On the Mountain - Part II

The lodge at the bottom of the north face of Mont Tremblant is surprisingly smaller then expected and sparsely furnished. It does not maintain the same sense of chaotic activity found at the top of Mont Tremblant or swirling around the restaurants and shops at the bottom of the south face. The large porch is empty of activity, as any warmth from the sun is offset by the bitterly cold wind.

I stopped at the small cafeteria to purchase yogurt, a cookie, a bottle of water. My appetite for the cookie disappears once I discovered that it was 400 calories and I was only able to eat 1/4 of it. I sat at one of the tables lined up against a row of windows, warmed by the sun, watching groups of skiers and snowboarders coming off the mountain and onto the lifts to reach the top once again.

I was alone. I was tired and keenly aware of the soreness in my ankles. With no shuttle available to take me back to the resort proper, I would have to take the lift back up to the top and board down the south face.

I am wary of lifts, having been hit on the back of the head by a chair when an attempt to get off one on a baby slope* went awry and falling off one while attempting to get in the chair, resulting in a mild concussion and a sore neck when my head hit the boards underneath the chairs. A deep breath, tighten my boots back up, strap myself back into the board and onto the lift. Struggle for several moments to get the safety bar down across my lap, out of the way of my board.

The ride up was long, the wind was harsh, the weight of the board dragged on my leg and they tired from dangling for so long without any support. My hands began to alternate between tingling and numb. A careful examination of my gloves revealed small holes on the sides, near the fingertips. Midway through the trip the lift slowed to a stop and I sat there, chair swinging in the wind, hoping that the lift would start back up and wondering how hard the ground was if I had to jump.

Off at the top, back onto the slopes. Fall shortly after getting off the lift and must quickly drag myself out of the way of the group coming off the chairs behind me. They cheer, relieved at my presence of mind to get out of their way.

Hands freezing, out of my bindings, inside the lodge to purchase some gloves. More sunlight pours through the window and inside is bustling. The gloves are expensive and made more so by the inclusion of a 2% resort tax on top of the 5% regional and the 7.5% provincial tax.

Retrieve board from the seemingly miles of racks of boards and skis in front of the lodge. Carry to a gentle slope and struggle to strap in - the bindings are new Flow bindings and I'm still learning how to set the straps properly and step in and out of them without falling over.

Once strapped in, I noticed that my left boot is tight, a painful sensation of a metal band clamping and digging into the front of my ankle. I take my foot out of the bindings, readjust and step back into the bindings. Still painful.

Fifteen minutes later and I'm still in pain and I still need to get down the mountain. I finally set off and begin the cycle of falling and getting back up all over again. The conditions on the south face slopes have deteriorated from use and the surface is rough and pebbly.

Getting back up becomes excruciating, the left boot digs painfully deep into my leg every time I try to get back to my feet, and the pain makes it more difficult to get back up. I become increasingly tired and must stop often. I can not get enough momentum going and must stop, unstrap my bindings and walk because the surface is too flat for forward movement.

In the end. I must hike down the last trail, difficult to do boots designed to fully limit motion in the foot and ankle. I am not alone, as I have run into J and his brother again. J takes my board from me and insists on carrying the rest of the way down.

I am exhausted when I reach the bottom. My body trembles and my ankles ache. We sit for a while in a café decorated to look like a Parisian corner bar. I eat a brownie and drink hot tea and talk to two residents of Tremblant.

On Friday J hands me a small bag containing one blue and one red Mont Tremblant. I take a moment to carefully apply a sticker to my board. I earned this one.

On the Mountain - Part I

I've had a difficult time finding the energy to sit down and write about my ride down the mountain. My left ankle is still sore, a souvenir from my recent trip to Quebec. I felt a strange, painful popping sensation earlier this evening, which makes me suspect that I may have done more damage then garden variety shin splints. J claims that spending all afternoon and a good portion of the evening sitting on the floor while constructing a Lego house is the cause and that I will be fine in the morning.

We split the drive over two days on the way up to Mont Tremblant. Day one was uneventful and included a stop in Wilkes-Barre to see the Baby Penguins play. Day two included an errant GPS, resulting in a ferry ride across the mostly frozen Ottawa river, a drive through the backwoods of Quebec and a surprise viewing of the Steelers game.

I only made two runs down Mont Tremblant, one down the north face, one down the south, both on the same day. I did not plan on making only two runs, but in a moment of forgetfulness I went down the wrong (north) face and was forced to return to the top and make a second run down the correct (south) facet

As I am an extremely inexperienced snowboarder, the first run took forty-five minutes and included frequent stops and falls on a mixed of groomed powder and pebbly ice pellets. By the time I reached the bottom of the face (and realized I had come down the wrong side) I was sweating, wet and my ankles ached.

In need of a break before getting back on the lift, I made my second, more fatal mistake of the day, and loosened my boots.

Stay Tuned...

Photos and commentary from Quebec trip coming soon. Right now I'm still recovering from driving all night.

How to Snowboard

1. Fall off while attempting to get off ski lift. Hit head on boards, end up with concussion. Stop snowboarding for six years.
2. Six years later... agree to go on ski vacation with spouse.
3. Buy a pair of barely used boots (Boots A) and bindings off of eBay.
4. Purchase a used snowboard, bindings and boots (Boots B) from spouse's boss.
5. Go to nearby, family-style ski resort offering free passes, to practice.
6. Put on Boots A.
7. Walk around.
8. Practice maneuvering snowboard with one foot out of binding.
9. Discover metal-band-digging-into-ankle sensation is unbearable and sit down in the snow to pull boots off feet.
10. Watch as spouse re-laces and reties boots.
11. Cry when spouse glares at you after almost fall over him while is is re-lacing boots.
12. Put boots back on. Walk around. Continue maneuvering with one foot out of bindings.
13. Experience return of metal-band-digging-into-ankles sensation. Decide sensation is unbearable. Unlace top of boots, stow board and walk back to the car.
14. Switch out Boots A for Boots B.
15. Walk back up to resort. Retrieve board. Head towards baby slopes.
16. Skip escalator and walk to top of slope.
17. Push self up into standing position.
18. Begin down slope.
19. Fall down.
20. Push self back up again.
21. Continue cycle until reaching bottom of slope. Trudge back up hill.
22. Repeat.

Lately

I've been feeling angry, impatient and I'm having difficulty maintaining control. I'm struggling to determine where these emotions are coming from and how best to deal with them.

Actually, I know why I'm feeling the way I am. I'm having trouble letting go of the reasons.

Unfortunately, this is the exact combination of volatility that makes me withdraw and pushes me into depression. Intellectually knowing this does not make it any easier to cope.

I Know Everyone has Seen this Video...

But I found a version that puts the whole interview in its appropriate context. I especially liked the part at the beginning of the proclamation when she "deem[s] this fowl creature worthy of a pardon".

Fowl. Foul. Get it? Hee.

You Know...

I was going to go off on a rant about the latest asinine comments coming out of the Vatican via the mouth of Cardinal Stafford, but I don't have enough energy to give it the proper take down it deserves.

Except to say that describing President-Elect Obama as "apocalyptic" is about as loud of a dog whistle as I have heard coming out of the church in a long time.

I Cave

And go vain for one post. Because I've got nothing else to talk about right now. The temperature went from sixty to thirty overnight and there is snow on the ground.

I intentionally went shopping in a mall on Sunday. One of those old fashioned enclosed structures that sells overpriced goods and services. I was lured. Because this was no ordinary mall. This was the mall of high end shops extraordinaire. Nordstrom's, Kate Spade, Burberry and Tiffany's. Yes, a Tiffany's in a suburban Pittsburgh mall!

It was the promise of a merino and model blend sweater (on sale!) from Martin + Osa, and a well fitting undergarment (most emphatically not on sale) from Nordstrom's that lured me in. The scent of fresh Louie Vuitton leather, a comfortable overpriced beanbag chair from LoveSac (The BigOne is large enough to use as a bed), the sparkling diamonds at Tiffany's.

I tried on clothes. I wandered. I spent too much money on unmentionables. I resisted Godiva chocolates and factory cheesecake. It felt like a vacation.

