Apple

I love the holidays!

2005-10-19T16:43:00.000-04:00

At least eight times a day I have to stop myself from decorating for Christmas.
I’m sure I should start with Halloween, but I’ve always thought pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns were the prettiest decorations. And I prefer happy jack-o-lantern faces as opposed to scary ones.
Bill (previously known as Philly in my blog) has promised me that we’ll make happy faces when we decorate with the girls.
I don’t have much against spider webs or witches--I’m quite certain I’ve lived with both at one time or another. I just think the little fat orange guys are simply adorable.
So next Wednesday we’ll be decorating pumpkins. And next weekend, I’ll be dressing up Cienna and handing out treats. I can’t decide if I should make up little treat bags or hand out something healthy. Most of my neighbors have kids--though the youngest is 6 and doesn’t have much interest in playing with Cienna--so I’m sure I’ll see some traffic. That’s exciting.
Speaking of exciting...
In two weeks, we’re having Cienna’s birthday party at my house. But I don’t really have to decorate much for that--just balloons mainly and maybe some streamers. I still haven’t decided on a cake, nor have I bought all of her presents. But I blame a little of that on my mom, gram and aunt Cathy. I feel like I can’t start buying for her until they stop. And every time I do buy something I have to ask, “You didn’t get that yet, did you?”
I can’t believe Cienna is going to be 2 years old. I can’t believe that she tells me she’s going to be 2 years old.
It makes me feel mature somehow. (I know, right!)
One of my friends recently turned 25, as I will Nov. 11, and said she felt old. I thought it was crazy. I told her she should at least wait until she turned 26 and could begin the downhill slide to 30 when all women are expected to feel bad about themselves.
Getting older won’t make me feel old. It’s never really affected me that way. But watching those younger than me get older has always made me feel a little old. Like my baby cousins who are juniors and seniors in high school, or the little 6-year-old boy I used to know a million years ago who is now 14!
My daughter. She does so many things on her own now. She “reads” me bedtime stories and shows me how to play with most of her toys. She’s growing out of her temper and into a sweet little girl who always holds my hand to cross the street and says thank you and “you’re welcome” for everything.
I’ll stop bragging now. I promise.
The holidays are going to be a blast this year. For so many reasons.
1. My best friend Bill is moving in after Cienna’s birthday. Well, her birthday is Nov. 1 (yes, she’s 11-1, and I’m 11-11. I always thought that was cool too). But her birthday party is Nov. 5. He’s probably moving in the next day. We expect it to be like Will & Grace, but straight with two kids. Nonetheless, having him there will make decorating that much easier. Plus, I’ll get to add two more stockings--which is so exciting!
2. Light-up Night is Friday, Nov. 18, and I think my college friends and I are going to have a reunion. Of course, Cienna will be there too. After all, it is “the happiest night of the year.” Cienna is going to have a blast, which is what family fun nights in Pittsburgh are all about anyway. Plus, Cienna is really city savvy, which is always so cute to watch in action. The Christmas tree is already up in PPG, though it’s too cold for the ice skating rink. I could live without it being there for a few more weeks, and that’s fine with me. Bill’s warned me that we’ll be putting it to use when it’s up, and I’m nervous about stepping into ice skates for the first time in 16 years.
3. This is the time of year when I get to visit the Grimes family’s California house often and curl up on one of their many comfy pieces of living room furniture with Cienna, drink tea and enjoy good conversation.
4. I’m hosting Thanksgiving at my house, as I finally learned to cook this summer. It’s amazing what can happen when you surround yourself with positive, upbeat people who believe in you. I’ve already figured out my menu and have a small, yet fun group of 10 coming. The best part...Bill, Cienna and I will all wake up in our pajamas and watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade together.
4. Cienna is a year older and has a better understanding of what Christmas is all about. We have our cookie cutters ready, Christmas movies and books organized, and the decorations on standby. I’m pretty sure I’m decorating for Christmas the week of Thanksgiving. I’d rather have Christmas decorations and candles out for Thanksgiving than Thanksgiving decorations. Christmas decorations are just prettier.
5. I’m having a Christmas Party on Dec. 23. It will be a mix of Bill’s friends and my friends. I’ll send out invitations in December.
6. Keeping with tradition, I’ll be in the Valley on Christmas Eve. We’ll visit gram, the Gismondis and like always--will close the evening perfectly and peacefully at the Grimes house. Then we’ll go home, get in our pajamas, read the collector’s copy of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” Mary Beth bought for Cienna and put out cookies and milk for Santa. And you know what, Santa might want cookies and milk from Bethel Bakery this year. ;-)
I’ve taken vacation most of the week of Thanksgiving. I’ve taken vacation from the Wednesday before Christmas to the Wednesday after, and have I mentioned I love the company I work for? I have an awesome benefits and get paid to do what I love. You can’t beat that.
So I certainly have a lot to be thankful for. I’ve turned over a new leaf, thanks to the beautiful, special people in my life who care about me.
I’m truly happy and my family is doing very well.

I sat in that booth once

2005-10-05T18:08:00.000-04:00

She rubs his back with her left hand. She does it gracefully and methodically without thinking. She slides her fingertips up to his neck and pulls him toward her. She has to kiss him. It’s another form of oxygen for her. She needs to kiss him for the same reason she can’t sit across from him. She needs to be right beside him. She needs to be close to him at all times, for fear she’d miss just one, short, tiny second of how he smells, looks, feels. The few tosseled hairs on his crown scream that she must’ve run her drunk, clumsy fingers along his scalp. She loves him, even if the feelings aren’t returned. That’s because her need for him is greater than her love for him. And that has a lot to do with the fact that she’s probably 21. She’ll grow out of it and she’ll grow out of him. And somewhere, anywhere--one day she’ll share a booth with the right guy.

Hold

2005-09-11T23:10:00.000-04:00

I've been listening to "Hold" by New Invisible Joy for the past four hours. Over and over. I'm not kidding. I can't stop. I need a 12-step program. I seriously miss NIJ.

Going to Jack's twice this past week didn't help. See, Club Cafe is right next door, and I saw NIJ there for my 21st birthday. It was wonderful. And like I said, I miss those guys terribly. Even more, I miss their music. I've been listening to their CDs a lot lately.

And, you know, it hasn't been until lately that I realized how much I really enjoyed listening to them play as I was coming into my own...walking along the South Side, wondering if I'd ever walk along the diverse stretch of Carson with someone I loved as much as "Hold." With someone I'd want to fall asleep holding instead of passing out after screwing.

There I was twice this week with a guy worthy of all that. A guy who won't let me runaway despite my many attempts. A guy who literally ran with me down Sidney just because and then sat with me on a curb across from a pretty, old house with flower boxes. I just wanted to see the pretty, old house with flower boxes.

I have the perfect balance with this guy, and we've put in the time to make sure we haven't messed that up. I'm learning what a healthy relationship is all about. Even more, he inspired me to change for the better--though he never asked me to. I just thought I needed to tone things down. And taking walks with him made me feel better than having meaningless sex with my hookups.

He's great with Cienna. He's great with me.

We play Scrabble. We watch CSI. We talk sports. We listen to amazing mixes of good music. We take walks.

Recently, we took a walk along the romantic Friday-night stretch of Grandview on Mt. Washington. People were getting engaged and falling in love all around us. We hugged and I told him all about when I lived on Wyoming. It was in the 50s and I was freezing, so we kept hugging. And staring at a beautiful city skyline that never gets old.

I fell when my right stiletto caught a giant crack in the sidewalk, but he caught me before I hit the ground. And then we both laughed. We passed that same crack in the sidewalk later that night, and though he pointed it out, I almost fell again.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I just got an email from the NIJ drummer! How wild is that? I emailed him the other day, and he just wrote me a long one! I'm so thrilled!!!!! But that's another email in itself!

OK, so...I've spent two and a half very platonic months getting to know him. This is a major switch for me.

It usually happens like this: Meet, talk, drink, wild sex, less talking, more wild sex, even less talking, way more wild sex, I wake up realizing that I don't know who I'm having wild sex with and that I do it that way so I won't get attached. And believe me, that got old, despite how hot it often was.

So I did it differently this time--really got to know him. Had dinners, drinks, games, tv shows, movies, trips to the park, drunken conversations, romantic walks, tears, heart to hearts, laughs...lots and lots of laughs.

And last night, after a few days of pouring my heart to him over cocktails, I finally started kissing him everywhere I could while he drove us to his house safely. He raised concerns about messing up our friendship if we went down that path, as his past is much like mine. This has been different and new for both of us.

I assured him that we had built so much trust that I trusted we'd be OK in the morning.

Then, when we got home, I tried to be dramatic and leave and sleep in his brother's bed...with his brother. He pretty much threw the door open--in a cute "I don't want you to leave" way as opposed to an Ike Turner way--and invited me back upstairs.

We went to bed with plans to sleep and nothing more. He told me we could cuddle.

I traced his face and found one of his spots along the left side of his neck. It's perfect and delicious and I could've stayed there forever.

It was a beautiful night, and I'm not the least bit surprised. I was totally moved. And this may sound cliche, but I swear it was art. I've never felt that connected or in tune with someone, and I'm convinced it's because I've done this the right way.

We didn't have sex. It was just a lot of finding more sweet spots.

You know, I care about him so much, so deeply, and I have so much respect for him that I won't kiss and tell.

But I'll say that we were both awake in the morning for about an hour, laying on our sides, staring at opposite sides of the room and really needing to pee. It was revealed later that morning during a really cute car ride that neither of us moved for that hour because we didn't want to wake up the other.

And, you know, there wasn't an ounce of awkwardness in the morning. Everything was as it has been for the last couple months--safe, healthy, good.

He's coming over Tuesday for Scrabble.

A peek into me

2005-09-08T15:45:00.000-04:00

Someone special asked me these questions through email. I answered them and decided to post them here. What would your answers be?

Things that make me feel good (in no particular order):
Cienna, getting dressed up, getting naked, spring and fall, the moon, watching a great live band, rain (when it’s not destroying someone’s life), the smell of freshly-cut grass, cinnamon at Christmastime, real Christmas trees, making love next to/under a Christmas tree (which I have yet to do), John Lennon, the flaws in people not the perfection, a good movie, road trips, plums, peaches, grapes, bananas, pizza, ice cream, peas, brocoli, my gram, my best friends, that feeling you get when you meet someone new who is really really cool, writing, pink, New York City, a child’s laughter, the way freshly-fallen snow hides all the flaws, buying books, thunderstorms (when they’re not destroying someone’s life), innocence, wildness, music, dancing, when someone else drives, good stories

General interests (again, in no particular order):
music, artistic expression, being a good mom, writing, fashion, long dangling earrings, bags, baskets, art, travel, cocktails (especially vodka with diet 7-up and lime), beautiful girls who don’t hate other beautiful girls and actually embrace each other as friends, literature, journalism, lip gloss, pink, black, pink and black, finding a lesson and adventure in each day, learning to cook, good conversation, the view from Mt. Washington (it never gets old), twilight on 19 in Mt. Lebanon (it keeps getting better), the Point (especially the side along the Mon River), the Cultural District at 6 p.m., Saturdays for cartoons with Cienna and college football rivalries, Sundays for the Steelers and dinners I cook for others, having different cultures under one roof, buying women’s magazines at the supermarket, the streets of Providence at night, the beaches in Newport late summer, baseball stadiums, gardening, taking long drives when someone else is driving, fall, parades, holidays, Light-Up Night (the “happiest night of the year”), and my favorite event of all time which I never miss on television and will attend someday...the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade

Music (you got it):
Bob Dylan, Rolling Stones, B.B. King, DMB, John Lennon, Tori Amos, Jimi Hendrix, Sarah McLachlan, The Sundays, The Cardigans, Sixpence None the Richer, The Beatles, Pearl Jam, The Doors, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Bruce Springsteen, Tina Turner, Aretha Franklin, New Invisible Joy, Ani DiFranco, Radiohead, Prince, Bjork, The Cure, Cream, Fiona Apple, REM, Joni Mitchell, U2, Coldplay, Joel, New Order, Thompson Twins, Aimee Mann, Madonna, David Gray, Elvis Costello (the old stuff), Ella Fitzgerald, Beck, David Bowie, Ryan Adams, The Police, Neil Young, The Temptations, Counting Crows, Peter Gabriel, Patsy Cline, Frank Sinatra

Movies (uh huh):
When Harry Met Sally, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Goodfellas, Godfather, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Sixteen Candles, Serendipity, Gone with the Wind, Annie Hall, The Money Pit, Bull Durham, The Ref, Dazed and Confused, Greedy, Fight Club, Primal Fear, Edward Scissorhands, Pretty Woman, Casablanca, Steel Magnolias, St. Elmo’s Fire, The Breakfast Club, The Graduate, For Love of the Game, Top Gun, Color of Money, Major League, The Burbs

TV (thazz right):
CSI, House, Without a Trace, Sex and the City, The L Word, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Desperate Housewives, Grey’s Anatomy, Seinfeld, 90210 (always and forever), Will & Grace, Friends

Books (go for it):
The Great Gatsby (the best piece of literature of all time), Hope for the Flowers, anything by SARK, Oh! The Places You’ll Go (and most other Dr. Seuss books), Catcher in the Rye, The Fountainhead, Atlas Shrugged, The Bell Jar, Little Women (especially if I read it in the winter), Miracle on 34th Street, Faking It, The Bridges of Madison County, Gone with the Wind, Memoirs of a Geisha, A Prayer for Owen Meany, Farenheit 451

Heroes:
Mike Royko, Tina Turner, Jocelyn, Madonna, my gram, my pap Ross, Kate Hudson, Joel, Lance Armstrong, Maria, Dr. David M. Jones, Bill Moushey

Friday night football

2005-08-29T19:25:00.000-04:00

I was down at the outset.

It was the first Friday in 10 years that I hadn’t been involved in high school football in some way. In high school, I watched and twirled at half-time. In college and beyond, I reported game summaries for the Post.

And I always loved that first Friday of the high school football season. The sounds of dads coaching from the sideline, girls giggling over their football crush, that smell of almost-stale popcorn and fries with cheese, the awful cheers, and that sweet sound of victory on a Friday night somewhere in a Western Pennsylvania school district--big or small--that absolutely dominates this region.

As you may imagine, the newsroom was a little different. Stressed, excited, eager to finish quickly and accurately and before deadline. There was still that smell of almost-stale popcorn and fries with cheese, as there’s never a shortage of food among journalists. And the phones never stopped ringing.

Perhaps what I woke up missing the most was that my day was starting at 6 a.m. instead of 6 p.m. Or maybe it had very little to do with writing up game summaries based on someone else’s work. I could’ve done that in my sleep. It was such second nature to me that I had once done it three days before I gave birth, with my swollen feet up on a hard drive, and three days after I had Cienna, doing Kegels on a desk chair.

(God bless the sweet men of that department who always asked me if I wanted anything from downstairs. Downstairs was where they kept the food and drink.)

It might sound silly, but I really really love sports. And though that job was far removed from being a sports beat reporter, I was still part of the process. I got to hear and read the quotes from the game that didn’t make it to print the next day. I heard the funny locker room stories. And somehow, someway, I always got the trivia calls.

That’s what I miss the most.

