started to giggle. And there were more. A lot more. In the ice cream, in a drawer, stuck on pictures, hanging in my medicine cabinet, under my pillow. I found another one this morning, in the egg carton. And I’m still giggling. And I suspect there are more to be found.
Paybacks aren’t always a bitch. Sometimes paybacks are hilarious.
We’re a long way from the college campus, and we’re older. There’s less drinking, more aches and pains. Dreams have been achieved or not. Hopes have been realized or jaded. We get up early to go to work. We pay for electricity and gas. We have mortgages and car payments and credit cards and loans. We don’t see each other every morning, go to every meal as a group, or go out dancing three nights a week. We’re grownups for heaven’s sake. We’ve seen a lot. We’ve done a lot in separate lives.
But. All these years later, maybe there are few gray hairs or a few extra pounds here and there. Maybe we’re not quite as spry or not quite as quick. The memory’s a bit foggy. The heart’s not quite as light. But. The faces are the same, the eyes still light up when we spy each other. The hugs are still tight. The laughter still as infectious. The friendship is still strong. These life preservers still float.
Yes, things change. But, the important things remain the same. And it is good to discover at middle-age, that some things are invincible.
Til next time.
Good Bad Stupid
Good Being a Steeler.
Bad Being a Raven.
Just Plain Stupid A Steeler mouthing off in a way that makes Ray Lewis seem lucid and polite.
Good The Second Amendment.
Bad Glorifying violence.
Just Plain Stupid Posing half-naked with guns on a magazine cover while calling yourself a hit man, when others in your industry and from the very town you live in have died tragically and recently by gunfire.
Good Being a supportive teammate.
Bad Being mean to your friends.
Just Plain Stupid Ripping on Rashard Mendenhall for something other than his tweets.
Good Being a great linebacker.
Bad Being a great disappointment.
Just Plain Stupid Being a great big ass.
Good Having fans who are so loyal and sport savvy that they will pay your fine in a way that is both supportive and funny.
Bad “Egregious and elevated hits that violate rules.”
Just Plain Stupid Slamming teammates.
Good Playing football for a living.
Bad Being on strike.
Just Plain Stupid Not being able to find something constructive to do with all of your money and free time.
Good Looking both ways before crossing the street.
Bad Peeing in public.
Funny but Just Plain Stupid Saying, to a reporter, that you wouldn’t cross the street to pee on Goddell if he were on fire.
Good Not sucking up to an unqualified commissioner.
Bad Calling said commissioner names in public.
Just Plain Stupid Talking like an insensitive, uninformed school boy when you’re supposed to be a professional.
Good Being fair minded.
Bad Being overly critical of someone who makes a mistake.
Just Plain Stupid Saying “It’s just James being James.” as if that makes it acceptable to be astonishingly mean, preposterously self-centered, a stinky teammate, and an embarrassment to the entire city.
Good Being candid.
Bad Lying and blaming others when you’ve made a mistake.
Just Plain Stupid Telling everyone a reporter twisted your words when you know damn well the dude was recording it.
Good How a fan feels about cheering for a team with respected ownership, a proud legacy, a lot of talent, and a belief that their heroes are the good guys.
Bad How a lot of Steeler fans feel right now.
Just Plain Stupid James Harrison.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
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.
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November 11, 2011 at 10:15 am 4 comments