It was a vacation of sorts, as I try to spend as little time as possible in malls. I exclude the cutting of my hair at a Regis salon in the mall near my home because A. I get my hair cut far less often then the industry standard of every six weeks, B. Regis is less expensive then the majority of independent stylists in the Pittsburgh area and C. I've had my hair done at Regis salons in cities all over the United States and had a positive experience at every single one of them. Which I can not say about a certain Pittsburgh based chain who consistently and without fail butchered my hair every single time I visited. The final straw cut was so awful that I walked into a Regis the next day and paid full price for a stylist to fix it.

And when I was finished, I got in my car and drove across town during the Steelers game. Because as any self-respecting resident of this city knows, the best time to go anywhere in the city and get there quickly is during a Steelers home game. Although a true Pittsburgh resident would not be running errands. They would be glued to their television or freezing in their nosebleed seats at Heinz Field.

David Byrne as Minor Deity and the Cat Came Back

I say upfront that my ability to form coherent, interesting sentences seems to have taken a holiday with the last round of viruses. I hope for the return of my full facilities soon, as this odd feeling of dullness is becoming an irritant in my life. I can not seem to create or comprehend the world around me.

J and I went to see David Byrne at the Carnegie Music Hall in Oakland on Friday night. We stopped to have a drink at the Panther Hollow Inn, half a sandwich at Camille's and a short stroll through the neighborhood before the show.

Stopping at PHI was a bad idea. As the majority of PHI's sales are in the form of stiff drinks and beer, smoking is not only permitted (due to an exception in the law), it is actively encouraged. Unfortunately this last round of virus', which started with a case of food poisoning and evolved into step throat + a massive sinus infection with a finish of bronchitis have lowered my tolerance for cigarette smoke to z.e.r.o. As I have spent the better part of the last four weeks at home, forgoing the gym, outings with friends and hockey games, I'm not very keen (what a quaint word, "keen") to be sick again anytime soon. My list of tolerable venues grows ever shorter as an increasing number of bars and restaurants in the Pittsburgh area apply for an exception to the smoking ban.

Bah.

We wandered briefly around Oakland. It was warm and the streets were crowded with students and fellow concert goers. The city is celebrating it's 250 Anniversary with a Festival of Lights and some prominent Oakland buildings were lit with abstract designs and film of wild animals in hotel rooms. On our way to the hall a couple asked us for directions and I resisted the impulse to send them to the Carnegie Music Hall in Homestead instead. Submitting to my better angel did little to aid the large number of attendees who confused the two venues and arrived after the show was well underway. Late enough for Byrne, to note their arrival in between songs.

David Byrne as minor deity, attired in white shirt, white pants and white shoes to match his toned down (but still slightly flamboyant) white pompadour hair. The band, backup singers and dancers were also dressed completely in white, which lent an on-vacation-resort-wear vibe to the evening.

Oakland's Carnegie Music Hall is a tiny, high, tight venue used mostly for lectures. The music reverberated through the hall, filling it with sound without feeling too loud. The temperature rose quickly, from the heat of so many bodies packed so close together and I could see how uncomfortable the band was by the end of the show.

My favorite part was the end, watching the expressions of pleasure and disbelief cross his face as he listened to the applause from the audience, completely in the moment.

As for poor kitty, she is back at home, perfectly healthy (in better health than myself actually) and pain-free after a through cleaning and extraction of her lower left canine tooth, which had a lesion large enough to expose the nerve.

The Day After

I'm tired this evening, after staying up until 1:30 am to watch the remaining returns and the speeches. I don't think I have fully processed the enormity of what we, as United States citizens, have achieved by electing Barack Obama as our president.

When I logged into my email this morning I had two messages from non-American friends.

“Congratulations. Well done. Lot of work ahead” one wrote.
“Yes, yes there is” I replied.

I voted in my fifth Presidential election yesterday. J and I woke early and were in line to vote at 6:50 A.M. I passed the time before polls opened entertained by the looks of shock and dismay on the faces of poll workers and voters. They were surprised by the line.

There were three electronic voting machines available for use in my precinct. At 7:00 am the polls opened. At 7:05 one of the three machines broke down. At 7:10 I was at a machine, reading through my options.

I waited a few moments before pressing the vote button at the top of the machine.

Riding the buses into downtown and Squirrel Hill, I saw Obama supporters standing on street corners, holding enormous Obama/Biden 2008 signs and cheering. Cars honked as they passed by. The sun was shining and the spirits of the people out on the street was high for so early in the morning.

I went outside after lunch for a short walk. Instead of tension, the mood was festive, almost holiday-like. Young college students walked the streets proudly sporting I Voted Obama/Biden 2008 stickers.

It was dark when I left work, yet there were even more people out on the street, eating Ben & Jerry's ice cream. The bus stop was as crowded as I have ever seen it, enough people to fill two buses completely.

Instead of thinking about the election outcome, I thought about the Festival of Lights and wondered if the Cathedral of Learning was lit up. It was not, but the outside of the Carnegie Museum of Art sported a moose wandering across the facade.

Determined to stick to my media blackout plan, I stopped at the gym and went for a swim.

The plan lasted until 10:00 pm. J, curious about the results, pulled up CNN.com and began reading returns and projections to me out loud. Around 11:00 pm the Daily Show called the election for Obama and we switched to CNN to watch the speeches.

And I sat, stunned, until almost 1:30, watching the footage of U.S citizens celebrating in the streets.

Extraordinary.

I Can't, But You Can

David Bryne sent me an email. A bulk email, but an email nonetheless.

I'm so weirdly excited by this that I'm a little bit stupid right now. So stupid that I answered it. I know he will never read it, but felt as if I needed to reassure him that someone was listening.

From David Byrne:

I Can't, But You Can

Pardon the bulk mailing. I Can't Vote. I am an immigrant with a Green Card and, therefore, I am not eligible to vote in a federal election. FYI - I can get drafted (luckily, Daniel Berrigan burned my draft board's records) and I pay taxes, yet I cannot vote for President. On Election Day, I see my neighbors heading to the nearby elementary school to cast their ballots. The voting booth joint is a great leveler; the whole neighborhood - rich, poor, old, young, decrepit and spunky - they all turn out in one day.

But most of you can vote. What can I say? The Republicans have made us less safe than before 9/11, bankrupted this economy, started an illegal war they can't - and don't intend to - finish, removed what sympathy (after 9/11) and respect the world had for the US, and have robbed US citizens of many of their basic rights. Global warming? What's that? Science and education? Investment in our future? No, thanks - we'll stick with a good 'ole hockey mom. Ignorant, and fucking proud of it, as is always the case.

Although it looks like a shoo-in, it ain't over 'til Florida. And there are plenty of racists in this country who will vote against their own best interests. So please, get to your local elementary school, post office, town hall, or whatever, and cast your vote and make this a country we can all be proud of. We can get out of this mess, and life can be better than it is.

David Byrne
NYC

Apparently...

I have the face of a sixteen year old girl. At least that is what the (much younger) ticket seller at Loews seemed to believe, as he asked for identification before selling me two passes to Zach and Miri Make a Porno. J laughed while I showed my driver's license and paid for the tickets. And he continued giggling all the way into the theater.

On a side note, I have to share how much I love how Spielberg begins the opening scenes of Schindler's List. From the Germans collecting the names of Jewish citizens, to Oskar Schindler collecting names of SS officers in the club, the transition between drinking songs to the music and marching of war. The entire tone of the movie, the study of contrasts between poverty and decadence, the banality of evil, the increasing tension, all of these things and more are why I love this movie so very much.

Poor Kitty

I'm gearing myself up, mentally, for the well deserved tongue lashing I will receive from my cat's veterinarian when I call tomorrow to schedule an appointment for the oldest feline, Lucy Snowe*. Poor kitty has an infected tooth, needs a cleaning and has not been to the vet in three years.

In my defense, all three cats spend 100% of their time indoors, are very healthy (infected tooth notwithstanding) and have been taken to an open clinic to be vaccinated against rabies.

Same poor kitty is now hiding underneath the guest room bed, slightly woozy from the painkiller and very unhappy with with me for administrating the painkiller and antibiotic. The emergency vet prescribed the drugs to ease the infection in her tooth and to dope her up enough that she forgets it hurts when she eats. I caught her at the water bowl this morning and I'm going to put out some soft food to tempt her later today.