What started as a joke--forward all the drunk trivia calls to Candy--became reality. I was never disappointed by the volume of those calls. I could always count on two things in Pittsburgh on a Friday night--high school sports and drunk trivia calls. I had it all, believe me, and I got an education in the process. I know more about NFL stats for the last 40 years than a 24-year-old girl needs to.

I just can’t believe that I once got paid to talk to drunk people, calling from Casey’s Draft House, and essentially end their bar fights.

You know how guys get out of prison and look for the cops that put them away? Well, one day, I’m going to have a band of angry drunks looking for me because I cost them several rounds of Jack and ginger.

Thinking about my old life and what I got paid to do, and other things I had to do during that time of my life and didn’t get paid for, made me cry while I dried my hair Friday morning. It was just another sign of progress I suppose.

It was also a big day for me because I broke front-page news. The Post, where I used to work in sports, and the Review, where I once interned and wrote for the features department, both followed the story on Saturday. So I still had my victory on the opening week of the season.

A front-page story usually means getting drunk or getting laid. I could’ve done both, but I opted for the former. Because a little part of me, when I was working Friday nights, used to wonder what it would it be like to go out before midnight on the weekends during football season. Apparently, it’s like getting drunk before 7.

Oh, make no mistake, I was drunk on vodka and diet sprite by 7.

Usually I go out with Philly on Friday nights. Well, that’s how it’s been lately. But he had surgery on his broken hand earlier that day. (The cute thing walked around with a broken hand for five days without going, but finally he was prodded into the ER. The ER sent him to an orthopedic specialist. The orthopedic specialist performed surgery.)

Anyway, I was just lost without him. We’ve become quite close. He’s the brother I’ve never had, and it’s the fastest I’ve ever been willing to call someone a best friend.

I was ready to pull out my hair through the day, worrying about him in the hospital by himself. I would’ve gone, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to be in the O.R., and HIPPA would’ve kept me from finding out anything before Philly told me.

He got in touch while I was drinking vodka and said he was out. We texted for a while and then he invited me to his parents, where he had gone after surgery to be pampered, watch the Steelers-Redskins exhibition game and eat pizza.

I passed on the pizza because I can’t eat while I’m drinking (I’ll get sick). Or as Mak would say, “I can’t like that.” But I did go to his parents’ house (instead of hooking up with a previously-mentioned wrong guy) and loved it. They are so great. I felt comfortable immediately, and that’s not always easy. Some houses just aren’t warm and welcoming, but this one was. I started talking to his mother and couldn’t stop. She’s beautiful and sweet and everything someone could want in a mom. His dad was funny and kickass and made a fine vodka tonic with lime.

(Hey, do you think I drink vodka tonic because it was Badass Dr. David M. Jones’ signature drink?)

We talked, we laughed, we looked at old pictures. I got drunker and played with two great dogs. OK, one of the dogs--Buck--just kind of laid around. However, Bear, the younger, taller, black lab-looking puppy, shared all kinds of love. They warned me that he was stupid, but like all stupid boys I’ve loved, he was cute, sweet and oh-so lovable.

In between drinks and dogs, I observed them interacting as a family--just as I observe everything. It brought tears to my eyes. The lighting--you know I’m a lighting hound--was perfect. His mother picked the perfect colors to make the family room inviting and comforting (thank you, Cameron, for giving me the experience to make such a call). Philly sat with his mom on the couch. I sat in a chair across from them, and his dad sat in a chair parallel to mine.

Philly and his dad talked about high school football fields and professional linemen. It was probably a conversation they’d had several times before and will have again.

His mother sat there in the glow of a lamp, holding her own vodka tonic, looking beautiful and young. I was shocked to learn her age. But I know moments like that one--with a loving family and two cute dogs around her--has kept her from aging a day. She’s still in love with her husband, and Philly is still her baby. Her children still bring her joy, and Mak just makes her day.

Mak makes everybody’s day. Her father can barely say her name without tears in his eyes.

It’s just one of the many reasons he’s beautiful.

And so I wondered in that moment, do they have any clue how lucky they are? Just to have each other...

I’ve always been absolutely fascinated by functional families who truly love and support each other. It’s such a novelty to me. You can’t buy that. You can’t fake that. You can’t even build it without the right people.

I’m surprised I held back tears. I’m surprised I didn’t have to make that second trip to the bathroom. But when I look at him--whether he’s smiling, laughing or just sitting there biting on the left side of his bottom lip--I feel stronger instantly. Because I know that, when I’m with him, I don’t have to worry about anything. He won’t hurt me, lie to me or use me, and he won’t let anyone else do it either.

So I decided that, just as I hoped he never took his beautiful family for granted, I wouldn’t take a beautiful friend--a real friend--for granted.

We left and drove to his house which is nearby. We both drank there and talked. We watched TV--though I have no idea what was on. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, and the extra water made his hair spiky in the front, which looked really cute. I’m used to seeing him in a hat.

I might know every curve of his face.

As always, I was very talkative, so we kept talking. Until his phone rang at 1:30 a.m. It was Mak’s mom, wondering why he didn’t call to check on her earlier that day. He explained that he had surgery and she asked how he was doing. And then they hung up.

But I guess it pissed me off that she called at 1:30 a.m. to essentially complain. Standing in my shoes, I think she has it pretty damn easy. He loves Mak, he’s a friend to her, he doesn’t hurt her, lie to her, and he’s an active father who sees his daughter every week, as often as possible.

That’s a dream to me.

I sort of questioned the situation, but he took it as me accusing him of having a different sort of relationship with her--that of the booty call variety. He explained that wasn’t anywhere near the truth--which I was well aware of--but felt like I didn’t believe him, and that upset him.

I had said, “Well, I’d just never even think of calling Mike at 1:30 a.m.”

He said, “Yeah, well this is totally different. First of all, I don’t beat [Mak’s mom], and I love and actually take an interest in my daughter.”

And though I knew he didn’t say it to hurt me, it did. And it stung severely. And the reason I think it hurt so much was because he said it. And the reason why that mattered was because I met him the weekend after Mike had hit me. He talked me out of a nightmare at 3:30 a.m., and that’s how we became friends.

Since then, we built a friendship on kindness, gentleness and not hurting each other.

He’s not someone who says hurtful things, and I’m probably one of the last people he’d ever want to hurt.

But that comment hit the bull’s eye. And I felt so stupid and vulnerable and broken that all I could do was say, “Real nice,” and leave quickly.

He tried to talk on my way out of the door. He tried to make me stay.

But I left and cried the whole drive. In fact, I cried so hard I couldn’t see, which is how I side-swiped a stopped--yeah, stopped?--car on an exit of the parkway. I thought they were moving--because they were in a driving lane--but they were stopped. It wasn’t major, but we exchanged paint.

I got a drunk text from my darling friend and her brother, and I called them back crying.

Philly called and sent text messages to see if I was OK, but I didn’t reply. Not because I was mad at him--I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me. I just felt stupid and vulnerable and broken.

About twenty minutes later, he was at my front door. I was startled by it because I wasn’t sure who it was. I didn’t know if it was a hookup, a neighbor, a criminal.

“It’s me,” he said.

I unlocked the door and couldn’t look at him. I kept my head down. I didn’t want him to see me looking stupid and vulnerable and broken.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking. I know I hurt you,” he said, walking toward me.

Then he hugged me and said, “I’m sorry.”

And I cried. Because, at that point, I was really feeling stupid and vulnerable and broken. And scared. Scared that I might not know another man who would drive 30 minutes in 20 at 3 a.m. just to say “I’m sorry.”

So I got into bed and he laid beside me and we talked. Just talked.

“I feel like I reversed everything by saying that to you. I wasn’t thinking,” he said.

We laid there on our stomachs, facing each other. I was under the covers with a green box of Kleenex. He was on top of the covers with a beige arm wrap. He had left his car at work because of the surgery, so to get to my house, he walked to his parents’ to get their car and drive to say three words.

“It’s just that...I don’t need reminded that I made bad choices and had a baby with someone who doesn’t love me. And I don’t need reminded that he doesn’t love Cienna. And I’ve tried to pretend that she’s OK with just me, but she’s not. You know what she calls you? She calls you “Daddy.” Not because she thinks you’re her father, but because she really thinks your name is Daddy because that’s what Mak calls you. And do you think it’s easy for me to watch how wonderful you are with Mak, knowing Cienna is never going to have that? You think there aren’t other miserable people in my life, who are secretly unhappy with their lives, who try to rub my face in it? And the worst part is I would’ve been OK if someone else said it, because I expect other people to hurt me, but it was you. And I trust you to not hurt me. And I care about what you think. And I really give a fuck about you. I kind of need you and I don’t want to. And I know I’m going to lose you because...”

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” he said slowly and genuinely.

I knew he wasn’t lying. And I knew he was sorry.

Before he left, we hugged again. He always gives real hugs--not those insincere hugs with a lot of patting.

After he left, I cried myself to sleep. I still felt stupid and vulnerable and broken, but I knew it was OK.

Just as his beautiful, loving, comforting family is rare, so is it that he would walk to his parents with a broken hand, take their car, drive to my house in the middle of the night just to apologize. Just to say “I’m sorry.”

Some coaches wait their whole lives for that kind of win. And the only thing missing was the almost-stale popcorn and fries with cheese.

Laughs, lime and love

2005-08-26T16:09:00.000-04:00

The trick is to walk in smiling.

Enough people dread work events because there’s often too much time spent on awards speeches and not enough invested into the lavish, open bar. So whenever I walk into a room of impatient, thirsty executives, I like to smile hard, long and genuinely.

And after I sample the lavish, open bar, I genuinely want something hard and long.

But last night, all I ended up with was vodka, tonic and a whole lot of lime.

I could’ve gone to bed with a computer genius from Canada, who still owns his accent, but he looked too much like a man who once made the dormitory door of fame at 1424 for looking like Jesus. So, no thank you, computer genius.

I could’ve screwed my work hook up, who kept staring at my mouth, but he kept staring at my mouth. So, no thank you, work hook up.

I could’ve casually fucked two financial “consultants” from a huge brokerage firm Downtown, who were both ridiculously hot, but I feared their bedroom behavior might have been on par with their conversational skills. In that case, I would’ve fallen asleep before we got to oral. So, no thank you, hot financial consultants.

I could’ve hooked up with one of my favorites, but I actually wanted a conversation first. I’m not sure why either, friends.
So I thought of the best conversationalist I know. He’d been on mind throughout the night--mainly because his boss made me laugh for a good half hour. I didn’t have it in me to ask to have it in me, and, besides, I had a platonic friend coming to visit.

Philly waited for me on my porch--me, late?--as I drove home, and when I got there I bitched at him for too long about how I could’ve been having drunk, vodka sex, but instead I was going to watch “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” with him and not have any kind of sex.

He ordered a pizza. It had sausage on it, so I couldn’t eat it. He bought light beer. I had already been drinking, so I drank it.
We laughed, talked about the cool people I met earlier who I couldn’t have slept with, took pictures, made fun of each other, and then I fell asleep on him in the middle of the movie. He woke me up at the end.

There’s no question it was a good night.

JAY was the best part. I talked to him for almost an hour about what Pittsburgh is really all about, where it’s going and how much I’ve always loved it.

It suffers from a serious image problem. Too many people still try to sell this town as a manufacturing hub. It’s not. Pittsburgh is way more diverse now. We’ve got health care, biotech, tech...and it will be one of those to propel the city far past where it was during the steel era and championship dynasty.

It was just one of those perfect fall-like evenings where I was so happy to live where I live, know who I know and love what I love.

And it occurred to me that Pittsburgh is a lot like the few men who’ve ever been able to touch my heart: a little misunderstood with a few image problems, not too rich, but very smart, knows how to make a good drink, can make me laugh all night and has a view that still takes my breath away.

Jager Foreshadowing

2005-08-25T12:10:00.000-04:00

I’m not sure why, but I can totally taste Jagermeister right now. It’s very distracting for two reasons: 1) I haven’t had any in weeks. 2) Every time I drink Jagermeister, I hook up with the wrong guy and feel sick the next day. (Note: I don’t feel sick because I hook up with the wrong guy, though. I’m way past that.)

Once, the wrong guy was also the company ink. A few weeks after that mishap, we were both working late--without Jager-- and did it again. It was funny. We were the only two people in the entire office. He hadn’t even turned on the lights. I sat down and had a “hello” email from him. That somehow led to the repeated reminder that we were the only two people there and were practically obligated to take advantage of the opportunity.

Another time, the wrong guy was a hockey player whose ringtone was Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” which he liked to sing every time someone called him. The entire night would be a funny story in itself, but, for now, let’s just say his saving grace was that he played defense. My favorite!

And the worst Jager experience ever involved some guy driving me to a city overlook and attempting to be romantic with me. I started laughing. He got a ticket for parking illegally. I explained that I’m just not into the cheesy, romantic things most girls are into. He was offended.

My only answer here is to chalk this up to Jager Foreshadowing--the event in which one of my senses warns or prepares me for the possibility of hooking up with the wrong person.

Jager Foreshadowing today could go many ways. First, there’s this company event at an upscale, private club Downtown.

It’s the oldest, classiest, private club in town. I’ve been there before for our events--as my paper likes to tout itself as a classy, sophisticated read. And I’ve been there for other events. Each time I go in and see someone dressed like a Kennedy, my vagina becomes angry. Everything seems so frigid and missionary in there. I always want to find the wildest guy in the room and have lamp-breaking sex on one of their upscale pieces of furniture covered in upscale Frech fabric.

So the event tonight...my work hookup will be there. And a certain CEO in the business community, who has been flirting hardcore and emailing and calling from his business trips, will be there with his family--HELLO--and co-workers. I haven’t done anything questionable with this man, as I’ve firmly decided I don’t do the married thing. I did it once, and once was definitely enough. It was totally selfish and hurt a lot of people who didn’t deserve it.

The odds of me hooking up with anyone at the event are very slim because I’m getting company between 8 and 9. Philly is coming over for lasagna and “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Yes, he’s actually watching that movie with me. We will not hook up either.

But he just text messaged me and told me that his brother’s birthday is Sunday and that he wants me to go out with them and his brother’s friends tomorrow night to celebrate. Clearly, this busts things wide open.

First there’s his brother who’s turning 30. That’s a fine age for me--though 32 may be even better. I’ve flirted with his brother before and slept--just slept--in his bed when The Brothers Good decided I was too drunk to drive. I’m confident I could do him if I wanted to--which would be a total Jager mistake because: A) He’s my new best friend’s brother, and that’s always a sticky situation B) He was married and divorced in a year because he was cheated on, and I’d totally hurt him if he ever intended to pursue more than a hook up C) He’s a bit uptight, and I’m totally freespirited D) None of these things would actually keep me out of bed with him--especially after Jager.

I don’t know any of his brother’s friends, but I’d be happy to meet them. They all work in one of the seven Downtown office complexes I haven’t been in yet. And I think you’re all aware of the commercial real estate mission I’ve been on since April.

So I think it’s official. Philly’s brother is going to have a great birthday.

Funny day

2005-08-16T18:30:00.000-04:00

Someone threw half of a brick at me today.

They didn’t throw it hard, and it only hit my ass. I was a little taken aback at first, but I’ve been laughing about it since.

It’s unclear if the thrower intended to harm me or not because the toss was light. It’s also unclear if the thrower intended to hit my ass.

