I love the holidays!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.