In the grand scheme of things, obsessing and spending considerable sums of money** on a thirteen year old, six pound Turkish Angora mix is a bad idea. With the economy diving ever closer to the bottom, I should be concerned about my retirement instead of squandering money on a cat. In fact, I should be embarrassed that I'm about to spend as much money as a month's rent to make sure that she feels better.

But I'm not. I'm thankful. I'm thankful that most of my friends are pet owners who understand the emotional benefit of outlaying large sums of cash to keep their feline and canine family members healthy. I'm thankful to have had so many years with a companion who serves as an anchor between my life as a single graduate student and my life now.

Like Lisa, I have looked at Lucy recently and realized that she is beginning the end of her life. At some point in the next several years I am going to have to make the painful decision to let her go. I'm not looking forward to that moment, to losing one of the constants of my life. But living creatures are never constant. Whether cat or dog or bird or human being, they grow, change and eventually leave us.

*Why yes, I'm a fan of Charlotte Bronte. Why do you ask?
**Cleaning a cat's teeth is expensive as they must be fully sedated with general anesthesia for the procedure.

Remedies

Remedy 1:

The waning days of this campaign have been tiresome. As Pennsylvania slips in and out of battleground status, the McCain ads have become increasingly negative and the rhetoric I am hearing has made me almost glad that my current battle with a massive sinus infection has stuffed my ears to the point that I barely hear myself speak, much less anyone else.

But I have found a remedy to the rhetoric. Every time I hear or read something completely asinine, I give money to the Obama campaign. I've only been doing this since October 10 and I have only made three donations, yet I feel as if I am doing something to combat the assholeness swirling around me.

My first donation came in the guise of a $15.00, long sleeved, Obama 08 campaign t-shirt. This purchase was precipitated by my accidental involvement in an email thread wherein the originator of the thread sent a link to a pro-Obama article, but forgot to BCC the recipients. As I was disinterested in a flame war, I sat back and practiced deep breathing in an attempt to lower my rising blood pressure. Yes, I should have hit the delete button, but I could not bring myself to look away from the train wreck.

It was the last message of the thread that provoked me to walk across the street to the Squirrel Hill Obama campaign office and purchase the t-shirt, as the sender stated “he looks good when he stands next to McCain on TV, and plenty of women will vote for him”.

Nice to know that a complete stranger has such a low opinion of women. The ritual of purchasing the t-shirt and chatting with the staff was soothing. “I know you are a Democrat” one staffers remarked as I waited behind a couple of middle aged women purchasing yard signs. “Because Democrats are patient, and you have that patient look about you”.

Fifteen dollars to Obama.

My second purchase was yesterday. Sick of the negative ads and given an opportunity to do a good deed, I trundled across the street to the campaign office, purchased $20.00 worth of swag in the form of a t-shirt, rally sign and buttons (including a “Steelers fan for Obama” pin) and mailed the entire bundle to a child in Canada.

Donation three came tonight, on the heels of one of my coworkers commenting that a vote for Obama was a vote for communism. Or was it socialism? The conversation began innocently enough, with him asking us if we were as ready for the election to be over as he was. Then it veered into crazy territory.

Presumably I will receive a special edition car magnet and possibly a t-shirt for my donation. When I suggested that I affix the magnet to a hidden spot on my right wing conservative B-I-L's car, as some sort of reverse voodoo curse, J rolled his eyes.

My only regret is that I did not do this sooner. I could have picked up a sterling silver Obama charm. Unfortunately, the website is sold out.

Remedy 2:

In addition to campaign fatigue, I have a sinus infection. Not just a little infection, but a full blown, head stuffing, ear clogging, sore throat, slowly losing my voice and developing a cough infection. So massive that I broke down and started taking full doses of day and night time cold medicines in the hope of mitigating some of the symptoms. I'm drinking so much water and herbal tea that I'm only sleeping three hours maximum at a stretch because that is the longest I can go without needing to use the bathroom. And I worry that one night I will not be able to wake up on time.

And none of it is working all that well. The cold medicine takes almost an hour to kick in and the effects last far less than the four hour claim on the box and makes me sick to my stomach. I'm having a little more success dealing with the sore throat with periodical doses of ibuprofen, but worry about how much damage I'm doing to my liver. The anesthetic throat drops are not all that numbing.

So tonight, in a last effort to bring myself some relief, I elected to experiment with a home remedy known as “irrigating the sinuses”. In other words, I shot warm saltwater up my nose.

I would not call it the most unpleasant experience, but the feel and taste of warm saltwater dripping down my throat into my mouth does not rank as the end all/be all of fun times. It did nothing to ease the pressure in my left ear, but did leave a pleasant tingling sensation and an urge to sneeze.

Eighteen

I had jury duty a few weeks ago. I learned something from jury duty.

I learned that that as much as I think that I believe in the idea of presumptive innocence, I can't practice it in some situations. There is a limit to my ability to put my personal experience and assumptions aside when asked to sit in judgment on another human being.

Such as when the defendant is accused of sexually assaulting, with penetration, his very young daughter.

When the clerk read the charges out loud, he finished by acknowledging the heinous nature of the charges and asking the jury pool if anyone had reservations about serving in an impartial manner.

My hand went up immediately. One of fifteen or twenty out of a pool of close to fifty potential jurors. I felt sick inside.

I was potential juror number four. Sitting in the front row.

When called, I walked up to the desk and sat down, said hello. Looked at the district attorney and the defense attorney straight in the eye. Could not bring myself to look at the defendant.

My interview with the attorneys was one question long. The defense attorney asked me what prejudice I had, I replied with a single sentence.

"Because I was sexually assaulted when I was eighteen".

I was immediately excused.

I rarely talk about what happened to me when I was eighteen and I don't intend to do so here. But I realized, sitting in that room, listening to those charges, that I am still giving too much mental and emotional real estate to a man who does not deserve it.

Some things are not easily forgotten.

I also want to believe that I did the correct thing by being honest, that I gave the defendant a better chance at a fair trial. But there is no nobility in prejudice, especially when the guilt or innocence of another human being is at stake.

Since that day in the jury selection room, I have combed the newspapers, trying to find out what happened to the defendant. Did he get a fair trial? Was he exonerated or found guilty?

And did I do the right thing?

Fall Stories

1. I have the coolest doctor, ever. Bad allergies lead to significant breathing problems, which lead to a sinus infection, which lead my doctor to prescribe a steroid based inhaler, a course of antibiotics, an order to see an allergist and a set of instructions on how to make my home and office environment more bearable until it gets cold enough to kill all the remaining pollen.

The cool part came when she looked me straight in the eye and told me that I had to reduce the total number of books in the bedroom to three. When I looked at her in total shock (I had eleven books stacked next to the bed at the time of our conversation) she laughed and said "I have the best patients. Every patient I have given that instruction to has looked at me the same way you are looking at me right now."

2. Early darkness seems to have drawn the slightly eccentric out of their homes and out on to the streets, to linger at bus stops lecturing their fellow citizens about proper deportment on the streets.

I missed the initial incident that led to two black women lecturing a young, drunk, black man about the proper way to conduct himself as a salesperson on the street. (Bear with me. There is a point to identifying their race). As I approached the shelter I noticed that one of the women was smoking, so I elected to stand outside the shelter. But it was drizzling and I wanted to continuing reading one of the thirteen books (obviously I have not followed doctor's orders yet) that reside next to my bed, so I slipped inside the shelter and sat down next to the young man.

And was promptly assaulted by the distinct smell of beer. He was well on his way to drunk.

But he sat quietly while the two women lectured him, even when one of them said that his sales technique, which consisted of him saying "hey sweet baby, c'mere, I have some DVDs for youuuu" would scare white women like myself and a second woman standing in the shelter. *

Shortly after this statement, a bus came and took the two black women away. The young man slurred an apology for possibly scaring us, then tried to sell us a dvd. Failing that, he tried to get fifty cents off of us.

More buses started to pull up, three in a row. Mine was the third. As the first two pulled away, I noticed the third was not pulling up to the stop, so I began walking towards it. As I got closer I could hear the female driver shout for us to speed up and get on, before she was forced to let our young, drunk friend onto the bus.

I was shocked when she shut the door in his face and pulled away from the stop. Shock turned to relief when she explained (and other passengers verified) that he had been drunk, disorderly and had refused to pay the last time he rode her bus.