The brick hitting my ass was muted by an email I got today from a local college student--i verified the contact information-- who believed she’d been illegally experimented with. She’s claiming a federal organization tried to control her mind. She apparently blogged about this and included a sentence about a psych ward nurse refusing to believe there was a chip in her ear.

Scam? Crazy? Back-to-school prank?

Whatever the case, I decided I have enough insanity in my personal life to entertain it in my professional life.

No way did it stop there.

I was in a staff meeting, discussing the fastest-growing companies and organizations in the region, when a colleague brought up the company one of my hookups works for. We’re doing a special project, and by luck of the draw I got his company. Ethically, I said I’d have to recuse the story. No problem in the meeting, but later my editor asked why--just out of curiosity.

Inner dialogue: “Well, just as regularly as we publish, I have one of that company’s top salesmen in my bedroom. And, you know, call me crazy, but I just don’t think I could objectively write about what he does in the boardroom. Because, in my opinion, what he does in me often outperforms what he does in the office.”

Real dialogue: “Well, I just think that...”

“It’s not a problem. I’m just curious. You usually multitask well and are a strong writer and...” she said.

Inner dialogue: “You’re right. I can always hold my own, but he’s one boy who can really bring me to my knees.”

Real dialogue: “Thanks. It’s just the flooding. I’m doing that other project about the thing, the then and now, and, well, it was just so widespread.”

Inner dialogue: “Much like I’ve been, which is why I really can’t write that fucking story.”

Gram

2005-08-08T19:12:00.000-04:00

I wish I could be like my grandmother.

Not Munch. I’m too much like her already--controlling, stubborn, relentless, afraid of never being loved, yet constantly pushing love away when it does come simply because it’s unfamiliar and I don’t know how to control it.

I’d love to be like my Gram. I’ve written many times about how she’s the epidome of love. She devoted her whole life to her family--a husband and five children--and she was happy. She’s never been the least bit controlling, she’s always been a size 4--except when she was pregnant and “porked up” to 130 pounds. She’s not stubborn, and the only thing she’s done relentlessly is love us.

I grew closer to her after pap died, and she really started to feel like blood when I was pregnant. We thought it might rattle her because I was having a baby out of wedlock, but she was excited. She wanted Cienna to be a girl so badly, and I swear the first time she held her it added years to her life.

Since Cienna was born, Gram developed and beat bladder cancer. She’s laughed more and taught me how to be a better woman.

If you think I’m a free-spirited, loving person, you should meet Gram.

She was the only person I could really count on 24/7 when I was pregnant and then had the baby. She was always there to go shopping with me, to buy Cienna things I couldn’t afford, to offer advice, to love me and to keep me from feeling lonely during those first very lonely days. We played a lot of gin. And she made me a lot of mashed potatoes.

You know what else she did? She would always show me her wedding dress--a size 4 of course--on Saturdays and tell me that I could wear it someday when I slimmed down a little. It always made me laugh because she seemed so serious. And the whole idea--of ever wearing a wedding dress, of fitting into a 4--seemed so unreal to me.

Cienna and I spent most weekends during Cienna’s first year with Gram. We went shopping, took Uncle Mikey to bowling and had dinner.

When I got my job in Pittsburgh, we knew I’d have to move away. My mom wasn’t happy about it because it meant I’d be taking Cienna away from her.

But Gram understood. She said, “You have to do what’s best for you and that baby. Don’t worry about anyone else.”

I knew she’d miss us like crazy, and I knew, despite my best intentions, that we wouldn’t see her as much. We’d see her on holidays and the occasional weekends. We’d send cards.

Even that didn’t seem so tragic, though, because she’d still see Cienna when my mom had her. She see her at least one day a week, which is a lot more than some grandparents get--let alone great-grandparents.

I’m off tomorrow afternoon because I have two doctor’s appointments. So I called Gram to see if she wanted to have dinner tomorrow. Like we used to. She had Christmas morning in her voice.

“Well, I’m sure I could put something together!” she said enthusiastically.

That was an understatement. My 82-year-old grandmother could cook Thanksgiving dinner every day, do all the dishes and walk five miles without getting tired. She’s pure energy with a Scottish accent.

“What would you like, dear?” she said.

Whispering and smiling over the phone as work, as though I was telling a boy I liked him for the very first time, I said, “mashed potatoes.”

“OK! I can do that! What else?” she said.

“Hmm...roast?” I said.

“And what vegetable are we having, dear?” she said.

“I don’t care. Peas are my favorite, as you know,” I said.

“Well, then, we will have peas! And what will we have for dessert?” she said.

“Oh, Gram, that’s too much. I’m trying to lose weight remember? I’m sure your potatoes will do me in as it is,” I said.

“How about an apple pie and ice cream?” she said. “I’ll make sure the pie is warm too so the ice cream melts a little just how you like it.”

And then I cried in the newsroom. It just felt so good to hear her so excited about seeing me and knowing that she remembered all my favorite things and how I liked them. I knew that for a few hours the next day she’d take care of me again, and then I’d do all the dishes and clean up the kitchen while she told me stories.

Her stories range from old memories to what she talked about with the neighbor lady that morning.

“Well, I will see you tomorrow then, dear. I’m glad you’re coming. I’ve missed our dinners,” she said.

“Me too. See you tomorrow, Gram,” I said.

I hung up the phone and walked to my friend Sue’s desk to get a tissue. I’m not sure what made me cry more--that she was still just as loving as before I left or that I knew I wouldn’t always have her in my life.

What kind of woman am I to let my grandmother miss me. I know better than to take people or time for granted.

Here I’ve been so preoccupied with my career, my life in Pittsburgh and the guys I’ve been seeing that I haven’t made one of the most important women in my life a priority. She’s Gram.

I just love her so much. She’s so sweet, and I keep a picture on my desk at work of her, Cienna and me. If I get stressed, I look to my right and feel balanced again. Two girls who taught me what it means to love are never far away.

Don’t get me wrong--paps are definitely special. They always make the best men.

But there’s no creature like a grandmother who derives joy simply by cooking mashed potatoes and feeding her family.

I just want to make her happy back. I just want to tell her that someone made me love again. I just want to hold her and not let go. I want to thank her for giving up everything she could’ve been, might have been, to take care of her husband, her children, her grandchildren.

For as much as I love being independent and having a career, there are still light bulbs I can’t reach and rattling glass I can’t fix. And sometimes, yes, I feel like I might want a man around the way she had pap. I might want a family to make mashed potatoes for and a wedding dress in the closet that still makes me smile when I look at it. I might want family portraits on the wall that begin in black and white with a marriage and end in color with a great-granddaughter. I might be happy with cooking dinner, taking a walk, watching jeopardy, playing Yahtzee and going to sleep.

But not yet. I had a baby way too soon. I love Cienna with my whole heart and can’t imagine being alive without her now. However, just as she’s being potty trained, I’m gaining some freedom back. I feel 24 again. I like going out on Friday nights. I like taking kickboxing. I like having a crush on someone new every week and feeling the surprise when it starts to feel like more of a crush. I like not having to answer to anyone. I like not having to tell a guy where I’m going and when I’ll be back. I like cleaning and cooking whenever I want or whenever Cienna needs me to. I like learning how to live on my own.

Yet there’s something deep in my heart that keeps screaming how much I need to take all of Gram’s advice about loving a big family deeply and fully the way only a woman can. And I want to. I want to show her I listened all those Saturdays.

I’m just so afraid she won’t be there when I call her up and invite her to dinner to tell her that I’ve finally fallen in love.

Slumber party, anyone?

2005-08-04T16:19:00.000-04:00

I can’t decide why I like him more--because he’s a great friend or because he’s a great father. I have a penchant for both. Always have.

And right now I really need to have great friends and great fathers in my life to remind me that men are good for more than just procreation.

Per usual, we sent text messages back and forth all night in between my bed arriving, shopping for a comforter and watching a DVD with his brother.

I expected to see the golfer because he said he might call me after golf, but I never heard from him or saw him. I guess “might” was the operative word. But that’s so him. He’s very friend-oriented and may as well be married to his friend Adam. They close bars on Tuesdays, they hang out at Starbucks, they play softball on Sundays, they go to dance clubs on Thursdays...they’re together 80 percent of the week. But whatever. They’re 24. Now’s the time to be a young bachelor without anyone to answer to, without a sense of obligation, without hardcore responsibility.

It turned out to be a blessing in disguise really. I needed the time to just decorate my new bed, clean my house, read the paper and eat fruit half-naked. I got a lot done, but tonight I need to make more of a dent in the laundry and clean Cienna’s room. This weekend I’m cleaning out our closets.

Tonight Philly is coming over. I’m starting to hate calling him Philly. I’d really rather use his real nickname. But anyway. He’s changing my light bulbs--finally, after I’ve put this off for days--possibly watching a movie and possibly staying over.

But I’m guessing once he lays on the new bed that he won’t want to move.

And what kind of friend would I be to object!

Sweet

2005-08-03T17:01:00.000-04:00

I’ve had a beautiful day, and it looks as though it may get better.

I knew it would end well from an early email conversation with J. He basically let me know that he’d be calling me after golf.

You know, I need to figure out a way to commercialize golf and beer followed by intercourse. I thought of opening a club called The 19th Hole, but I’m convinced such a club already probably exists somewhere.

Every time this boy plays golf, the day ends with me. It’s his best round, really, and he’s great with his long drive.

I never used to like golf, but I’m learning to appreciate the sport this season.

So later I’ll see a golfer.

Earlier I saw a hockey player.

We took our daughters to South Park. We pushed them on the swings for about 45 minutes as I sang songs from Blues Clues to Mak and Cienna. The kids had that content, perfect look on their faces as only kids can have while they’re swinging. I think I still get that look.

His daughter looks exactly like him. But while his eyes are very dark brown, Mak’s eyes are dark green--a gorgeous mix of mom and dad.

She also laughs like him, but I didn’t realize that until he was twirling her around in circles--which became obvious as something they always do together. She’d hold up her little 2-and-a-half-year-old hands to him and say, “again, daddy, again.”

“OK,” and he’d start spinning her around until she wanted to swing again.

“Have you been with her since she was born?” I said.

“You mean have I always seen her and taken care of her?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yes. I was in the hospital when she was born and have been with her since,” he said.

He was with her mother when she was born. They were a couple. They were engaged.

When the engagement broke, they exchanged only one vow--to be great parents to Mak.

“What about you, what was it like for you when Cienna was born?” he said.

“Truthfully? I tried to hold her in as long as I could because I didn’t want her to be born on Halloween. I watched Michael Myers kill people while I was in labor. My friend Dawn was there. My mom was kinda there. I didn’t allow any cheesy bedside moments with hand-holding. I held my own knees, pushed her out in 15 minutes. She was a small baby. 6 lbs and some. It was amazing to see her for the first time. I felt like I just accomplished something extraordinary and like I could meet any challenge from that point on. I was empowered. She was born at 1:41 a.m. and I stayed up that whole night, holding her, looking at her, comforting her, making promises I prayed I’d always be able to keep. My mom slept. The next morning my mom left. A friend called. A cousin called. Two friends visited. And that night--which was the hardest night I’ve ever had--nobody was with me but Cienna. I sent her to the nursery for an hour so I could take a shower. Then I went to get her. The TV was on, but I don’t remember what was playing. I read the Post-Gazette and cried. I ordered food but couldn’t eat. Then a nurse came in, with this look of pity on her face because there wasn’t a man in my room to prop my pillows or smile over my shoulder at a beautiful baby. We talked about photography studios and the Jefferson Hills corridor. I didn’t sleep that night either because Cienna cried. She was hungry, but she wasn’t eating. I sensed she just wanted to go home. And the next day we did. It was a beautiful day. Indian summer really. I was home the next day and back to work two days later,” I said.

“Her dad never helped you at all? He didn’t even call?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“But it wasn’t all bad. I’m proud of how far Cienna and I have come together on our own. That’s what I’m proud of. That’s what empowers me,” I said.

“Honestly, Candy, you’re probably better to her than the two of you combined could’ve been,” he said.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

And then Cienna kicked Mak’s ball, and he ran after it.

And I thought of how nice it was to not have to watch Cienna and chase the ball at the same time.

But He's Not

2005-08-03T16:56:00.000-04:00

This is a story about Tim. He’s gay, but insists that he’s not. That’s why Dawn and I call him “But He’s Not.” In fact, neither of us can bring up or hear his name mentioned without immediately saying “But He’s Not.”

She suggested I call Gay Timmy because he told her I should call him when she ran into him at Kennywood last week.

Of course this was his response:

“I did not. You just can’t forget about me. You’re jealous I was there with Metzner,” he said.

“You’vegottabefuckinkiddingme, Tim. We’ve been on the phone for one minute tops and we’re arguing already. Now I remember why I don’t talk to you. Really, why did I call you?” I said.

“Well lemme rekindle old memories,” he said as he hung up on me.

A few minutes later the phone rang and he was laughing. We talked seriously, laughing most of the time about stuff I used to wear, stuff I used to say and stuff I used to do.

“But I always thought you were a charming young lady,” he said.

“And I always thought you were gay,” I said.

“Now, why would you think that?” he said.

“Um, it coulda been because you practically wrestled me and had the police called just to gain possession of an 8-inch rubber dildo. It coulda been because you tried to grope every male friend I had around you. Or it coulda been because you told me stories once about you touching guys after they got out of the shower. It’s a draw, really,” I said.

“Oh bullshit. You just can’t get over on me,” he said.

Not only did his response not make sense, but his response really made no sense.

“So how many boys have you slept with?” he said.

“I’d have to get out a pencil and paper and write them all down and then count,” I said.

“That many? When did you become such a ...” he said.

“Years in the making, Tim,” I said.

“Well I see we’re still having confidence issues. You just do it because they make you feel better about yourself,” he said.

“Hmm...I always thought I did it because it felt good period, but thanks for the insight,” I said.

This conversational tennis went on for a while before we got to the subject of whether or not we’re friends.

“I think we’re sort of like...well, have you ever seen The Thorn Birds?” he said.

“Are you kidding me? Are you comparing us to star-crossed lovers? One of whom is a priest and the other who is basically a slut trying to pass herself off as Annie Mae?” I said.

“Well the second part suits you, don’t you think?” he said.

“And we all know you’ve molested plenty of young boys, so yeah, I guess you can be the priest,” I said.

“You bitch,” he said, laughing.

Then we got down to whether or not we were going to see each other.

“Where do you want to go? We’ll go if you shut your mouth about it,” he said.

“I don’t know...Wonder how long we’d be there before we got kicked out for disturbing the peace,” I said.

“Oh, you love me. I know your best side, I know your worst side, and there’s nothing you can do to ever surprise me or shock me,” he said.

“Tim, I can’t stand you. Really,” I said. "When we're together, we make Hiroshima look like a fucking firework."

“Well then why do you talk to me?” he said.

“The same reason I talk to my mom. You’re familiar, and I feel like I’ve known you forever. And I guess I accept you as you are,” I said.

But, clearly, he’s not.

Black and white

2005-08-02T17:28:00.000-04:00

I felt like I was in college last night. It was great.

Check this out. I’ve been working on a book lately, and to get back to my roots I’ve done many things to jog my senses.

