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.

Funny day

Someone threw half of a brick at me today.

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

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

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

Scam? Crazy? Back-to-school prank?

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

No way did it stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gram

I wish I could be like my grandmother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm...roast?” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slumber party, anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what kind of friend would I be to object!

Sweet

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

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

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

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

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

So later I’ll see a golfer.

Earlier I saw a hockey player.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

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

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

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

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

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

But He's Not

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

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

Of course this was his response:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Years in the making, Tim,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You bitch,” he said, laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, clearly, he’s not.

Black and white

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crush

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unfair, I tell you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“T-shirt. T-shirt. T-shirt,” I said.

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

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

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

“What the hell was that?” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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