*Her exact phrase as she was explaining it to him, "No offense to you women; but if you talk like that a white woman, she is going to be afraid of you..."

A Collection of Random Randomness

1. Crazy people who argue about whether the dinosaur statue in Oakland is a rhinoceros or not make me edgy, especially when they attempt to involve me in their debate (thank you iPod with Bose in-ear headphones!) This pair rides my bus quite often, always sits in the last pair of seats in the back on the left-hand side and somehow believes that periodical ejaculations of "come awhnn" and "move bus, move" will make the bus go faster.

2. I think I witnessed a performance piece from my office window this morning. Across the street a group of college students took over a parking space, rolled out a section of fake turf carpet, set up a plastic table and chairs and a cast iron and wood park bench and proceeded to hang out in the space, playing cards, talking and entertaining visitors. I found myself wondering a. if they had put money in the meter and b. how they managed to score a parking space on Forbes Avenue in Squirrel Hill at noon-ish.

3. This afternoon on my way back downtown I actually listened to a young woman end every sentence with a question? Like this? You know? She was like, really into photography? And going to take pictures of a game on Sunday? And maybe [her friend] should come along?

4. Happiness really is a warm, purring, headbutting, cuddly kitty. And an empty house.

5. Chris Maverick.*

*He knows what this means.

Hockey Season

It is uncomfortably warm today, a bookend to yesterday's high humidity. The air is deeply saturated with pollen, making my over medicated self (inhaler + antihistamine/asthma pill) barely north of miserable. It has been one of those days when my clothes don't seem to fit properly – the bras are too tight, the t-shirts too small, the pants too snug. I could put on the same clothes tomorrow and everything will fit fine. Today though, I am uncomfortable.

J and I gathered with the rest of our merry group of Penguins fans last night to split up the season tickets. Every year I am amazed at how civilized it is. We sit around a table, order food and alcohol and proceed to calmly negotiate who will get each game. Every year every one at the table walks away happy.

There are some rules. D and B get the season opener, as they hold the account and must deal with the hassle of paying for the tickets. J and I usually get the last home game, as we buy in for the most number of games (15 this year). B also likes to attend any game that is giving away a bobble head doll, but willing to trade those games away in exchange for us giving one of the dolls to her. I love seeing all the Leafs fans in the Igloo, so one of the two Leafs games goes to J and myself every year. Everything else is open for discussion.

This year is a little bit different, as we initially gave up both Leaf games because of prior commitments. Ironically, one of those commitments fell through less than 18 hours after the ticket split, so now I am emailing and pleading for the October 18th game back.

Also different this year was the number of cross conference games we will be attending. The NHL adjusted to the schedule to ensure that each team plays every other team in the league at least once. So J and I will not only (hopefully) be attending our annual Leafs game (same conference, but whatever), we will also have an opportunity to see the Penguins play against Los Angeles, Minnesota, Edmonton and Calgary.

And, painfully, the Detroit Red Wings. J and I may sell the tickets to that one. It is not the Hossa deal. I still think that anyone who believed for a second that he would stay with the Penguins after the end of the season needed to step outside and get some fresh air. And stay outside until their head cleared. However long it would take.

I still believe it was a bad trade that netted zero long term prospects for success and resulted in the loss of two excellent forwards in Christensen and Armstrong.

Putting all of that aside, the most painful part of losing to the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals (because they were the better team) was that Ty Conklin could not find one damn team willing to pay him more more money then... Detroit.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

My Faith in Humanity...

...of the personal and the universal has taken a beating in the past week. So much so that I actually lost my normal reserve of self control towards friends of other political persuasions and called a Republican acquaintance a “raving lunatic asshole” after reading his “Democrats hate women” crack on Facebook. My friend took the full text of my comment down (his right, his page) but also seems to have reined in the snark some. Mind you, the crack came on the heels of a slam against Obama for not supporting a half brother in Kenya (who has stated he does not want Obama's assistance), one he never knew existed until several years ago.

I'm not ashamed of what I said. John McCain choosing Palin as his running mate makes me insane. It makes me insane that woman who got where she is because of the hard work and devotion of thousands of feminist predecessors is fully prepared to dismantle everything those women fought for.

It makes me insane that McCain chose Palin to pander to a segment of the population that is disaffected with the Democrats over the treatment of Hillary Clinton. It makes me even more insane to know that some people are going to fall for it.

It makes me insane to hear McCain and Palin and other Republican water carriers

And he might win. That is the most crazy making thought of all. McCain might win and my country will continue its right wing nutjob slide towards oblivion.

People suck.

Compounding my frustration is the fact that I did a favor for a friend a week ago and have received no acknowledgment for my effort. My follow-up emails have been ignored and I am feeling bruised and used. And not just a little bit pissed about it.

Throw in the postal employee who got angry and yelled at me for coming to his window before he was ready and the mean people who made YouTube take down all the McCain Barack Rolling videos and I'm just about ready to call it a night on the universe.

Laughing my *** Off

Because there have been too many moments in the past several days when I have just wanted to cry...

From the following delightful news:

1. Simon Pegg will be starring in an adaptation of Toby Young's How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. As a closet Graydon Carter fan, I loved Young's recounting of his disastrous stint working for Carter and Vanity Fair.

2. John McCain gets Barack Rolled!



As a side note, that one phrase at the beginning of the video is the most I have heard out of John McCain's mouth. I don't think there is any surprise about where my loyalties lie this election cycle.

Just a Little Fun for Labor Day

Regular posting to begin again soon as the Steelers are in season, the Penguins are about to begin training camp and it is fall, so the crazies will be returning to the bus lines.

Until then, courtesy of xkcd...

Exhausted

Last night I was so tired that when I went through my bag this morning at the gym to pull out my work clothes I discovered that I had three pairs of clean underwear, but no bra.

Technically I had a bra, the sports bra I was wearing underneath my workout clothes. The one that was about to get extremely damp and smelly from my workout. The one with a really thick band that dries really slowly and itches like crazy until it does.

A kind woman rescued me from potential sweaty or bra-less misery by loaning me a spare she had in her bag. It was too small, too loose and had no elastic left, but it was something. I wore it to work and as soon as I could, I bolted across the street to a truly awesome lingerie store to purchase one that fit.

Since I started this new job I have been going to the gym in the morning. I can't say that I enjoy waking up between 5:00 and 6:00 AM to pull on workout gear and catch the bus. In fact, I can sincerely state that I really hate it.

It is a combination of factors, the least which how damn early it feels. I'm not as tolerant of people's foibles that early in the morning. The bus is surprisingly crowded at 5:45 AM. Unfortunately it is not crowded with people, but people's stuff. I counted three seats this morning I could have sat in if the occupants had not decided to spread out their possessions and then go to sleep. And I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt with the sleeping.

Especially exasperating was one man located on an outer seat near the front of the bus. Not only did he refuse to move when the woman sitting in the inner seat rose to leave, he also refused to slide over and refused to move when I attempted to take the inner seat.

So I hit him in the head with my very heavy, very full gym bag when I squeezed past him and sat down. And I did not apologize for it. Even after I clocked him in the head he refused to move when I rose to get off the bus. I nearly hit him again. And I did not apologize to him for it a second time.

I hate the gym in the mornings. It is almost unbearably hot and incredibly loud. Hot because the Y turns the air conditioning down at night and there are no windows for ventilation in the cardio / weight rooms. Loud because there is a group of middle-aged men who scream comments and hold conversations with each other from opposite sides of the room. They are so loud that I can not drown them out with my Shuffle on full blast.

And now, I go to bed.

I'm Not Going to Pile on John Edwards

Because, as I've stated before, marriage is difficult enough lived in the private sphere of family and friends. Lived in the public eye, sometimes I think it must be fucking impossible.

Reading the comments and commentaries on other sites, I've noticed a distinct pattern of response to the news. They are, in no particular order:

1.John Edwards is an asshole for cheating on the Democratic Party while running for the presidential nomination and/or cheating on Elizabeth while she had cancer. It is fifty-fifty on which of these things is worse. I got the distinct impression from some remarks that the betrayal to his party was worse then the betrayal to his marriage.
2.Elizabeth Edwards is a horrible woman for knowing about the affair and continuing to support her husband and encouraging other to support him as well instead of booting him out on his ass.
3.John and Elizabeth's marriage is none of our business and we should stay out of it.