I bought this Pure Citrus air freshener that my former roommate and neighbor Tia used to use. I bought Starburst licorice because it was the first commercial thing the guy I lost my virginity to ever gave to me. I resurrected old CDs. I brought out old pictures, cards and notes. And I really had to dig for old class notes--the few that I kept for the three classes I attended all year.

No, seriously, all I did in college was work at the student newspaper. And sometimes, even then, as my friend Lou and I have joked, we were writing the stories onto the page.

So I have all these scents and sugar and clips and music and notes and photos all over the place. And amid these random piles I’ve managed to fit 25 years into, I realized what I missed the most about my younger life was the guiltless feeling of putting whatever I wanted on my walls.

Something stupid happened when I left college (OK, many stupid things). I believed that because I wasn’t in college, I couldn’t have posters or collages on my walls anymore. Gone were my black and white photos of people kissing in Paris. I took down my all-time favorite poster of the men who built Rockefeller Center sitting atop a beam, having lunch above Manhattan.

“Who says I can’t have what I love most on my walls just because I’m in my mid-twenties! Screw that!” I said.

In my family room, I’ve hung several black and white posters and pictures--including the photo Mary Beth took of PPG Place from the Point. Unless she asks for it back, that piece of art is staying with me forever.

I mean, really, who am I kidding? I have too much Cameron in me to throw up a shitty reproduction of Van Gogh on my wall. But I have just enough Candy to put up a huge poster of daisies in my hallway and my Rockefeller boys next to my couch.

My “How to be an Artist” poster, which I bought in 1996, has been passed on to Cienna. It’s in her room now, just as it hung in my bedroom for eight years. She needs to be reminded every day to swing high on a swing set, invite someone dangerous to tea, plant impossible gardens and--most importantly--write love letters. That’s one of the most important things I could ever pass on to her, and one of the best explanations she will ever have of who I am.

A collection of music is another way she will find out who I am and why I am.

I’m so excited for her to see our new art later.

It’s funny how just a few things on a wall can really scream, “This is our home.”

Since March, other than the kitchen, the walls have been bare. I’ve had 8x10s on the mantle of Cienna, but I never added anything to the walls.

Part of me was scared, I think, because we moved around so much while I was pregnant--three times--and then after I had her--twice. I was reluctant to put anything up, just to tear it back down in a few months when something fell through.

But I finally have my shit together and I’m in command of my life.

A light bulb blew out in my bathroom, tripped a breaker and I battled a huge, dark basement full of cobwebs to find the breaker box.

At my house, you have to access the basement from the outside. The basement is huge and actually pretty clean. It’s very open. There’s plenty of room for painting or dancing.

Anyway, I fixed it. It was a small thing. But just as I switched that breaker all the way off and then on again, my faith was restored that I wouldn’t be leaving in a year, not even two. I love my home with Cienna and I want to enjoy it for a while. The next time we move will be because I’ve bought a house in the district where she will go to school.

I went into the house and had light again in the rooms that had temporarily shut down. But the light bulb that caused the trip was still out. My ceilings are pretty high, so even on a chair, I couldn’t reach that light. But I knew my 6’3” friend Philly could.

He was playing hockey last night, though, and I wasn’t waiting up late for him.

I talked to 6’0” J on the phone instead, but we didn’t talk about the light bulb or my walls or college. We talked about the weekend, shared bedtime stories and said good night.

When I woke up in the family room this morning, where I slept on the couch bed, the black and white photo of two beautiful people kissing in Paris was the first thing I saw.

“Now, THIS is a great way to wake up,” I said.

It put me in a good mood all day just to start the day with some good ol’ fashioned passion.

Tonight I’ll go to the gym, I’ll play with Cienna while making dinner, and then Philly will come over and fix all the light bulbs I need help with, he said.

These simple acts of kindness leave me feeling truly blessed. Blessed isn’t a word I use often, but I’ve seen enough dark times to never take light for granted.

I have so many beautiful people in my life--in my heart...and on my walls.

Crush

2005-08-01T17:29:00.000-04:00

Every now and then, I meet that rare Pittsburgh man who has it all--good looks, good sense, good parenting, kind words, the ability to kick everyone’s ass at Halo and that smile from across the room that makes even me forget that divorce lawyers are far more popular than bridal registries.

But for all of his perfection, this man has one giant flaw: He only wants to be my friend.

Is that really a problem though? I mean, I have several other beautiful men in my life to spend time with, so why focus on the one I can’t have (other than it’s human nature).

I’m even giving BlondZilla (thank Joe for the accurate nickname) a shot. It was hard not to. He got back from L.A. and suggested a long walk along Mount Washington. How cute is that?

And I’ve complained for several months that I need a guy friend who’s really just my friend--not a hookup. Well, I’ve certainly found him. Oh, and he’s a great friend--one of the best I’ve had in a long time.

But did he really have to come into my life in the form of my favorite kind of hot?

It’s unfair, I tell you.

Those great jeans I got last week were supposed to get me laid. And they did. But it wasn’t by friend guy. It was by one of friend guy’s friends--who honestly made me laugh more than anyone has since Dawn when I was 16.

I put my best stiletto forward that night, believe me. I look great, got trashed and trashy, rocked out some Tina Turner, pulled hockey and football stats out that I didn’t even know I remembered and smiled constantly.

This earned bonus points with Hot Friend, but apparently I have as much chance of snagging him as I do beating him at any game that could be played on Xbox.

Instead, he was under the impression that his friend was making me very happy and set us up. So there I was in a car with three guys on my way to the friend’s house to drink beer and bullshit.

I had two sips of a beer and didn’t even hit the start button on Playstation controller one before I was making out on a carpeted floor of a finished basement. Not long after, Miss Candy, who’s been taking things slow with every other guy, was knockin’ boots with my crush’s friend.

The whole experience was riddled with humor--but the best was when his grandmother showed up the next morning and saw my naked ass.

“I wanted to drop something off for you, [boy’s name]” she said.

“This isn’t happening is it? I mean I’m having a fucking nightmare, right?” he said.

I laid still, face down, petrified. Was she crazy, sick, on the verge of a heart attack, really kick ass?

“Do you kids want some of these bagels now? They’re [boy’s name] favorite,” she said.

“T-shirt. T-shirt. T-shirt,” I said.

He threw a Penguins T-shirt at me that covered most of what needed to be covered.

“Grammy, thank you. But this is the worst time in my life right now for you to be standing there. Please just let me call you later,” he said.

She left. But I’m still not sure if she had any clue what we were doing. Or maybe she was just really good at ignoring moments like that.

“What the hell was that?” I said.

“Candy? Can we please make a deal right now? Can we never fucking talk about that ever again?” he said.

“I’ll bet you a bagel that you talk about it before I ever do,” I said.

He’s an incredibly funny boy, but he was so funny that he didn’t seem like much else. He’s definitely the funniest of that whole group, but he’s just not very dynamic otherwise.

My favorite part of him, however, is that he must’ve given me a rave review to my crush. I have no doubt that guys dish just like girls do.

But despite all the good words in the world, Crush and I keep growing closer without any play. It’s really kind of nice, but this is really old territory to me. I haven’t been here in a long time. I guess I got spoiled or something. I’ve grown used to being attracted to someone and having that come to fruition.

The only kind of play I’m seeing with this guy involves two toddlers at a park at noon on Wednesday.

Coolest things

2005-07-29T15:58:00.000-04:00

Oh my goodness. There's so much going on right now. And there's going to be even more going on throughout the weekend.

But I just want to tell you the coolest things that are going on my life right now:

Cienna is starting to say animal sounds and name body parts. This becomes perfect when she says "ooooh" instead of "moo" and "eow" instead of "meow" and "cack cack" instead of "quack quack." She points to and says eyes, nose and cheek clearly. She says "oar" instead of "ear" and "teet" instead of "teeth" and "mout" instead of "mouth." She says leg and arm, but she doesn't say "belly." Oh no. She just lifts up her dress or shirt and shows you. She's also happy to reveal the Elmo or "Elpo" on her diaper.

I'm sure I should teach her to stop flashing people at such a young age, but I can't help but laugh.

She's into Kelly Clarkson so much it's scary, and she enjoys most bands or artists that use a piano. Coldplay still puts her to sleep, and she still tries to sing along with John Lennon. She occasionally headbangs as well, which is funnier than I could ever describe.

And don't get it twisted, the girl can dance.

I hope to dance soon in the second thing that's very cool right now. New jeans. There's an American Eagle a couple blocks from where I work. It's the best AE I've ever been to, and I previously hated the store--mainly because nothing ever fit me besides hoodies and huge shirts.

But, oh, things have changed.

I bought really hot jeans there today. And when I put them on, I looked 20 pounds smaller. I'm not kidding. I took them to work and showed colleagues, and they said "Oh my goodness! You look so different!" It was great. I bought an equally hot halter-style shirt to match and a really cool necklace.

What Trainer Bill can do with a body in a week is miracle-worthy.

If Jocelyn ever emails me again, I'm going to gush to her about this. But for now, we'll just communicate vicariously through our blogs!

In short, these jeans are going to get me laid tonight.

Which brings me to a third cool thing. I had my first kiss with someone today in the middle of a Quizno's, among the lunch rush, while fighting over a tomato.

Talk about perfection.

Talking with Cameron

2005-07-27T15:31:00.000-04:00

Cameron and I haven’t had a lot of time lately to have a real conversation. We’ve talked for five minutes here and there. But these short dialogues have left me a bit confused and amused.

CONVERSATION 1--LAST SATURDAY

“Apple, do you think I’m gay?” he said.

“What? Is this some kind of trick question? I mean, aren’t you? Haven’t you said you are a million times? Don’t you date men?” I said.

Note: He claims he doesn’t have sex because he’s not interested in it. It’s either not up to par for him or he’s just not in the mood. However, he does enjoy looking at hot men. But the hot men he typically likes aren’t gay. He’ll be 25 in September, and I often find his lack of a sex life alarming. He could definitely have one, believe me, but he chooses not to.

“Well, do I though? I mean do I ever feel in love with men, or do I just like men with a lot of money? Am I gay or just gay for pay?” he said.

“First thing’s first, Cameron. Have you been watching “Will & Grace” again?” I said.

“I hate you, Apple,” he said.

“No, you love me and wish you didn’t,” I said.

“So then I’m not gay?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yes you do. You would definitely know. Come on, why am I like this? What am I?” he said.

“You grew up without a father, and you’ve had a love-me daddy complex for years. That’s why you cling to men, and that’s why it crushes you when they leave to marry a woman because you feel abandoned all over again. And you grew up with Paula, who said everything had to be fabulous. But you were still in the middle of the Mon Valley--not in the Hamptons--so all that you really had was a better couch than your neighbors. It was hell for you for a long time because you felt like your mom loved shopping more than you or rich men more than you, so you became obsessed with those things too just to be closer to her,” I said.

“See, fruit, you’re so smart,” he said.

“But you were attractive, talented, obsessed with Versace and had expensive taste when you were still fucking women, so I don’t know what to tell you,” I said.

“Me either, fruit,” he said.

“There’s also another argument that when we were kids and watched “Annie” you had a crush on Daddy Warbucks,” I said.

“Remember when we were in middle school and they did it at the high school? Who was that Daddy Warbucks? He was pretty cute for a bald guy,” he said.

“Pete Graf,” I said.

“But that Annie was a damn mess, Apple. Ugh,” he said.

“Well, Apple, I’m gonna go. I’m standing naked in my bathroom. I just got out of the shower, and I need to go to True,” he said.

“OK. There’s your answer. You’re going to True in hope you’ll see the hot guy who lives in the Mexican War Streets,” I said.

CONVERSATION 2--LAST NIGHT

“What, Fruit? I’m working,” he said.

“But it’s after 8 and I just danced in the rain,” I said. “You need to take a break and share this joy with me.”

“If you’re in one of these moods where you love everything, I don’t want to talk,” he said.

“Oh, stop. Do you know how lucky we are Cameron? Really. There’s a man at my gym who I walk the indoor track with...he’s dying of cancer and knows it. He’s just trying live as long as he can, and he has no family here. He’s in Pittsburgh for work. His family is from Minneapolis or something. He made me promise I wouldn’t feel sorry for him, so I try not to. We just walk and talk about whatever. He mostly likes to hear about my life, Cienna, the boys I like, the work I do, my relentless sense of optimism. And in one way I get angry that he has to go through, that so many good people have to go through it, but he’s so happy that he’s really lived his life. He’s older, but not old. And he always tells me how happy it makes him to hear that I don’t give up on what I want, that I just go after it without looking both ways, that I call my friends up like this and make them take breaks while they’re working,” I said.

“Well that’s nice, Apple. I’m being serious,” he said.

“And you were the first person to ever show me something beautiful, Cameron. We were 16, and you took me to that flower shop late at night after the high school’s production of “Grease!” We left the Kash’s cast party early so I could watch you decorate. I still had my hair done for the show, but the makeup was gone. I was wearing hospital pants, a Batman T-shirt and twirling shoes. You had on jeans and a button-down Polo shirt. You smelled so good and held my hand in the car. And I’m only crying now because I’m so happy and so lucky that I ever became your friend. We got there and you had most of the work finished. But it was just a few weeks before Easter and you were adding pieces of palm to a huge arrangement outside with white Christmas lights all through it. I was freezing, unsure of where I left my jacket. So you gave me some kind of fur wrap of your Mom’s you had in the backseat. I stood there, dressed horribly, watching you work your magic, developing your talent and thinking that it was a moment I’d never forget. And I never have. You gave me a palm before we left, and I put it on my wall when I got home. I used to look at it when Mark would come home drunk at 2 a.m. and start doing things I still haven’t completely moved beyond. It was like a tiny lighthouse, leading me away from that hell into a beautiful night I would have forever. I still have it. That palm is still in my childhood bedroom, and there are still times it hurts to go back. But again, I’ll always have that night,” I said.

“Maybe I need to dance in the rain,” he said.

“I just love you so much, you know. We were like family from the very beginning, and in many ways, you were the first family I ever had,” I said.

“Damn you, Apple. Why do you always have to say beautiful things all the time? I mean can’t you just be a bitch like everyone else?” he said.

“Oh, I’m a bitch when I need to be. I’m just really happy right now,” I said.

“I know. Why are you so happy? Who are you fucking?” he said.

“Nobody,” I said. “And you know, I was at your house the first and only time I danced in the rain during a tornado. Remember in 2002 when one touched down in the Mon Valley...I was outside dancing in the middle of it. It was great.”

“What did I do? Get mad at you for getting the chaise lounge all wet?” he said.

“No, you just let me. I gotta go now,” I said.

“Why? Is the nobody you’re fucking text messaging you?” he said.

“No, I just want to drive around and listen to music and sing with the windows down,” I said.

“Bye, fruit.”

Guys

2005-07-27T12:11:00.000-04:00

I’d like to thank the special guys in my life who have helped me love guys again.

I was so angry for so long about one man that I started to resent all men in general. I still slept with them, but a part of me kind of became pissed an hour later that I just did what hurt me in the first place.

Well, believe me, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

And I love LOVE love guys again. I’m learning there are a lot of good ones in Pittsburgh. I knew the potential was there, but I think Jocelyn pointed out months ago that I was just going to the wrong places.

Really, it was so true. And I went to those wrong places repeatedly and repeatedly met the wrong guys.

