Coolest things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, oh, things have changed.

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about perfection.

Talking with Cameron

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

CONVERSATION 1--LAST SATURDAY

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you, Apple,” he said.

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

“So then I’m not gay?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“Me either, fruit,” he said.

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

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

“Pete Graf,” I said.

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

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

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

CONVERSATION 2--LAST NIGHT

“What, Fruit? I’m working,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bye, fruit.”

Guys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Ten

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

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

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

Brad is basically breathtaking.

Steve is basically a blonde Seanzilla.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“24. You’re 24 right?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh God,” I said.

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

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

“What do you think of me?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and believe me, I definitely do.

Just fall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That lasted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free.

Sabbatical

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

They called it sabbatical.

I’m taking one of those. Effective immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This shouldn't be a stretch.

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

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

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

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

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

Hey.

A lot like falling in love

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

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

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

It seemed like a so-what statement though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, for crying out loud,” he said.

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

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

“No,” I said.

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

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

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

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

Independence

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

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

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

“I hate Nirvana,” he said.

“What? Huh? How? What?” I said.

“Seriously,” he said.

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

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

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

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

Less horrifying dialogue, but still horrifying:

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

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

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

“It just is. It’s awkward,” he said.

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

“What’s that,” he said.

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

Dialogue of the weekend that made me laugh the hardest:

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Why do men shave their legs?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[He] beat me up,” I said.

“Well, why?” he said.

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

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

“Uh, no,” I said.

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

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

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

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

“Uh huh. And who else,” he said.

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

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

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

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

Most endearing moment:

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

Most random moment:

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

Most surprising moment:

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

Best moment:

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