I've addressed response one before. If you place a man or woman on a pedestal, inevitably they will fall off it. Every single time. Edwards has taken responsibility for his actions, has admitted to hubris and fault and worked towards making reparations to his wife and children. He does not owe anyone else on this planet a damn thing. Including an adequate apology.

As for response 2, WTF? Either Elizabeth Edwards is a woman with her own agency or she is not. Her decision to remain in her marriage is hers alone to make and it is not for anyone else to condemn, condone or otherwise speculate. There is this insane notion in American society that every bound couple is required to have the same kind of marriage and anything outside the narrowest of boundaries is unhealthy.

I've lost track on the commentary of my marriage, primarily because I have learned to close my ears over the years. And there has been plenty of commentary on my un-wifely, inappropriate behavior. Refusing to be the only one responsible for the house keeping. Making J buy his own socks and underwear. Traveling solo. And uncounted other actions which scream of how fully uncommitted I am to my relationship.

Except for the whole standing up at an altar making vows in front of a hundred of our closest friends and family and trying my hardest to make it work even when it is hard. Even when both J and myself has screwed up royally, in ways that would be an absolute deal breaker in other relationships.

No, I'm not going to pile on John or Elizabeth Edwards. For those who would judge the Edwards because their own marriage is so flawless, I say congratulations. I'm glad you found your one-true-love and soul mate and never have to worry about conflict or your spouse's flaws.

Now leave the rest us alone to muddle through.

Dear Gods Above...

Please bring Hockey season back soon. One more story about how Big Ben had to leave Steelers training camp early for the second day in the row just might kill me.

Thanks.

Me.

Working Again

I finished my second day at my new job. It is chaotic right now – I started the same week that the company is releasing a new build, so I'm spending a lot of time reading documentation and harassing my new coworkers about obtaining access to the various things I need to access.

I see a couple of rough weeks ahead as I adjust to this new schedule and a new work environment and philosophy.

Although the length of the workday is about the same, the day overall is longer. I'm up earlier, before 6:00 AM, in order to get to the gym to work out and still leave myself enough time to catch a second bus to Squirrel Hill without worrying about being late due to traffic. I leave later then when I worked downtown, between 5:15 and 5:30 PM and change buses downtown. Changing buses in the afternoon is a risk, as anything later than 6:30 PM from downtown means throwing myself upon the mercy of the South Busway gods and waiting an hour or longer for transportation if I leave too late or the gods become angry.

I'm trying not to obsess over the inevitable delays and near misses that come with riding and transferring buses. Yesterday I watched one speed by as I walking down to the stop and had to wait for a later one. Later, as in 10 minutes. Today I managed to catch the earlier bus only to have the driver stop for a bathroom break near the T station. As I dashed out of the office and towards my stop this afternoon, I saw a bus pulling away from the curb and had to wait for the next one while quietly fretting.

I'm also not used to a new level of communication, with multiple, built-in redundancies for contacting each employee.

As tired as I am, I no longer feel as if I am being pressed into the floor every morning. I walk into a modern, bright open space with workstations at the appropriate height, chairs with an appropriate level of comfort and lots of natural, ambient light. My space is at the window, so I can peer down into the street and watch the people passing by and admire the shoes in the store across the street.

It was a good move.

A Long List of WTF's...

It was a good day. I went for a bike ride. I browsed through a bookstore. I spent some time in my favorite coffee shop, with a vegetarian pannini sandwich and a pot of Earl Grey with Lavender tea.

I also spent far too much time poking around the Internet, reading articles I would normally ignore. I made the mistake of diving into the comments at Slate and came out convinced that a large segment of the population who reads Slate is insane, Emily Yoffe is a scold and that my brain needed an acid bath.

Apparently I've had my head in the sand for far too long, because the “news” that John Edwards allegedly fathered a love child has been around for a year. This piece of “news” was published by that bastion of truth, The National Inquirer. The sources of this “news” are unnamed (therefore unverifiable) and another man has stepped forward to claim paternity of the love child in question.

None of the above was enough to stop Jack Shafer of Slate from calling Edwards a “sex hypocrite” for violating the sanctity of his marriage vows and lamenting the mainstream media's disinterest in the story, which he attributed to bias on the part of the liberal media. Apparently, since the media reported the arrest of Republican Larry Craig for soliciting gay sex in the stall of a bathroom, they are also duty bound to report on the unsubstantiated rumors swirling around John Edwards. Rumors which he denied when the National Inquirer broke the story last October and December. Rumors he denied again when the National Inquirer published a recent update.

I moved from the article to the comments, which left me desiring the above mentioned acid bath to remove the etchings of memory of my brief foray from my brain. After several hours and a visit to one of my favorite feminist/political/miscellaneous fun stuff blogs, I was able to stop the spinning in my head and figure out what really bothered me about the story. It was a hatchet job, full of “if”, “but” and “yet” statements and beautifully constructed gems, to wit “If Edwards had had no affair, he wasn't a hypocrite, not then and not now”. Language carefully constructed to call Edwards a philanderer without explicitly calling him a philanderer, to leave the reader with the impression that Edwards is a philanderer.

Oy, the mind spins.

Emily Yoffe (who called Edwards a “sanctimonious phony”, but I digress) continued her habit of acting sanctimonious towards her readers* with this response to a reader who wanted to smooth over a relationship after having a one night stand with a good friend's brother: “Look, I'm going to leave aside the question of one night stands, I just hope your not making a practice of them”.

If she is leaving aside the questions of one night stands, why is it necessary to make such a comment?

Moving on from the sanctimonious, the New York Times had an article today about brides paying for (and sometimes requiring) botox and other treatments, including breast augmentation and tooth bleaching, for their bridesmaids. While the times played off the brides gone amuck angle, I still found myself a little skeeved out by the idea that a bride could require and compel members of her wedding party to submit themselves to sundry beauty procedures.

Thankfully, I don't have any friends of the type mentioned in the article.

*Prime example: In response to a reader who was not interested in having kids and wanted advice on how to shut up members of the why-haven't-you-had-babies brigade, Yoffe took it upon herself to give the reader the “you might change your mind someday” speech.

I Love this Headline

Sticky situation averted as man tries to glue himself to British PM.

How Not To Resign From a Job

A storm came through at 8:30 last evening, filling the sky with an eerie, creamy gold-yellow light. It poured through the dining room curtains onto the floor. As I pulled apart the curtains in the front window to take a closer look at the sky, Axel leaned forward and viewed the world with wide eyes and J worried about tornadoes.

I want to write about the ongoing wrap up of work at my current position, but every time I sit down to craft an entry I have find myself sputtering incoherently with rage. Exquisite, homicidal, ferocious rage. The kind of rage that compels me to mix up "there" and "their", (as J pointed out to me in response to one of my recent rant-filled email missives), grind my teeth and come home with splitting, stress-induced migraines.

I have spent the past five working days being jerked around by an ersatz* manager (REAL manager was out dealing with a family crisis) who decided that part of the process of wrapping up my duties was to compel my co-workers to take on the sundry non-testing tasks under my domain. As the departing party, I have ZERO authority to compel anyone to do anything. Naturally ersatz manager was too busy to take on any of the tasks.

Although ersatz manager was busy, s/he** was not busy enough to provide me with work and insisted that put in a full eight hours even though I had absolutely nothing to do for 4.5 of the past 5 working days. Until this afternoon, when s/he repeatedly indicated that s/he expected me to work a full, eight hour day tomorrow (my last day), even though s/he is not the (pardon my Old English) fucking manager.

The moral of this story (and there have been other, unwritten indignities I'm too much worked up to write about) is that I shall never give two weeks notice, ever again.

*ersatz: substitute, artificial and often inferior; using substitute components.
**Trying to avoid gender. Just to clarify, ersatz manager is the same one alluded to in a previous post who is carrying on a "special friendship" with manager.

When Odd Little Facts Drive You Crazy

Starbucks is closing 600 stores. A list of the stores slated for closure has been released to the general public.