I’m starting to meet really good ones now. That they’re incredibly adorable doesn’t hurt either.

The first one I met--the one who changed everything--was Trainer Bill (though I only call him Trainer Bill here...in person, he’s just Bill). He’s taught me what it really means to be strong, how it all starts with a decision every morning to worker harder than I did yesterday, how to endure and how to be confident.

I think most problems in life can be peeled away to confidence. Having too much or not enough is what really leads to trouble, and it can be applied to just about anything.

We’re honest friends, and I trust him so much. Nothing about him scares me or makes me nervous. Instead, he makes me laugh. And once he made me laugh so hard that I spit water all over him. I have the crown for the first client who ever did that. He lets me act a fool when I need to and calls me “diabolical” when I wear flip flops. It’s just great, and one day I’m going to give him the biggest hug ever. We don’t text message or email. We share the occasional phone call, and I see him every weekend and a few times during the week.

And then came Gatsby. Thinking about this one still makes me breathe a little deeper sometimes. Like the green light in “The Great Gatsby,” the Gatsby guy has been a source of consistency for me in a weird way. He’s a lighthouse, a beacon. A truly extraordinary person who can call me out on my bullshit at any point, yet make it sound so polite somehow. He doesn’t do small talk, he doesn’t do me. We had only a night and a half, but we see each other in passing fairly often. And it’s always enjoyable. He’s just a great person--a rare and exotic character I expect to never meet again in my life. But he’s taught me that if I’m to get what I want, I’m going to have to learn to let go a little first and trust people. I see a natural leader in this guy. He knows people instantly, finds out what makes them tick, finds out what they want, and then figures out a way to help them get it. In my case, he revealed my greatest flaw and told me to ditch it. He’s also very respectful of me and the most honest man I’ve ever met. We don’t text message or share phone calls anymore. There are occasional emails between us, which are always long. And that’s so him. He doesn’t always say much, but when he does it’s always incredible. And of course we run into each other randomly, which is just how he likes things to be.

Josh. Oh, Josh. He rescued me when I needed him to, but because he saw me at my most vulnerable moment I found it difficult to ever feel strong around him again. But he’s a really wonderful human being. We could talk for hours, but the sexual chemistry just wasn’t there. And to me, sexual chemistry is like some sort of credibility. I think I have my own internal ranking system with this. Just as I save the best for last when I’m opening mail, I base my decisions to respond to correspondence from men because of this chemistry. So Josh and I occasionally text message and email, but I like him most at an arm’s length away.

The best J...you know, I almost feel guilty putting these guys in some kind of list. That’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m just explaining why they’re all wonderful in their own way. So J. He’s my favorite when he’s in touch. He’s amazing because he’s an exception to many rules. I’m used to meeting guys who grew up with brothers to be a little less in tune with women than those who grew up with a sister. It’s just been my experience. But he’s an exception. He knows women--what they want, how to treat them. And he’s really great at making me feel good. When I first met him, I thought there’s no way I could ever be into a guy who looks this way--like he walked out of a fraternity into a Gap ad. But he’s not like that at all. Did I mention he’s a great kisser? He’s funny and his sense of humor is perfectly timed. I find him to be very unpredictable, which might be what attracts me the most. He’s also gorgeous, and I seriously think he’s totally unaware of that. We see each other and communicate at the perfect pace--not too much, not too little. In every possible way, J knows exactly what he’s doing. My only hangup with him is that I find him so difficult to write about, and I’m not sure why. Maybe Mary Beth could help me figure out why. I just get to this point and I feel like I’m crossing some line when I start writing about him, so I hold back. I’m petrified of writing my most sincere observations about him and I don’t know why. There’s a lot to write about, but I just can’t.

Along came Philly who I communicate with the most. Constant text messaging, frequent emailing and the rest falls into place whenever. But he’s my biggest shock of the year. I expected him to be a total asshole because of the first things he ever said to me was very crass, but that’s no who he is at all. He’s sweet, respectful, funny and a little romantic--although I’m not sure I have the balls to tell him that. He grew up with a sister, so he knows what’s up with how to treat a girl. He’s a great communicator, and he’s so hot that I gush to my friends about him often. I could watch him pour a glass of water and get wet. He’s the tallest--even though they’re all tall--and has the most amazing shoulders. Since I’ve met him, I’ve spent a better part of my day thinking up a million different fantasies, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I never feel like I need a reason to see him either. I’m just happy to be around him. He’s also a true athlete--and as you all know, I’m a superior athlete--so that’s very familiar territory to me, and it’s always been a huge turnon for me to watch a guy play hard. And that started many, many years ago. Of all the new guys I know, he makes me feel the most comfortable to just say anything. Every day he says or does something to remind me that I’m valued. It’s wonderful.

OK. I’m done gushing. In fact, I need to write something else about Cameron. It’s too funny not to be its own email.

Big Ten

2005-07-25T18:29:00.000-04:00

My track record with guys from Big Ten schools has always been rather impressive, so it was no surprise that I hit it off so well with Brad and Steve Friday night.

Both are originally from Detroit, so nothing about Pittsburgh could ever depress them. In fact, even though Brad works in Chicago as an investment analyst for GE Commercial, he thought Pittsburgh’s Downtown was thriving.

Brad was in town on business and visiting Steve, who recently moved to Mount Washington and works at Del Monte Foods on the North Side as a packaging engineer in the research and development department.

Brad is basically breathtaking.

Steve is basically a blonde Seanzilla.

“I mainly work with Kibbles ‘n Bits. And what’s deceiving about that is all the good stuff is in the bit,” Steve said. “That’s where all the flavor is and animal byproduct.”

“Fascinating, Steve,” I said. “Remind me the next time I’m about to take a sip of this delicious cocktail to have you tell me about animal byproduct in all of its glorious forms.”

“Are you always a smartass, Candy?” he said.

“Yes. Every waking second of the day,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I like that in a girl,” he said.

Steve peed and I talked to Brad about how Chicago is a playground for people our age.

“What is our age? How old do you think I am?” I asked.

“24. You’re 24 right?” he said.

“Wow. I love you, Brad. You got it right. I get 26 constantly,” I said. I got my first kiss from Brad at that point.

In walks Philly in all of his hotness. His name isn't really Philly, but I'm protecting the innocent. Philly is 26, and I thought he’d be way more of an asshole than he is. He’s actually a nice guy. A friend of a friend of a friend.

We’re just friends. We talk a lot. We shared a drink in Mario’s. I left Brad and Steve to have another drink with Philly in Jack’s.

Then I went back to Mario’s to a much drunker Brad and Steve. It was hug central.

A girl Brad met in the airport text messaged him to say she was in Jimmy Ds. We went there. It was my first and last time ever. The whole scene was way to ghetto-in-a-bad-way for me.

Steve got me a drink while Brad flirted with airport girl. We talked. And talked.

“You have a really great fucking smile. Like every time you smile, I have to smile. And your dimples are so cute,” he said.

“Oh God,” I said.

“What? That makes you uncomfortable?” he said.

“Well, not really...but...ugh, you know?” I said.

“What do you think of me?” he said.

“Well, I’m not having an orgasm over you or anything, but I’m having fun and will continue to do so,” I said.

About two minutes later I explained that it was getting even more ghetto in there, so we all went back to Mario’s. The walk there was only about two blocks, but it was so incredibly fun. We laughed the whole way and I felt as though I had been transported to a Big Ten college town with great athletic programs and finals and fight songs and multiple libraries.

But I was still in the Big East, where kids know how to frat it up, bar crawl and shake a tailfeather at a major night club within a two-mile radius.

“Do you like Pittsburgh, Candy?” Steve said.

“Steve, I fucking love Pittsburgh. I love Pittsburgh so much I could cry. I love the jagoffs, the yinzers, the dorks, the sluts, the tortured artists, the students, the families, the city mice, the suburbanites, the pigeons...and I guess every city has those, but here they’re all Steelers fans too, which I can definitely relate to. I’ve passed a few golden opportunities just because I couldn’t imagine being near another team during football season,” I said.

“Well, I’m so glad. Everyone else I ask hates it. They keep telling me wait for the snow,” he said.

“OK. Steve. You know what you need? A Pittsburgh Tour by Candy. I will take you everywhere you need to go to fall in love with this city, and when we’re done you will love it as much as I do, though not as deeply. Only time can do that,” I said.

“Hey, that’s a great idea,” Brad said. Brad was definitely trying to play matchmaker all night.

Steve is in L.A. this week for business, but when he gets back we’re supposed to make plans for a tour.

We weren’t at Mario’s very long before those two decided they needed Qdoba, or what I refer to as the Spanish Subway. I drove them, but it was closed. The drive was so fun though. Steve and I sang really obnoxious songs---like “Hollaback Girl”--as passers by cheered us on. “This shit is bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S!” Steve was really trashed. So trashed that when I took them to the gyro place so I could finally go home, he practically forced me to stop my car in the middle of the street to kiss me goodnight. But it wasn’t the cheek kiss I expected. Oh no. He definitely went straight for the mouth, and though he was sweet about it, I couldn’t stop laughing while he kissed me.

“Please, Steve, please. Be a platonic friend I can go on walks with and talk about college with and play Xbox with. Please, just be that guy. If something more comes of it, fine. But it’s not starting tonight,” I said.

“OK,” he said. He kissed me again and then woke up Brad, who fell asleep in the back seat, and helped him out of the car.

The next day involved many text messages with those guys and Philly.

I have yet to kiss Philly, but believe me I will.

Carrie

2005-07-21T17:34:00.000-04:00

It was just a dream, but it’s controlled my life in odd ways since 4 a.m.

I’ve not been able to recall ever dreaming about a dead person before--at least not honestly--until now. But there she was, so vivid, so remarkably alive.

But even a dream couldn’t erase the fact that she was dying.

And I tried not to, but I cried so hard. I hid from her in my dream, so she wouldn’t see me cry.

We were on a train, with a really large living room that looked like Beth Jenko’s parents’ house, and we were going to New York City. Carrie looked just as she had the last time we were both in Beth Jenko’s living room for my surprise 16th birthday party (that wasn’t really a suprise).

Her hair was long and silky blonde, untouched by chemotherapy or a bad wig. Her skin was glowing, not pale from cancer, not puffy from poison.

But when she smiled, she didn’t open her mouth the way I always remembered Carrie smiling. She kept her lips tight, and she smiled with some kind of pity--the way she started smiling after she learned she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

In my dream, she knew she was dying, the same way her mom said she knew she was dying the minute she found out there was a cancerous lump in her armpit.

I didn’t know what to do with myself in my dream--and I actually didn’t know it was a dream, which has never happened before. I was so excited to see her alive again--even if she was still dying, we both knew she was still alive at that moment. And there were so many more people on that train, and I think we knew them, but I have no idea who they were.

She was wearing exactly what she wore to my 16th birthday party--a night when she danced with me to Madonna songs and talked about boys. Maybe it was just my subconscious way of holding on to the way I like to remember her--young, healthy, a little boy crazy.

Finally I just went over and grabbed her--unafraid that maybe I’d break her or hurt her. I hugged her so tightly and I bawled my eyes out. She was strong and her hug felt as it did when she was in high school playing three sports.

I kept screaming that I was sorry. I couldn’t say anything else ...about how a part of me is still so angry and broken that she had to go through any of that, that her mother lost a daughter, that her life ended at 23 when mine was just beginning.

And I couldn’t admit that it was much more heartwrenching to watch her fall apart and finally lose an unfair fight on November 29, 2001 than the collapse of the Twin Towers on 9/11.

I just kept hugging her because I knew I wouldn’t get to for very long, but I didn’t know it was because I’d wake up. I thought it was because she was dying all over again.

For as long as I could, I just wanted to let her know that we all still love her, and we all still miss her.

I woke up with clenched fists, squeezing the afaghan my grandmother made me and actually believed she was alive. In fact, I remember thinking I couldn’t wait to get to work to email her. But then I remembered her address was no longer in my book because she was no longer alive. Even though I still haven’t been able to delete her last several emails to me.

There may have been a few moments when I stopped breathing before I started crying as hard as I could at 4 in the morning.

I ran to check on Cienna. She was fine and healthy--with only a lactase deficiency.

I took her out of bed and held her on the couch. I just needed my daughter with me, which is something Carrie’s mom can’t have anymore. Which is something Carrie never got a chance to have--even if she would’ve wanted to.

This will always be with us. This will hit all of her friends at different times.

And thank God for Joel who helped me resolve to, with the original advice from his mom, live each day a little bit harder for Carrie.

Oh, and believe me, I definitely do.

Just fall

2005-07-18T18:59:00.000-04:00

Well if I didn’t have the cutest day in America, I’m not sure who did! It started at midnight with cute text messages that led to an even cuter phone conversation.

Despite being annoyed this morning by the number of people discussing how fast they read the entire text of the new Harry Potter novel, I still enjoyed my day.

I was quite productive professionally and socially. My story is halfway done, a friend now has a nice setup at an amazing golf course, Cienna is the proud owner of a new swank toy that is both a bike and basketball hoop, and my editor approved me for another big package that will run in September.

My managing editor made the new features schedule for the fall, and I’m on there seven times, which rocks because I love to write people feature. I’m guessing he caught onto that to. When I wrote my deadlines into my huge desk calendar, I got to November and December and cried a little.

As I’m sure you all know, my favorite TV event--and event period--is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on NBC. For three to four hours, I lay around in flannel pajamas (this is one of two days of the year that I wear flannel), hugging my knees, quietly watching what always makes me feel young, innocent, careless and perfectly OK. Cienna is a fan too, and I can’t tell you what it means to me to be able to watch it with her. It’s surreal in one sense because I’m transported to being 4 years old, watching from my grandfather’s lap, but there’s this baby next to me who is mine. And thank God she’s mine. On the other hand, it’s amazing that I started that tradition with her when she was only 3 weeks old.

She was such a tiny newborn. She wore the newborn size up to 7lbs. until she was about 2 months old. She’s still a size behind, but her personality is years ahead. Miss independent, indeed.

Do you know how weird it is to drive around with a toddler who dances in her carseat to the likes of Gwen Stefani, Kelly Clarkson and Beyonce? She’s also a major fan of Coldplay, the Rolling Stones, Beatles and Billy Joel. Undoubtedly, her favorite instrument is the piano.

On rainy days she watches ballerinas at school. Teachers take the toddlers across the enclosed bridge to take advantage of Point Park’s strongest program. I’m told she watches intently--very unlike her--and claps when something excites her--very like her, very like me.

I’m not sure if it’s the piano music in the ballet classes or the actual dancing, but I’ve vowed to help her discover her passion. If she chooses dance, one of my best friends Maria just so happens to be one of the most amazing dancers alive. Cienna will be all set.

As for piano, a few special people have offered to give lessons--and I’m not talking about Cameron, who only knows one song, Beethoven’s “Fur Elise.”

Back to November. For as much as I hate going to home where I grew up, and as much as it occasionally pains me just to walk into my old bedroom and think of some of the things I hid from in there, I still love that smell of the house in November when the heater kicks on. It reminds me of my grandparents, whom I dearly loved, who raised me to be the strong-willed girl I am. I always think of the kitchen windows fogging up, as my grandmother’s hands got lost in a sink of dishes and Dawn detergent. My pap always had Cheeze-its.