Several years ago This American Life did a segment on a storefront in the Washington (D.C.) area. This storefront, a former pizza parlor whose owner maintained a larger-than-life presence in the community, was considered cursed. There was a murder, the parlor closed and the storefront became the setting for a series of highly unsuccessful businesses, even though the location was considered highly desirable. The conclusion of the story was the report that a new business was moving into the storefront. A Starbucks.

So is this Starbucks on the list?

Retirement

I'm a little bit off the ball on this one, but I would be remiss if I did not mark the passing of my favorite NHL player.

Martin Straka has not died, although it is going to feel a little bit like that to me when I take his autographed jersey to be cleaned and framed. For three years I have worn his size 52 to games. The cuffs are grimy and the numbers on the back are slightly black from incidental contact with a dirty car.

For years friends have teased me over my love of who J and I refer to as “my other husband”. Straka will never be listed among the greats – Gretzky, Lemieux or Crosby.

He was not a big guy. He was a small and swift skater, strong enough to take a hit, smart enough to know when one was coming.

He was not much of a fighter, although he could throw a punch. Hockeyfights.com has no record of any fights and the only time I recall seeing him tangle with an opposing player was during the 2006 Winter Olympics.

He was accident prone, breaking his leg (the same one, twice), multiple bones in his face and damaging his back within a 14 month span.

He was underrated. The first to be traded away when a team's payroll became too heavy, he bounced to six different teams in the span of his 18 year career in the NHL, half that time spent with the Penguins. He skated under the radar, with 257 goals, 460 assists and 717 points.

Straka was a player's player, I think. He showed up, he practiced, he played, he supported his teammates. I'll never be sure, since I never met him in real life. The closest I ever came was standing near the boards to watch him warm up, earlier this year.

I always said that once he retired, I would retire his jersey. Now that he has signed with HC Lasselsberger Plzen and effectively left the NHL, the time has come.

Ends and Odds

Fact about Pennsylvania I did not know until today: PA has more wooden roller coasters than any other state in the US. Fifteen to be exact.

I have nothing right now. I'm in that limbo time between jobs, waiting out the end of my notice at my current position, secretly disappointed that my employer decided not to shorten my two weeks. My fantasy of flying off to Madrid on a whim will remain unfulfilled. Or returning to Paris and trying to rent one of the Vélib' bicycles I saw workers installing last year and did not get an opportunity to try because the program was launched the day after I left.

There has been great drama in the city of Pittsburgh, in the form of the imminent sale of the Steelers to an investor outside the Rooney family. Reassuring articles profiling the buyer (a long-time Steelers fan with Pittsburgh roots) not withstanding, the general consensus in Pittsburgh is that 3 of the 5 brothers are greedy, selfish individuals who value making money (from racetracks and gambling) above tradition (the Rooney's have owned the team since 1933) who have seriously disappointed their long deceased, still beloved (by fans) father.

Moving On

After four (FOUR!) interviews, several email exchanges and multiple phones calls, I sat down to craft a resignation letter to my current employer.

The downside of staying employed at various places for extended periods of time is that I had no idea what kind of resignation letter to write. Eager for advice, I looked up some examples. And, interestingly enough, most of the advice offered suggested saying nothing except “I resign, effective X date from Y position. Thank you”.

I can't explain why I find this to be revolutionary, but I do. Perhaps it is because after years of listening to others tell me that I must elaborate, finally someone, multiple someones, suggest that I get straight to the point.

As I perused the examples, I came across an article and three year long thread on giving immediate (as opposed to two weeks) notice. As I have fantasized quite often over the past year of walking out without notice, the thought that an employment expert would advocate giving same-day notice is tantalizing. I went for the standard two weeks instead.

And promptly walked into the situation described in the article. While my lab manager is surprised, he is very willing to let me work out the two weeks. However, he warned me that I may be leaving sooner than planned once my resignation reaches the upper levels of management.

FYI...

Happy Independence Day!

And...

Wall•E is the possibly the cutest movie about anything I have ever seen. I was so taken away that the characters appeared in my dreams last night.

Just Too Much

The problem with choosing a non-medicinal form of therapy for depression is that it is far too easy to get derailed when injured and much more difficult to force myself back into a routine that I know is good for me, especially when the derailment is followed with enough stress to push me back into a downward spiral.

Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.

My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.

Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.

It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.

The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.

In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.

And she wonders why I don't come home much.

As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.

I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.

Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?

On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.

Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.

I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.

Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.

*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.

The Law of Averages Strikes Again

I'm sitting in Pittsburgh Airport.

There are massive thunderstorms rolling through.

The plane taking me to Chicago was delayed out of Baltimore until 7:35 PM. It took off from BWI around the time the thunderstorms began to roll through.

Original Departure time: 8:15 PM.

Current Departure time: 10:10 PM.

I suspect I'll still be in Pittsburgh tomorrow morning.

I remain a fugitive from the law of averages.

Things I an Happy About

1. I have a job interview on Tuesday.
2. I was recruited directly by the company.
3. My former boss said she would hire me all over again.
4. My credit card is paid off.
5. My student loan is below 10K.
6. Ping Pong and Lego Star Wars on the Wii. Lego Indiana Jones is next.
7. I finally found software that will allow me to watch Ensemble c'est tout.
8. I have the house completely to myself tomorrow.
9. Barack Obama will be the next President of the United States.
10. Fizzy Italian pink lemonade.

One interesting thing:
As a condition to the interview I had to agree to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

Dear Woman...

...Behind Me at the Starbucks in Market Square at 7:35 AM this Morning -

I'm happy you have a hobby. I have hobbies. I write for this little blog. I'm learning how to play Lego Star Wars on the Wii (or I will if I ever get the time. I've had the system almost a week and no time to play. But I digress...). I read. I go to the gym and ride my bike. I play with my cats and spend time with my husband. I'm sure there are other things I do that I just can't think of right now.

Your hobby? Passive-aggressively food and fat shaming complete strangers ahead of you in line, who happen to purchase a piece of low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake? NOT OK. NOT even close to OK. NOT even on the same planet, in the same solar system, in the same universe as OK.

I imagine you think I am stupid, which is why you raised concerns over my purchase of the low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake. I imagine you believe that I'm the sort of uneducated food consumer who can not reason out that a food item with the words "cream" and "coffee cake" in it is probably not as "low-fat" as it claims to be. It was so nice of you to consider my feelings by raising this issue with the baristas instead taking it up directly with me. We would not want to be rude after all. How wonderful that you are able to harness the awesome power of the series of tubes to go out to the Starbucks website and look up the caloric information for this specific piece and be able to whip it out while in line, as I was paying for my grande skim chai and low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake.

Do you know that I first contemplated the purchase of the artisan cheese danish? I shudder, nay, perish at the thought of your brain exploding in reaction to the notion that someone would actually buy and enjoy an item that, on any given day, exceeds the recommended fat allowance for a person of my gender and age.

Naturally, paying for my purchase was not enough to get away from you. Instead I had to stand and listen to your lecture on the Starbucks energy drink and its overabundance of calories whilst I waited for my grande skim chai. I kept waiting for your commentary on the drink I ordered, but tragically nothing came of it, at least not while I remained in the store.

Oh strange woman standing behind me in the Starbucks line, you are singularly the most rude person I have ever encountered. You have taken the top spot away from the friend of my in-laws, who upon hearing my comment that we lived near an excellent Italian bakery (in my old Pittsburgh neighborhood, not my current one), looked me up, looked me down, then said "You better stay away from that place or you'll lose your nice figure". He has been demoted to second place. Congratulations!

In closing, I owe you an apology. I said some not-very-nice things about you once I reached work. Instead of rising above your effort to shame me into putting down the pastry, my immediate response was to lower myself to your level with negative comments about your appearance. Which makes me equally wrong, even if you were not there to hear what I said. Please accept that my comments were made out of anger and I regret them. After some reflection I realized that your behavior spoke more about your personal insecurities then they did about my eating habits.

OK, I Lied

I can't bear to watch tonight's game. I tried. I failed.

Either way, raise your sticks one last time guys. You exceeded everyone's expectations.

Fleury, Hallowed be thy Name

If a team ever won a game based on the sheer will of a single player, then the Penguins won last night's triple overtime based on the will of Marc-André Fleury.