I think one of my requirements before I never get married should heavily weigh upon whether or not Boy Wonder can look completely natural and at home, sitting on a couch, watching sports, with his hand in a box of Cheeze-its. And not the Reduced Fat kind. I just want a guy to be a guy.

Save the reduced fat brands for me. Let me be a girl.

Thanksgivings in Stockdale have always been nightmares. My favorite was after 9/11 when Mark got drunk and cried for all the firemen who lost their lives. While 9\11 was horrific, if you know Mark, you know why it’s laughable and very Uncle Eddie-esque (as in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation).

I’ve continued to go back for my grandmother’s benefit, but I draw the line this year. I’m hosting Thanksgiving in Carnegie. Everybody’s welcome.

Also in November, on the 11th, my 25th birthday, there’s a Quarter of a Century party in my honor at the River City Inn. A band will be there. Old friends, new friends, friends of the family, but very little--if any--family. I’ll be begging my friends on the west coast to travel back for this. Twenty-five is a big deal for me, but that’s another email.

Then December...ah, December. Christmas. It holds so many romantic connotations for me. And my apartment is perfect for Chrismas decorating. But that, too, is another email.

Fire

2005-07-17T20:26:00.001-04:00

We had a top-notch writing coach come in last Thursday and Friday. Two mornings of workshops and an individual, one-hour coaching session later, and my fire for journalism, for reporting, for writing non-fiction is back.

This guy was so amazing. When he spoke, I felt like I was ready to write the hell out of something. I felt like a part of my body that had been dead for eight years came back to life. He's so fucking talented, so respected, and I just couldn't get enough of his words, his genius.

His best friend is the writing coach for The Wall Street Journal, the best newspaper in America. Wait, actually, WSJ is the best publication in America.

When we had our one-on-one, he asked me why I'm a journalist, when did I get started, why am I still doing it. And it occured to me how long it's been since someone actually asked me that and meant it. So I told him the story, and telling it gave me the feeling I had the first time I saw my byline. The first time someone called to thank me. The first time someone called to ask me my address so they could send a card. The first time I wrote something that caused a bad system to change. The first time a boy called me afterward because my work moved him in some way. The first time a guy had my newspaper in the backseat of the car because I wrote three articles in it.

He told me all of my weaknesses and I gobbled it up enthusiastically.

"You're remarkably open to criticism," he said. "Most reporters debate me a little."

"Any reporter worth their both bones would be foolish to not take criticism with open arms," I said. "It's how we get better, it's how we kick ass next time."

"To be honest, this is exactly what I've needed, what I've longed for, to just sit down and talk about the craft like this--and what a craft it is!" I said.

"At no point when I read you did I ever think you didn't love it. You write with passion, and now that I've met you I can tell that it's part of everything you do. You're passion personified," he said.

I took his suggestions. I've started to use them.

And I just can't wait to see next week's issue.

I have eight stories in, and it's my best work in years.

That lasted

2005-07-17T20:22:00.000-04:00

That sabbatical lasted until about 10:30 p.m. the same evening.

I ended up in a two-hour conversation with Josh about why I was making that decision, and during that talk it became apparent what I really want.

Not a relationship. And, yes, I realize that by definition I have “relationships” with many people, but you know what I mean.

In a romantic relationship, two things can ultimately happen--a breakup or marriage. And I’m not interested in either of those.

So Josh and I are not going to have anything, though in a few weeks we may be casual friends again--but never casual lovers.

The other J, my favorite J, let me have my bugout, and then let me reach out after I had calmed down. I saw him Friday night, and it was fun. There was a really wonderful perk that was revealed naturally and surprisingly while I was with him, but I’m not going to blog it. I’ll probably discuss it in private email if requested.

When we left each other that night, I was smiling and he was laughing. And it occured to me that’s how we always leave each other.

I’m always left feeling happy, sexy, fun and very free. I think the last part is my favorite, and I hope I enable him to feel the same way.

Because here’s the thing: I’m a 24-year-old single mom, but I’m still 24. And though I’m much older than that on the mom side, which is a side I don’t share with everyone, I’m really just 24 when I’m out with friends. We don’t talk about it, but I know J gets that about me.

J had an early tee time, so we parted ways at 1 a.m. My friend from work, Glenn, had called me while I was with J, wondering where I was. So I called him after J left and explained I was with my hookup, which is why I was not hammered like his artistic ass.

Somehow we ended up together at 1:30 a.m. and decided to wax philosophical in the publisher’s office.

Free.

Sabbatical

2005-07-12T17:16:00.000-04:00

Remember in school when teachers used to take a year off?

They called it sabbatical.

I’m taking one of those. Effective immediately.

I guess I decided I’ve sampled the best lovers--and worst men--Pittsburgh has to offer, and so now I’m just done.

For the next year I’m going to do nothing but focus on being a wonderful mother--the kind my daughter really deserves--reaching my fitness goals and proving what kind of a journalist I truly am.

My fire in writing has been a bit subdued lately, and I think it's been subdued because most of my passion and talent are being dumped into late-night rendezvous and summer flings.

I know how this story ends, so I decided to dump my hookups. One last week and one this week.

A friend suggested I try vibrators in their absence, but toys--by themselves-- just don't do it for me, and I think that's further evidence of why I enjoy sex so much. It involves, or should involve, two people being very intimate with each other.

The fact that my libido has been satisfied but I've still hungered for good conversation is probably a sign that my hookups just aren't worth it.

What I want is casual sex with non-casual conversation, and I just can't seem to find it. I want to stay up all night talking, laughing and hooking up, and somehow wake up the next day with the assurance that everything is cool.

This shouldn't be a stretch.

And I'm way too great a lover to not be satisfied in return. Don’t get me wrong, there's plenty of lip service, but it's just not the right kind.

So if any guy ever wants to be with me again, he's going to have to prove himself before he even so much as sees my bra strap slip out of my sleeve. And to prove himself, he's going to have to be charming. It will have to start with a real date, which does not mean hanging out in a bar together while he talks to his friends about high school. A real date, which does not mean rescuing me from a bad guy and sticking around until I'm not scared anymore.

I want a little romance, a little conversational tennis, a little wooing. And I deserve that.

I'm quite certain I'm worth the time and effort. I'm quite aware of what I'm good at and how good at it I am.

And if a man ever wants to experience me, from now on he's going to have to prove that he's just as worth it and just as good.

Hey.

A lot like falling in love

2005-07-06T21:01:00.000-04:00

Last night was a lot of incredible things, but what sticks out the most is something Josh said about my writing.

“Are you aware that when you write, you forget everything else exists? I can even tell when you’re simply thinking about a story because you just tune out all other things,” he said.

“Cienna can’t even distract you,” he said.

It seemed like a so-what statement though.

“Well, I’d assume that’s the most obvious part of me. I’ve never made a secret of what I’m in love with,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s different with you. You’re protective of it, loyal to it...it’s a little like you’re married to it,” he said.

“Um, and you’re married to about 15 different charities, so what’s your point? You know people every where you go--even at a shitty rest stop outside of Cleveland--because you’re so "tapped in." We’re both passionate about what we do, so why should I have to defend my end?” I said.

“Why ARE you defending your end?” he said.

“Because I don’t understand where you’re going with this. Is it just an observation, Newton-style, or are you making some kind of case about how I need to write every day, blog every day, work every day?” I said.

“I don’t know. I just thought you looked cute sitting there with a bunch of tablets in front of you. How many tablets are there anyway?” he said.

“A million. Why is this a question?” I said.

“Calm down. Geez. I’m just saying you have a lot of tablets for one story. Is it one story?” he said.

“Yes, it’s one story, but it’s three months of reporting. And I like to have several notebooks and computer files going because if I lose one, I always have some sort of backup. And maybe I just feel better when I have something to write on. It’s like you and your bike. It’s always in your car, taking up the whole back seat and trunk, because you never know when you’re going to just ...go,” I said.

“Are you agonizing over this story? Why did you bring it home?” he said.

“Are you demeaning what I do simply because my job is to write about what you do?” I said.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” he said.

“Seriously, Josh. I brought it home because I’m in love with this story, and like most things I love, I want to protect it fiercely. I’ve poured my soul into it, and I feel as though I’ve lost all objectivity here. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t done anything wrong, but it’s just not pure. I suppose it’s true that journalists are never fully objective. We’re subjective the minute we decide what we’re leading with or what quote we’re using or what quote we’re using first,” I said.

“And a story just hasn’t made me feel this fire in a long time. Not since college. This story is my niche, Josh, because it’s the kind of story I was born to tell. It’s the kind of story that made me want to be a journalist. And I don’t want this feeling to leave. And I’m afraid the minute I turn it in, the minute they cut one word--which I usually don’t care about because it’s just nature of the beast--that I’ll lose a part of myself that I just recently found again,” I said.

“But is there anything you can do but turn it in and take your chances?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Maybe they’ll love it too. Maybe they’ll think it’s the reason they hired you. Ever think of that?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I guess it is time to just put this story to bed,” I said.

“I think it’s time to put you to bed, Miss Daisy,” he said, making a joke of how I "always" have him drive me around.

“Speaking of, you so need to drive me to Presque Isle,” I said. “And, hey, your bike is already in the back seat.”

“And you can take all 80 of your tablets to read in the car.”

Independence

2005-07-05T12:51:00.000-04:00

Low moment: Finding out I had a fractured rib
Way that I countered that low moment: Finding out I had a fractured rib and having sex anyway. In honor of our forefathers

Most horrifying dialogue that became more horrifying when I realized how serious his response was:

“No, seriously, I’ve defended classic rock for many years. But there are a few bands from our generation I’d want on an island with me if I ever got stranded there...Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Coldplay, Green Day. I think they could all compete with the Stones, Beatles, Doors and Dylan,” I said.

“I hate Nirvana,” he said.

“What? Huh? How? What?” I said.

“Seriously,” he said.

“Why? How? Huh?” I said in shock because his taste in music had, to that point, been impeccably similar to mine.

“They ended the 80s hair band. All of a sudden people went crazy over grunge rock and the 80s hair band was just gone,” he said.

I tried so hard to break him into laughter, but it just didn’t happen. I heard names like Poison and Pantera in the same sentence. I made jokes about a Richie Sambora tattoo on his ass. I’m still going crazy about it today, wondering if he could actually be serious. I had to call Joel about it. I had to call everyone who appreciates music about it.

Thank God he’s perfect in a number of other ways. He’s actually very good at redeeming himself.

Less horrifying dialogue, but still horrifying:

“This porn is so bad it’s like a trainwreck,” I said.

“I think it was filmed with a handheld or something. It’s really terrible and really trashy. But trashy porn is great,” he said. “What’s weird is that I’m sitting here on the couch naked.”

“Why is that weird, considering what just happened?” I said.

“It just is. It’s awkward,” he said.

“But who cares,” I said. “You want to know the worst part about this horrible, trashy porn, J?”

“What’s that,” he said.

“This was once a gift, a sincere gift, a romantic gesture,” I said.

Dialogue of the weekend that made me laugh the hardest:

“OK, there’s just no way I can have you sitting here with your shirt on for this many minutes,” I said.

In a combined effort, the shirt comes off as quickly as possible.

“OK, your pants may as well come off too,” I said.

The pants came off as quickly as possible, though the effort was delayed a bit because of great kissing.

“OK, at this point, you’re naked except for your shoes,” I said, beginning to laugh hysterically, which prompted him to laugh as well. “And I’m sorry, but I just cannot do anything to you while you’re naked and wearing those shoes.”

Top three weirdest questions I asked a straight man while naked:

1. Why do men shave their legs?

2. Have you ever been on a bus and heard men talk about anal douching?

3. Is there enough cock in THIS porn, or is there still too much girl-on-girl?

Bitchiest dialogue of the weekend that is still pissing me off:

“Why are you a bruised fruit?” he said.

“Wait a sec...why is it so loud there? Are you watching TV? What are you watching?” I said.

“It’s Beauty and the Beast, Apple. What? I’m tired from that wedding yesterday. I did everything,” he said.

“[He] beat me up,” I said.

“Well, why?” he said.

“He wanted to have sex with me, and I wouldn’t,” I said.

“Well, you must’ve given him sex recently for him to think he could get it from you,” he said.

“Uh, no,” I said.

“Well, when was the last time you fucked him?” he said.

“Before Cienna was born,” I said. “You’re well aware of that.”

“Who are you sleeping with again?” he said.

“[J] and you know that is well,” I said.

“Uh huh. And who else,” he said.

“And nobody else, Cameron. OK?! Why is it that I’m a whore today again? I missed the reason. And why am I your psychological punching bag today?” I said.

“Well, what about the other one who lives by you?” he said.

“I see him, but the physical interaction is very limited because I just can’t sleep with two different guys at a time. I just can’t. I prefer to have a lot of sex with one person versus some sex with a lot of different people,” I said.

“Oh, I could,” he said. “I like this 60-year-old billionaire who doesn’t think I know who he is, and then there’s this other young guy who’s really hot. Who would you go for, Apple?”

Most endearing moment:

Seeing Maria’s baby brother, who is my age, in his constable uniform, guarding Grandview property on Mount Washington during the fireworks. People stopped to ask him questions about where to stand for a good view and whatnot, and though it wasn’t his problem, he was amazingly sweet and helpful to everyone. It was so adorable. Maria and I gushed about it later that evening.

Most random moment:

Getting a phone call at 3:30 a.m. Sunday morning from Adam’s phone number, though it was actually some guy named Sharky, who was drunk at a bonfire in Bethel Park. Adam never calls at 3:30 a.m., so I answered thinking something was wrong. I got off the phone a number of times, but the phone calls didn’t stop till 5. Luckily I have a sense of humor and high tolerance for drunks. And it did bring back some funny memories from days when my high school friends and I had bonfires.

Most surprising moment:

Watching the fireworks without a boyfriend or boy-toy at my side and not feeling the least bit sad. That wasn’t the case four years ago when a group of single girls went to the Point to watch Pittsburgh’s infamous light show. In fact, I think one our friends was even suicidal before the night had ended. But she was also getting over a breakup. I didn’t feel weepy last year either, though. Maybe the romantic connotation associated with fireworks changes a little once you have children. It becomes less of a reason to cuddle and more of a reason to just...stare. I was leaning against the rail of a beautiful balcony of a Mt. Washington home. At one point, I thought I could reach out and touch them they felt so close. But I stood there kind of happy that I was independent on Independence Day.

Best moment:

Driving home from the fireworks, receiving text messages from all my favorite people and realizing how happy I am. I feel so blessed I can’t tell you. Cienna and I are both healthy, we have a nice home, we have each other, we know how to rebound, we know how important hope is. I’m confident I can be optimistic, hopeful and fun in just about any situation. My life isn’t perfect, and all the pieces of the puzzle haven’t come together yet, but it’s just how I’ve always wanted it. So even though I got beat up last week, I certainly wasn’t defeated.

Rough night

2005-06-30T17:16:00.000-04:00

I’ve gone to the bathroom a number of times today just to see if I can look at myself without crying.

I can’t.

The longest short-sleeve shirt I have still reveals two bruises on my right arm in the shape of the Dakotas. My left arm is worse. It’s a mix of horrendous shades--which Cameron always said should never be mixed together--that starts above my elbow and extends to the back of my shoulder.