There is nothing I can say that has not all ready been expressed by a multitude of sports writers, bloggers and casual fans. I was not planning on watching Game 5. I was going to read quietly and go to bed.

Instead I stayed up until after 1:00 AM, with friends, witnessing a game I only dreamed about seeing and could barely stand to watch. I could not stand to watch a shot by Hall Gill go astray and break Ryan Malone's nose. I could not stand the look in the eyes of the normally stoic Sergei Gonchar, sidelined to the bench by a back injury.

But I watched it. All of it. All 110 minutes of it. And I'll do it again tomorrow night.

My Finals Experience

Was marred by Mellon Arena's decision to arbitrarily enforce their “no cameras with lens greater than 3 inches” policy. I was not permitted to enter the arena with the camera, so J returned it to the car and sought out an official who clarified that enforcement was up to the discretion of security and that any camera that appeared “too professional” was not permitted in the arena.

This is the same camera I have been bringing into the arena for two years without issue. I am frustrated and disappointed that the lens of my camera, which meets NHL guidelines for amateur photography equipment at events*, was deemed a potential obstruction while fans carrying in full-sized cardboard + aluminum foil or blowup replicas of the Stanley Cup, large poster board signs and giant sized stuffed Penguins are given a pass. I am frustrated that the people who insist on standing, leaving or returning to their seats while the puck is in play are deemed not enough of an obstruction to warrant a confrontation with an usher, but my camera, which actually remains securely zipped in it's carrying case for 90% of the game, is an annoyance.

And to deem my camera as “too professional” would make the actual professional photographer who stood on the landing below us during the entire game, with her super telephoto zoom lens, laugh her ass off.

Then the Penguins had to go and make it worse by allowing the Red Wings to score a weak (it bounced OFF Fleury) go-ahead goal, thus giving the Detroit the motivation it needed to shut down the Penguins offense completely. The Penguins can learn a lot by studying Detroit's defensive plays. I predict that Detroit will wrap up the series at home Monday night and will be hoisting the Stanley Cup.

I'm OK with Detroit winning. They are a better, more experienced team. And Detroit fans are welcome back at Mellon Arena anytime. They did not boo our players, returned good natured taunting with the same and, most surprisingly, left the arena quietly at the end of the game. Although it may have been shock that kept them from openly celebrating.

*I know this because I looked up the guidelines and measured the fully extended lens before the Winter Classic.

Sunday, Probably...

I'll be posting about my very first, live, Stanley Cup final.

Go Pens Go!

I Need to Read More of the Paper

Instead of hitting only the Editorial and Penguins/NHL sections and calling myself informed.

If I had read more of the paper on May 11, I would not have missed that CityReachers Pittsburgh is raising money to place copies of the New Testament in the Sunday Post-Gazette on September 7.

Pittsburgh themed copies of the New Testament, with a “front cover showing the Golden Triangle, a back cover photograph of Steelers kneeling in prayer and will include testimonies of well-known Pittsburghers”.

Because nothing says “Come to Jesus” quite like a photograph of the Pittsburgh Steelers.*

Fortunately, there are several readers who do peruse more of the paper and wrote letters to the editor, the first protesting the idea and threatening to cancel their subscription, the second praising the potential positive effect of essentially forcing the New International Version translation of the New Testament into the homes 250,000 subscribers.

I'm interested in seeing how this unfolds.

*I can't believe there does not exist a Pittsburgh Steelers last supper image somewhere on the Internet. In a city that turned Gary Roberts into a cult hero, not one photo shopped marvel of Big Ben as Jesus? Which begs the question – who do Steelers fans hold more sacred: Big Ben or Jesus?

Notes From the Finals - Game 1

There is a restaurant at the Waterfront that will never receive my patronage again. Not because their meals are a pale imitation of the southern style barbecue I enjoyed during my brief time in South Carolina. I ended up with a case of food poisoning and am spending the first game of the Stanley Cup finals on my couch, alone, while J enjoys the game with good friends, wings and beer.

If the first period is any indication, the Detroit Red Wings are a very worthy adversary and it would be an honor if the Penguins lost the Finals to such a team*. The Red Wings played a flawless first period and were robbed of a goal due to a terrible goaltender interference call by the referees*.

As fantastic as the Red Wings are, I am a fan of one of the coolest organizations in the NHL. The executives opened Mellon Arena, lowered the JumboTron and charged fans $5.00 a person to watch the game on a very big screen. All proceeds from the entry fee are going to the Mario Lemieux Foundation. Thirteen thousand fans have taken the organization up on the offer. Versus was considerate enough to show a couple of shots of the fans in the arena, madly waving white rally towels.

*Real fans acknowledge when the other team is better and also acknowledge terrible calls that fall in their team's favor. Realistically, I have genuine doubts that the Penguins can pull off four wins against the Red Wings and will not be too pained to see Detroit take the Stanley Cup.

Comfort

Can be found, at the end of a day in which I wonder why I bother interacting with humanity-at-large, by reading that even David Byrne has stupid accidents that break bones.

Humanity-at-large was in fine form in the Pittsburgh area today. Humanity as defined by the middle aged businessman who insisted on taking up all of his seat and half of mine on the bus this morning, forcing me to pretzel my upper body away from his elbows for the duration of the ride. I am amazed anew at how much space an average sized person can take up. And at the sense of entitlement that this man had, as he seemed to expand even further as we rode into town. I felt very little regret when I accidentally stepped on his foot on the way out the door.

Humanity is also defined as the middle aged woman I encountered this afternoon. She became slightly miffed when I could not tell her if her bus had passed by and repeatedly ignored my attempts to get away from the smoke of her cigarette by repeatedly moving closer to me.

And now the gods have gotten even with me for stepping on that man's foot by forcing me to trip over a loose, defunct telephone line wire running across the floor of the spare room door. Twice.

Quick Hits

• I'm tired. Really tired. And a little bit sick. A little too much celebrating this weekend.
• In case you don't have NBC or Versus... the Penguins are going to the Cup! I'm going to a Stanley Cup final game!
• We attended a wedding in Williamsburg, VA this past weekend. Bride and groom were married at the Jamestown Church and the reception was held at the Shield's Tavern in Historic Williamsburg.
• It appears that the Penguins will be playing the Red Wings. Detroit is up 4 - 0 early in the second period.
• New bedroom furniture (and mattress) arriving sometime tomorrow.

Burned Out?

I took a sick day today, a necessary measure to preserve my mental health as my stress and anxiety levels have been going up in increasing increments over the past several weeks. I've made multiple mistakes this week that indicate that unless I take a day off very soon, I am going to be suffering significant burn out.

When I woke up and decided to stay home, I used the awesome powers of the Internet to verify that I had no work waiting for me. That pleasant, confident feeling that I could take a day to get my head in order guilt free lasted until approximately nine A.M., when I called my manager to let him know I would be out.

Now it is nearly two hours later and I'm still near tears and my frustration and anxiety have increased even more. Suffice to say, it was not the most pleasant conversation. I found myself being called accountable for issues I thought I had resolved and communicated, including one item that wasn't my responsibility to begin with, but that I set up and taught the item's owner (as I was running out of time and had to leave by 4:00 PM yesterday) how to do, so he could do his job. And communicated to the project manager what I had done. And he (the task owner) did not do it. And I am to blame. Even though my manager told me “don't worry about it, I'll take care of it”.

I cried a little, because as much as I like to think I am some tough feminist woman, I am such a girl. I pulled up my resume and reactivated one of my job search accounts. I edited and refined and threw it out into the wild to see if I could trap an unsuspecting employer into granting me an interview.

But the tape in my head, the one that likes to turn on in such times, tells me that I am wasting my time. That no one is interested in hiring an almost 35 year old woman with such a spotty and inconsistent resume. That for all my varied skills and education, I am not valuable enough of an employee for anyone. Because I prize having some type of a life above ambition, I have basically killed any opportunity to move forward into something interesting.

So, yes, I am burned out. And I'm not sure what to do about it. Advice (seriously) appreciated.

This Was Supposed to be a Post About Girls in White Dresses...

Then hockey got in the way.

The Post Gazette sports writers and fans who have been following the Penguins have been providing some truly priceless exchanges between Penguins and Rangers players.

Exhibit Number 1:
"I just told him I wanted to fight," Laraque said, shrugging. "I wanted to change the momentum."