There’s a lump on the back of my head near my neck where he punched repeatedly, and my back is littered with large and small black and blue marks.

My neck showed red fingerprints last night where he choked me, but they’ve since faded.

I suppose all the signs were there. But because he never hit me, I thought he never would.

I’ve never been more wrong.

Last night, every abusive, degrading word he ever spoke to me was channeled into bruises and bumps all over my body. From start to finish, it was only the length of a car ride from Carnegie to Mount Lebanon, but while he was hitting me I remember feeling like he’d never stop.

I definitely fought back.

But as he sits today without any badge of violence, I’m decorated from the neck down in shades of purple, cranberry and gray. It hurts to type, to sit upright, to breathe.

And I’m angry. Devastated. Scared--not that he’ll hurt me again, but whether or not I’ll get past this easily. Annoyed--because, as bad as it sounds, I just don’t have time for domestic violence this week. Relieved--as it seems for every bad guy, there’s one good one.

Thank you, Josh.

It’s funny, you know. I spent an entry or two hinting around that I couldn’t be with someone like Josh because he wants older things, more mature things, than I do. Maybe he’s a little too together for me, a little too good.

But it’s that kind of mature, good guy who you can call to pick you up from a bad situation. You can hand your cell phone over to a cop and know he won’t think differently of you as the officer tells him what happened.

He got there to pick me up as fast as he could, and when he did show up, he wasn’t weird. I wasn’t in the car for a second before I had my head in my hands crying, begging “Please just don’t look at me right now. My face is full of violence and mascara.”

“If that’s what you want, then I won’t look at you,” he said. “What DO you want?”

“I just want to be driven around with the windows down until the makeup dries on my face and I can’t feel the places where he punched me,” I said. “Think you can make that happen?”

“I have a full tank of gas, and if that runs out, I’ll buy more,” he said.

“How are you like this?” I said.

“Like what?” he said.

“So good all the time. Doesn’t it ever exhaust you to constantly be what everyone else needs?” I said.

“I don’t think of it that way. I’m not exhausted. I’m happy,” he said.

That illogically led me into:

“Yeah? Well right now I’m needy, and right now I need to do this,” I said, as I leaned over the console to rest my head on his shoulder.

He just picked up the shirt from the dry cleaners that morning. It was perfectly clean, starched and ironed, and he said it was perfectly OK if I cried mascara all over it.

“See that road there? It takes you to that park I told you about,” he said. “I used to live in that house there with a few buddies while I was in college. This was all covered during the flood.”

“I bet you tried to rescue everyone during the flood, didn’t you?” I said sarcastically.

“What pisses you off more right now? That you asked for help or that I’m seeing you cry?” he said softly.

Then we just drove on every road that leads into and out of Carnegie while I came to my senses. I dropped my attitude and decided it was OK to make myself vulnerable in that moment. It was OK to be needy. It was OK to just rest on his shoulder and listen to him give me a history lesson on the town we live in.

And I did get to see some great views.

“Josh, how do you drive a stick? Teach me,” I said.

There wasn’t much of a lesson. He just mentioned what gears are used in what situation and put his hand over mine on the shift.

We drove like that the rest of the way with him squeezing my hand as he shifted. Cute indeed.

And I thanked God that, while I was in the same space with a guy earlier who respected me so little he hurt me enough to attract nine police officers, there was a man with me later who respected me so much he was afraid of shifting in case he’d hurt my hand.

After traveling along what seemed like every road in Carnegie without the radio on--which is really unusual in my life-- and I yawned 80 times, he said, “You know, even if we go home, that doesn’t mean I have to leave. I can stay until you’re ready to be alone.”

This came from the same person I previously dismissed because he didn’t make me chase him enough or lure me with some fleeting, emotionless proposition. The guy I had been chasing hasn’t bothered to find out if I’m even OK.

“I can handle that,” I said.

We went inside. I paid the baby-sitter and sent her home. I couldn’t kiss Cienna good night though. I tried, but I didn’t want my face to touch her. And that made me cry. And when I cried I just wanted to be in comfy pajamas under warm blankets.

I changed my clothes, washed my face and walked into the living room looking as I never have in front of a guy I’m interested in.

But it was OK.

He sat up and I rested my head on his legs, attempting to stretch out on the couch only to end up in a ball. We started talking about his grandfather, and I became inspired to make a fort of pillows and blankets on the floor.

The floor was much better, and we cuddled and talked until 5 a.m. when I started to fall asleep because the sun was finally coming out. He got up and said he’d pick Cienna and me up in the morning. And before he left, he tucked me in and said he’d lock the door on his way out.

He even set my alarm just so I wouldn’t have to move.

This is the shit that counts. It’s not who creates the chase or best challenge. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Morning came entirely too soon, and everything hurt worse when I woke up--such is the case the day after anything bad. It kind of felt the way things feel when a loved one dies. The morning after confirms that they’re really gone, it really happened, and you can’t go back. It’s just gone.

I talked to Maria. I talked to Bill. I got a shower. I bathed Cienna. I somehow made it out of the house in time to make Josh only 15 minutes late for work.

But in the mix of everything last night, we left the carseat in my car, so Cienna and I had to get belted together this morning in Josh’s car. Cienna and Josh have met before, and they’re always charmed by each other. Today, though, she was laying it on thick. She counted to four twice for him and blew many kisses his way...even though we were only in the passenger seat.

Of course he had to show off and reveal that there was yet another way into Mt. Lebanon from Carnegie that I didn’t know about.

During the drive, I said, “So I bet this is the most bizarre 12 hours you’ve had in a long time.”

“It’s been different,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ll try to get beat up much earlier next time,” I said.

I left his car for mine, and the minute I sat in the driver’s seat and had to readjust the side mirrors to fit me, I cried. Everything was as it was the night before. Messy, broken, a little bloody.

So I listened to Howard Stern, rolled down the windows and just started moving.

I got to work to many “Are you OK?” emails from my friend Sue who was there for the beginning of last night and was questioned by the police. Then text messages came through from Josh, “Hows ur day going so far?”

“Well, nobody’s kicked my ass yet. So off to a good start.”

Then my friend Glenn brought over a CD for me. I’m not sure he even knows what happened, but he knew something did. It was not a mix. It was one song. “The Scientist” by Coldplay. One of my favorites.

But the thing about that song is it can make me cry even when nothing is wrong. Two seconds into it--literally--and I was sobbing in the bathroom.

“I love that song, Glenn, but it kills me. Know what I mean?” I wrote to him in an email.

“Yup...I do. But you need to let it out,” he replied.

He’s another good guy.

Maybe for every bad one, there are two good ones.

The day went on, full of pain, and I tried to walk it off. I tried to avoid “The Scientist” but couldn’t because it’s so bittersweet. And I can’t avoid anything bittersweet, especially if it makes me cry my eyes out.

Nobody really bothered me at work. I went to the bathroom to cry when I needed to. I went for walks to dry my eyes. I allowed myself to be upset about an upsetting event.

And then I allowed myself to call Mary Beth, which I hate to do when I have bad news. She’s so good that I hate to tell her anything bad. I asked for her help on Saturday, and of course she’ll be at my house first thing that morning.

My work day is ending now, and I need to pick up Cienna and go have an x-ray for the bump on the back of my head that may be causing other problems. I also have to have pictures taken of my bruises which have now formed.

Cienna and I will get home eventually, and when we do, Josh said he’d come back again if I need him to.

“I’m seriously just a block away. And I can stay away or I can come over. And if I come over, we can sit on opposite ends of the couch or lay next to each other. We can talk or say nothing at all...” he said.

“Stop. I get it. Maybe I’ll call you, but first I’m taking the longest bubble bath in the history of the world,” I said. “I’m going to be OK, you know?”

“You already are,” he said.

Bill

2005-06-28T16:41:00.000-04:00

I miss Bill like crazy.

We haven’t trained together in two weeks. I was unavailable for a weekend, he was at a competition in Florida for a weekend, and the stand-in just hasn’t done the trick.

I’ve even had ice cream. Twice. Chocolate inside of chocolate kind of ice cream. I’m typically a vanilla ice cream kinda girl.

His fill-in is named Jason, a level five trainer who is really hot in a white t-shirt and jeans. We have a very odd dynamic and it’s a long story why. I’m not telling that story. But it’s difficult for me to focus in front of him. Neither of us can really keep a straight face.

Bill is a level four trainer and a wonderful guy. He’s married to a former Miss Fitness Universe who is out competing again after just four months of giving birth to their son Joey. He’s a kickboxer also and runs his own ultimate fighting-type school. His mom raised him and his brother all on her own, and his older brother died at age 19. Bill never knew his dad.

And when I met him, I could just tell. I could tell he’d be the kind of man to fall madly in love with someone and devote his whole heart to her and his family because he never had that.

I got all that from watching him train another girl while I was on the elliptical. That was when I decided to take on his services. My heart told me that I could trust him, learn from him and change my life with his help.

I’m 10 times stronger since the day I met him.

Our sessions are never without laughter, encouragement and respect.

That’s not something I take for granted anymore.

Thursday

2005-06-27T16:44:00.000-04:00

Before I get into the harrowing subject of booty shaking, let’s first discuss my playlist (which is basically the antithesis to the booty shake):

Laid by James
Ramble On by Led Zeppelin
Yellow by Coldplay
I Want You by Third Eye Blind
Late at Night by Buffalo Tom
Only the Good Die Young by Billy Joel
Come On Eileen by Dexy’s Midnight Runners
Fast Car by Tracy Chapman
Smells like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
My My, Hey Hey by Neil Young
Captain Jack by Billy Joel
Fool in the Rain by Led Zeppelin
Motorcycle Drive By by Third Eye Blind
Clocks by Coldplay

It’s one of the best parts of my job, really. Having multiple playlists, not booty shaking.

The window seat is pretty cool, too. Then again, when haven’t I had a window seat in Pittsburgh?

This time I get to gaze at old building, inside one of which is a white cat. Sometimes the cat sits in a basket along one of three window ledges it can choose from. I always smile when I see this cat because it’s a very consistent part of my life. Odd maybe, but it’s so true.

There was a series of small, consistent things that made up my Point Park experience. For example, passing Kubi in the halls. Kubi and I weren’t friends. We knew each other, however, and said hello when we saw each other. But we didn’t have conversations. Our words were limited to “hello” basically.

So why, when I saw him on a Mount Washington street last Thursday, did I rush to him and give him a gigantic hug?

Probably because he was a memento of my old life, and seeing him was like unlocking a chest of fond memories from a time when all I had were feelings and dreams.

“Holy shit! Dave Kubisek. What the hell, dude?! How are you?” I said.

“Candy Gola. Oh my goodness. I haven’t seen you in years. You look different. It’s good. What are you doing these days?” he said.

I told him what I’ve been doing in three sentences or less, and he revealed that he’s teaching and coaching in Houston, Texas.

That dialogue alone marked more than we had ever said to each other in college and seemed reason enough to get a drink together.

Sidenote: There were two Spanish-looking men with him the whole time, but I didn’t hear them speak all night.

We ended up at Margarita Mama’s, which isn’t very me, but is very Kubi. It’s basically a warehouse of booty. I think there are eight bars in there, one dance floor, a deck and tons of drunk college girls with lollipops. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that...)

Thank God there were TVs with the basketball game on. We watched and reminisced about the days when I worked for Point Park’s best basketball team ever. Good times, good times. And yeah we laughed a lot.

He started telling me random shit and commented that I was always so easy to talk to.

“But you never told me anything. We never really talked before tonight,” I said.

Uncontested laughter.

“Other people told you everything though,” he said.

At that point it seemed like a fine idea to go to a back bar and see girls with lollipops.

I’m not sure what he saw. At 6’5” (or maybe taller), I’m sure he saw a lot.

I saw my favorite J dancing. He’s actually a really good dancer, but I couldn’t help but laugh. I thought he was at a concert.

The only concert in town I knew of that night was Def Leppard, so I was actually relieved to see him there dancing with cute girls.

Inner dialogue moment one: “Thank God I’m not hooking up with a Def Leppard fan.”

I was in the middle of text messaging Maria about it when suddenly he was in front of me ordering a drink. He mentioned something about them being stuck up and stupid, and all I could do was laugh.

Though I’m certain he had no idea why I was laughing.

We played cat and mouse for about 20 minutes before I got a text message that said, “i’m waiting for you in the parking garage.”

How could I resist a message like that, right? Come on, people!

Truth is, I knew when I got to the car it would be worth it.

And it was.

Lost files

2005-06-27T08:37:00.000-04:00

A week ago I had lunch with Ken. Ken lives up to his name in that he looks like the Barbie-doll Ken. He’s handsome, funny, nice, smart, married with children and my source. I’m thankful to have a platonic, professional relationship with someone of his caliber.

We discussed Father’s Day and how I’ve avoided it --successfully so-- my entire life. He has a four-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl, but he said he still spent his day spreading mulch.

“Ah, the joys of being a homeowner,” he said.

“So what else do you do in the summer, Ken?”

“Golf,” he said.

We started discussing how golf is a big networking and schmoozing tool in the sales industry, and that conversation led to stories about winter drinks versus summer drinks.

Yeah, we talked very little about the tech and telecom industries. But, as Ken said, “things are slow now.”

That’s when it really occurred to me--I hate when things are slow.

Yesterday was too slow for my taste. Today...slow so far.

I want fast-paced, wild, passionate experiences. That’s just who I am.

Let’s take this from a book perspective, shall we. I’m the queen of reading material. Not necessarily the queen of reading, but definitely the queen of reading material. My sitting room is full of options--fiction, non-fiction, periodicals, newspapers, cards, letters. Sometimes I’m in four or five different things at a time. There’s a certain chair I like to curl up in, read something, contemplate and move on.

I think I like my life the same way--especially when it comes to romance.

There was a time I was such a hopeless romantic that I was known to drive nine hours just to give someone a hug in Rhode Island. Surely the entire excursion was masked as an east coast road trip. But hugging an intellectual, brilliant, talented Italian was really what it was all about.

I used to take walks around the city at night and cry because Pittsburgh was so beautiful.

Quoting passages from classic romance films and novels (not the Mary Beth variety with names like “Thorn”) was second nature. My favorite line of all time is from “The Great Gatsby” when his personality is being compared to a machine that measures earthquakes. I’ve read it a hundred different times in a hundred different places, and each time it takes my breath away.

That’s half because it’s phenomenal fucking writing and half because it’s an amazing portrait of an amazing man.

But it’s a character. And even villains are written to be perfect and likable in some way.

Real people aren’t like that. I suppose we’re all heroes by our own right. You never know what’s in someone’s heart, after all.

I’m no longer so naive, though, that I expect people to be as flawless, enigmatic and captivating as those passages.

There are four guys in my life right now whose names all begin with the letter “J.” I’m certain I could hook up with all of them as they’ve pursued, but I choose to play with only one. There are many reasons why, but the most important one is I just can’t sleep with more than one person at a time.

Two are 29. One is 26. One is 24.

My M.O. these days relates best to 24, which is why I probably hook up with him. I have a lot in common with the others, but 26 is a little too boring for me and the 29s are one year from 30.

Thirty doesn’t scare me, and it’s not supposed to scare men, but both guys are restless. I almost want to fast forward until they’re 31 so they can relax again.