Orr's response?

"He just said, 'C'mon, Georges, it's 3-0. I can't,' " Laraque said.

Exhibit Number 2:
“According to EN reader Nick Porto, Pierre McGuire, the NBC analyst stationed between the benches, said Sean Avery make a remark to Crosby near the benches during a television timeout. Hal Gill responded, "You know what? You just weren't hugged enough as a child. That's why you have issues."

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I'm also realizing, for the sake of my sanity, that I am going to have to stop reading the New York Times Slapshot blog and sports articles, at least in the short term.

There is the sheer sexism in spelling Crosby's first name as "Cindy". The accusations that Crosby and Therrien are whiners. The (invalid) complaints about Crosby diving. All of these statements are familiar. All of them stem from fans who must resort to impugning a player's character because they have nothing legitimate to add to the conversation.

But sometimes, I wonder. Am I watching the same game? Do his detractors actually watch him play? Do they notice that the one thing Crosby does above all others is keep going? He never, ever stops moving when on the ice. He lowers his center of gravity when he curves around a net, protecting the puck. He constantly hones moves such as this in practice.

Which makes these latest accusations, coming from Straka (and Jagr) especially painful as I have great respect for the talent and work ethic of two men who contributed an enormous amount during their time with the Penguins.

My attire when attending Penguins games is an game-worn, autographed Martin Straka jersey. Straka is my favorite player, no matter what team he is a part of. But if this is how is going to chose to play the game - to act out from emotion instead of calling on his talent and skill to score goals and win games- then allow me to be the first to suggest that it is time for him to hang up his skates and for me to frame his jersey and place up on the wall. In a matter of seconds he managed to throw away the ten years worth of good will he built up as a member of the Penguins organization. The fans booed him when he stepped onto the ice today.

But whose fault is it, that I am disillusioned by a player I so admire? Mine, actually. I put Straka on the pedestal. I need to take him off it now.

And now, just for the sake of showing my intended post...

Without the blue satin sashes. With white patent leather shoes, white socks, white gloves and crowned with white flowers and veils.

Today was the first holy communion and confirmation of J's oldest niece. This is the second of three first communions I will be required to attended, as J's youngest niece will go through the ritual in another two years. And two years from now I will be disturbed, once again, by the girls in white veils.

I hate this custom. It burdens a group of eight year old girls with social and sexual connotations that they are too young to understand. Most of the parents have no idea about the symbolism behind the veil. They argue tradition without fully understanding why they are arguing in tradition's favor.

I was pleasantly surprised when J's brother, a priest, agreed with my objections, for essentially the same reasons. He also added an angle I had not thought of. Simple economics. Some families cannot afford to purchase such a dress (or suit) for a single occasion. Buying a nice outfit the child can wear to church or other occasions is less of a waste and prevents parents from turning a religious celebration into a competition.

I Am Not a Prude

I don't have issues changing in front of other women in the locker room. The time when I have found the being naked in front of a bunch of other women fraught with peril has passed. Granted I had to join a gym to get over it, but over it I am.

However, I am getting increasingly irritated by my gym's failure to repair the faucets in the private showers. All three of the private stalls are out of commission, forcing the women who use that particular locker room to use the open showers instead. As the gym will be moving to a new building in less than a year, the maintenance staff has zero motivation to make repairs.

Which means there are going to be a lot of angry people on the bus for the next few months, especially the unlucky individuals who are forced to sit down next to my sweaty, smelly self.

So Sweet

The Penguins recently put out a "fanciful" team picture as a desktop wallpaper. It was on the Pittsburgh Penguins website for a very brief period of time before someone decided to take it down. Which is a pity, because it is a great team photograph.


Even Sergei Gonchar has a smile.

h/t The Sidney Crosby Show for posting the photographs.

Spring Ride

J and I went for a twenty mile bike ride yesterday, on a new (to me) portion of the YRT, along the Youghiogheny River. I successfully managed to avoid breaking bones in my hand by turning the ceiling fan off before changing out of my pajamas.

There were not as many houses on the this portion. Simply miles of blooming forest, teeming with large -flowered trilliums, wild violets and bluebells on one side and the river filled with fishermen (and women) and boaters on the other. In between were abandoned buildings and closed coal mines.

Still Tired – a Meandering Post

I'm still tired, the natural consequence of the overtime I put in on Saturday and cramming three days worth of work into two on Monday and Tuesday.

As tired as I am, it has not stopped me from reflecting on my disastrous “girl date” on Saturday evening. I'm still alternating between amusement, indignation and (if I am honest) indulging in a little bit of self-pity. All while trying to keep up with a work schedule that promises to be busy and highly stressful until mid-June.

That strange sense of déjà vu, of seeing what should be an enjoyable evening with an interesting person go completely off the rails. The gender has changed, the goal has changed, the ending is the same.. All these married years later, I still find it difficult to connect with women on a social level.

And I am indignant, insulted really. Tiresome it is, to be lectured on the ticking of my biological clock, with little regard to the reasons behind the choices I have made. Tiresome it is, to be judged on how much (or how little) alcohol I chose, once again ignoring the reasons behind those decisions.

With all this in my head, I stopped work for a few minutes to step outside into the sunshine. With a whopping $3.80 in my checking and $6.25 in bills and quarters, I head the long way towards Starbucks.

First I passed a panhandler, Dot. Dot comes every day and sits near the abandoned McDonald's on Forbes and Wood. She says “God bless you” to everyone who passes her by, whether they give or money or not. When she collects what she needs daily to supplement her welfare income, she goes home.

I give her a dollar.

Next is the abandoned Foto Hut and an empty lot. The lot has been empty for two or three years. Before the building was emptied and the roof fell in, it was a used bookstore. Now a chain link fence blocks the lot from the street.

Someone has hung an urban art installation on the fence, a series of cut out books with photographs of the building, deeds and other written pieces of Pittsburgh history. Someone else has removed some of the books. The rest will most likely be gone tomorrow, when I am able to return with my camera. This small tribute to Pittsburgh's past is surprising and touching and makes me wonder whether there are more moments like this erected about the city.

Later, on my way home from the gym, I look out the bus window and see two more panhandlers, street people actually. One is a woman who looks shell shocked, as if she cannot believe that she is sitting on a street asking for money. The other is an older man, one I have seen before. A second man walks past him, then turns around comes back to put a dollar in his cup.

I watch this homeless man for what seems like several minutes. He lifts the cup to his face and peers intently into its short depths. His face registers no emotion. He considers the contents and places the cup firmly back on the ground. And he waits.

I Spent All Day in Front of a Computer...

...to come home and spend more time in front of a computer, as tired as I am. Because life has been a little too interesting to allow events of the past several days to pass without commentary.

Hockey:

The Penguins are now 3-0 in Playoff Round 1 and looking towards wrapping up the best of seven series in Ottawa on Wednesday night. The highlight of the series was Game 1, when 41 year old Gary Roberts challenged two Senators to a fight, had to be forcibly removed from the ice by two linesmen and amassed 16 minutes in penalties with 12 seconds left to play.



The Cult of Gary Roberts is strong in Pittsburgh.

Well known Rangers pest Sean Avery inspires a new interpretation on rules about screening the opposing goalie, nicked named “The Avery Rule”. Points to Avery for creativity.



Locally:
Rumor has it that the explosion that destroyed two houses in the North Side was not caused by natural gas. It is a slow spring in Western Pennsylvania.

H/t and personal to Jay: While I fully acknowledge that a gunshot in the head is the most effective way to dispatch meteorite zombies, it does not have the same panache as beating them on the head with a pool cue in rhythm to Queen's Don't Stop Me Now.

U.S District Attorney Mary Beth Buchanan will retry Dr. Cyril Wecht. Wecht's first trial ended in a hung jury. Why is the District Attorney wasting her time with this?

Personally:
I had a girl date on Saturday. I met a new friend for dinner and to see a band play 70's and 80's AM radio covers.

While the evening started out innocuously enough I'm not sure whether I'll hang out with her again. During the course of the evening she announced that she was a pothead, alternately grilled and lectured me on my childlessness and pressured me about my conservative drinking habits.

FYI - Most disgusting email subject in my Spam folder to date: “Used g-strings for sale”. Uh, no thanks.