They talk about how they need to calm down because “you can’t party forever.” And they need to figure out what it is they want to do with their lives for the next 30 or 40 years. The topic of marriage comes up. Then children.

And I always end up going for water, pushing my chair back a little or moving further away on the couch.

Aren’t guys supposed to have this bugout when they’re 50?

I use to embrace all the things that now scare me.

I’m not sure why it scares me, and I don’t necessarily like it.

However, I’m not really willing to change it either.

This is just who I am right now.

When they start talking about settling down, I know they’re not asking me to settle down with them. But it’s just the thought of settling and permanence that freaks me out.

I refuse to settle. And permanence just isn’t part of my romantic resume right now.

I don’t like feeling locked in or that I’ve lost my sense of freedom.

I’m responsible for enough, I’m mature for enough other reasons.

When it comes to romance and passion, I want it to be fleeting, passionate and fast.

I guess that’s why I don’t golf, Ken.

Good news

2005-06-23T13:30:00.000-04:00

Allow me to gush.

One of my best friends, Maria, just got a choreography job with a New York film company. Not only is it wonderful that she’ll be dancing again--which has always been that girl’s soul--and creating amazing art, there’s one really great perk to the whole situation. However, I refrain from getting into all that for fear a Brit will have my head. So let’s just leave it at this: every week we have major girl talk sessions about boys whose last names end in “R.”

Cienna is not allergic to bees. She had her first bee sting, following an afternoon of running around the yard barefoot. Suddenly, she stood still--a very rare occurance--got the saddest look on her face, put up her best pouty lip and cried. After the stinger was out and she got a Dora bandaid, she was fine.

I may be going to Ft. Lauderdale soon--for two days.

Trainer Bill doesn’t want to kill me for hitting a wall. He’s hooked me up with J.C. while he’s out of town. J.C. is a level 5 trainer, so I’ll basically be getting my butt kicked.

Last night I laughed the most I ever have in one single day, but that’s a totally different story.

Sad day in the city

2005-06-21T19:12:00.000-04:00

The publisher of the Post-Gazette died.

Myron Cope retired.

I intend to drive to my favorite spot in the city later and cry. Briefly.

Six favorite songs RIGHT NOW

2005-06-21T19:10:00.000-04:00

As requested by Jocelyn...

1. Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan (right now and always)
2. Deathly by Aimee Mann
3. Ramble On by Led Zepplin
4. Clocks by Coldplay
5. Captain Jack by Billy Joel
6. Tenderness by General Public

The Js

2005-06-21T19:09:00.000-04:00

I’ve been swamped at work since last Friday, and the whole idea of being under the most deadline pressure I’ve felt in years had me so down yesterday. Sexy a.m. text messages from Best Ever (better known as Ja) weren’t enough to keep me perky at 5.

And I always miss Cienna at 5 on Mondays because I’m not picking her up at the children’s school. Instead, she was running through a sprinkler having the time of her life.

I was in such a foul mood that I rushed home--skipped the gym (which would’ve helped)--crawled under the blankets, cried and pouted.

When I was too wired to sleep, I stared at the ceiling, hating myself for not going to the gym, hating Ja for not sending sexy afternoon messages, hating the world for not revolving around me.

That’s when I remembered the words of an Indian man who probably hated me more in college than I’ve ever hated any of those other things.

“Oh my fucking shit,” he’d say in an Indian accent whenever a stressed mood striked.

Merely remembering those words had me laughing aloud. I called my friend Mary Beth, the college roomie who was most subjected to that same sentence from the same Indian man, and I laughed in her voice mail.

Then the other J, neighbor J (better known as J-O), text messaged me. This time it was not about white thread. It was about hot water, karate class and sore shoulders.

Inner dialogue moment one: Hmm...Both Js have really great shoulders.

We had a ridiculous text conversation that I refuse to write about or remember simply because this morning’s was so much better.

But then instead of the little annoying beep that sounds when I have a new message of any kind, the pleasant sound of “Clocks” by Coldplay sang to me as a phone call came through. That song plays when anyone calls, and I like the mystery of going to check who it is. I wouldn’t want a ring tone to give it away.

A-ha! It was J-A, on his way home from a long day of golf and schmoozing. Of course we were just going to have a quick conversation, during which he’d make me laugh several times, and both go to bed because our days were long. Of course we both needed to wake up early today. Of course we’d say goodbye quickly.

Of course he said he was going to come over for a little bit. Of course we reasoned that we could keep it brief.

It was at this point that J-O, who lives a mere block away, decided he should walk down so I could help him plan a children’s festival he’s volunteering his business expertise to. (I know. Isn’t it adorable. He’s an amazing guy, really. He’s on the board for four different charities, and he’s only 29.) I said it wasn’t a good time because my gay friend was coming over with a crisis.

I could’ve just said that I was getting company.

Why, Candy, why.

So J-A gets there. “How are you?”

“About to make you very happy,” I said.

You know, J-A is really wonderful too. He’s been through it, but he’s not bitter. Though he is overdue for some serious healing, and I like to help with that.

We stood in the doorway kissing for 15 minutes before one of us took a step.

I kept my word and kicked him out after about an hour and a half.

OK, two hours. (But, whatever because this is that really fun, euphoric, new stage. And as soon as it passes, so will he. That’s what this is.)

J-O would try to bring Coldplay to my house. He doesn’t spend days golfing--though he does schmooze. From the time he wakes up until he goes to bed,most of his life is dedicated to helping other people simply because he believes his life is pointless if he’s not using his talent to make somebody else’s life better. His biggest cause is multiple sclerosis, but he also sits on boards for battered women, children with physical disabilities, children with learning disabilities and he bikes for something too.

J-A is 24 and only five years separate the two, but they are two totally different lifetimes.

There’s no choice to be made, and nobody is asking me.

I’ve definitely done things with J-O the right way. We go night fishing. We talk. We’ve gradually gotten to know each other without alcohol, without sex. There’s tons of flirting, he’s met Cienna, we’ve both expressed interest, and he’ll come over tonight. The attraction between us is certain, but he’s not someone I’d ever be with until I was just as certain I’d no longer want someone like J-A stopping by randomly after golf.

I’ve definitely done things with J-A the wrong way. We hook up. We drink. We hook up. We flirt. We’ve gotten to know each other through promiscuity, beer and vodka. We’ve both expressed interest in hooking up. I’m sure he’ll be back before the week is over, as the attraction between us is also certain. But it’s the kind that doesn’t grow. It just fades.

The hook ups will grow farther apart until there are none. We’ll stop text messaging, and, at best, maybe we’ll see each other in a bar someday.

I know all of this. And I’m OK with all of it.

Because they’re both great. They’re both charming in their own ways. And they’re both attractive.

But when J-O comes in, we sit down and start talking. When J-A comes in, we stand up and start kissing.

And until that feeling goes away, J-O and I will just have to keep talking about charities.

Long, dangling earrings

2005-06-20T11:02:00.000-04:00

Let’s just give Friday night an A+ right now.

OK. Done. It’s out of the way now.

And I’m not saying why because I can’t. I just can’t talk about it. Except that I already told Maria yesterday morning. In fact, we talked about it for two hours--the A+, a certain Brit she knows and sunflowers. Oh, and I intend to give Joe full details because I’ve been giving Joe full details since I was 19. Yeah, and maybe I told Mary Beth a little about it briefly.

But they are best friends, so if I want to talk about an A+ with them I totally can. However, A+ details will never appear in a mass email or blog.

Best ever.

So Saturday...Ci Ci and I traveled to the country to visit my great aunt, cousins and Godchildren. And while it was nice, it seemed a bit unremarkable compared to less than 12 hours before. I glowed. I had trouble keeping a straight face. I was constantly two words away from telling my very Christian aunt things that could send her into a heart attack--or at least a 1960s hippie commune. And she was never a hippie.

When I got home, we both took naps. I fell asleep smiling and refusing to smell the pillow. I assured myself it was ridiculous to even have THAT PILLOW near me, so I put it in one of my closets. I woke up four hours later, gave Cienna dinner and a bath, and then we both slept some more.

Yesterday was the highlight of the weekend. Maria and I had a major girl talk session. I completely ignored the fact that it was Father’s Day, as I’ve successfully done for many years. Drove to the Mon Valley as I do most Sundays, had a conversation with Linda, Mark and the neighbors. By the way, the summer neighbors--the boating neighbors--are such cool people. Many of you probably remember me talking about them last summer.

The subject of work came up. Somebody asked me how I liked my beat--technology, telecommunications, education, work force development, labor unions--and that’s when it really hit me.

“I love it,” I said.

During the interviewing process, the editors had me pegged for manufacturing or health care--both huge beats in Pittsburgh. (Of all the beats I have now, education is the most active industry, and they thought I’d do best with that.) My editor was literally seconds away from having my business cards printed to indicate I cover health care, insurance and employee benefits. It was so up in the air that it just says “reporter” under my name on the cards.

If I had that beat however, I would not have been able to have fun Friday, last night or that which is slated for this evening. The conflict of interest policy is very strict here.

Then I went boating, flirted with disaster, went back to the city, drank some lemonade, met Aimee Mann...

I’m fortunate to have made friends with a WYEP guy in an elevator once. We’ve been elevator pals ever since. YEP hosted the music at the festival, and I went alone last night. Deliberately. When I spotted my pal, I naturally said hello.

“Hey, do you want to meet Aimee Mann? I think you’ll love her,” he said.

“Um, I already do, so yes,” I said.

Pal introduced me to her as “a writer, mother and great person to ride a slow elevator with.”

I was really unfazed by her talent and accomplishment for some reason. I really felt like I was just talking to a girl.

“Hi, I’m Aimee,” she said. “I like to think I’m a writer too.”

Undoubtedly, her writing has made more of a contribution than mine ever has.

“And those are really great earrings,” she said, reaching out to touch them.

“Candy always wears long, dangling earrings like that,” Pal said.

“Well, smart move. It’s a great look for you from what I can tell,” she said. “So what do you think I should play?”

Of course she’d play new stuff from “The Forgotten Arm” and already had a set list, but I entertained the question. She just wanted to see what I knew about her other stuff, I think. And she was being friendly.

“If I had to pick three I’d go with “Deathly”--my all-time Aimee Mann fave-- “Wise Up” and “You Could Make a Killing,” I said.

“Deathly” and “Wise Up” are both from the “Magnolia” soundtrack, and “You Could Make a Killing” was before all that.

She played “Wise Up” early on, and “Deathly” closed the show.

We talked briefly about when I first heard those songs and how they made me feel, we talked about perseverance and, again, the earrings.

When I said goodbye, she kissed me on the lips and cheek and thanked me for coming. (It wasn’t Madonna-Brittany. It was very hippie-like.)

The concert was great, and I was so happy that I went alone. I needed that.

On my way home, I listened to a mixed CD and smiled. There was so much to smile about, and everything else would just work itself out.

My Carnegie interrupted my daydreams to ask if I had any white thread.

“Josh, I’m driving. Why do you need white thread at 9:30?” I said.

“I need to hem my karate pants,” he said.

This is his latest activity. He does absolutely everything. He works for a tech company Downtown--which is why we only talk about things like thread at night--and he’s involved in many charities. My theory is that he’ll one day run for some kind of office.

We continued text messaging until I fell asleep, freezing because I forgot to deprogram my central air before the concert.

Something woke me up at 1:41 a.m., and I noticed four text messages on my phone. I assumed they were all from Josh, but I read them anyway. Two from Josh. Two from A+.

I peed and tried to go back to sleep. I couldn’t. I read, but I only became more annoyed.

So I returned the text messages from A+--hey, they were inviting.

This morning, two more from him woke me up. We had a brief text chat before we both got showers and started our days.

It will be very interesting to see how this day ends.

But for now I’m just enjoying being treated by a guy--who’s just 24--with more respect and maturity than I thought possible. He’s just a great human being.

So far.

Which awards him the benefit of the doubt in any and all situations. Though I have no reason or place to doubt him. I mean, I’ve only really known him for a little more than two weeks.

I’m just enjoying things as they naturally happen.

Oh, and I’m having a fantastic time!

Napoleonic bee

2005-06-15T16:05:00.000-04:00

When I met Cameron, he had a white living room. White furniture, white carpeting, white walls. Of course there were lavish floral arrangements and gold trim accenting the room. And all of the decorations screamed, “Don’t break anything or get something dirty.”

It was very museum-esque to me. Perhaps my taste wasn’t yet refined, but nothing about it seemed like what a home would be.

Maybe it really was a house to him then--one he could decorate fabulously.

Now he’s done so much more with the space he’s in. Versace is somehow part of every room--especially his closet, which he busted out of years ago. Again, everything is expertly decorated and expensively put together.

But the personal and professional changes he’s made have truly created a home instead of four walls with a business office.

Yet because it’s not just an average house with an average office, I was quite nervous to take my 19-month-old daughter there for the first time. Cienna hasn’t quite mastered delicacy and grace. Despite her many attempts at ballet, she often still stumbles into things, knocks them over, puts them in her mouth, takes her shoes off, puts them in her shoes, colors them and puts them back in her mouth.

Other people who spend time with children recognize this as the norm.

So I had no idea how I would ever explain this behavior to a man who thinks stocking stuffers are the jewelry industry’s highest-priced diamonds.

Much to my surprise, however, he was completely taken by Cienna.

In the past 10 years, I’ve never seen him take a real break--especially at home. But when Cienna was there, he put work aside (sort of) and spent time showing her his outdoor waterfountain that spills into a fish pond. She loved it, of course, as she loves all fountains, and he couldn’t stop watching her love it.

It was very sweet and very touching to see him show that side of his personality I’ve always known was there. The part of life that really motivates him has always been showing someone else beautiful things. I sometimes refer to it as his Santa Claus complex.

And Cienna looked at him as most children look at Santa Claus--with trust, excitement and hope.

I’ve known him since puberty, but she just met him for the first time last month. Before then he said he was scared to meet her because he “might like her too much.”

He invited us to his place this past Saturday and we may visit him again this weekend as well.

The first time Cienna and I went there, we spent a lot of time running around in his beautiful garden. It went smoothly, but for the fact she picked a few flowers and assumed she could put them back.

Last time we were there, we hung out inside, mainly in the office. She played with some toys I keep in the car for her. (OK, truth be told, if you’ve ever seen my backseat, “some” is a gross understatement.) But her favorite thing to do was rummage through his expensive swatches of fabric and decor.

She may have even wrinkled a blueprint or two and slobbered on his invoices.

Instead of flipping out or being upset, he said he was thrilled that she went for the nicest stuff.

Best dialogue:
Cameron: “Apple, that’s a Napoleonic bee she’s running around with.”
Me: “Hmm. Will it stunt her growth?”

He did his best to charm her back, including buying her chicken nuggets--which definitely won her approval.

“Thank you for coming over,” he said. “Really, it’s been so great having her around. She really lightens things up, makes them fun again. I bet she’s great company for you.”

“It’s true,” I said. “With her, it’s sort of like re-discovering the world.”

The sky is falling

2005-06-14T19:50:00.000-04:00

It's raining in Pittsburgh.

And it's beautiful.

The light casts a glow on the buildings that make them all seem like mirrors, and the Golden Triangle starts to look like Gotham City.

It's a view that's often missed, but I love it.