Stanley Kubrick and the Lame Duck Oven

'Tis the season for many things, but who could've guessed that lame ducks would be such a part of it? I started to think about them (the ducks) in early November. A lame duck is, at least politically, "an elected official who is approaching the end of his or her tenure, whose successor has already been elected."

Ow. That sounds so deflating.

After the November elections, experts were quacking all over CNN and FOX, and I started to think about the life cycles of lame ducks. Then I began to see them everywhere (not hallucinogenically, smartypants). When you substitute other things for the "elected" language in the definition, we're wobbling.....on the brink of being overrun by lame ducks. They're everywhere! Either because the Constitution creates them, or pop culture. Or technological, scientific, and engineering advances, or market forces, or our own requirements. Or something else entirely. Lame duck hairstyles, fashions, wives, phones, diets, boyfriends, teen idols, extraterrestial life theories, relationships, causes, policies, best-in-show breeds, last season's Dancing with the Stars winner, curfews, values, cars, economic theories, Oreo flavors, CSI Miami/New York/LA/Akron?, global warming theories, more TV entertainment, heart disease treatments, Beyblades, disease prevention theories, Brangelina and Jen.....

Good Lord. How did this thought trail start? But it did, and it continues with...

Football. In this area we've been following the interactions of two local college football powerhouse head coaches (okay, Pitt is a powerHUT), and their soon-to-be successors. Awkward. The West Virginia University coach (Bill Stewart, who I met on the best first date ever....but that's a different story!), was asked to introduce the man who will take his place next season, and pin his own WVU logo onto his replacement's lapel. Very awkward...a little like what I imagine the wife and the mistress meeting would be, but without a ring exchange. The lapel is also a potentially dangerous area. There's a crucial artery right there, for crying out loud. The new WVU head coach's name is Dana, which might be a little confusing down there in Morgantown (kidding! love ya WV!) How Mr. Stewart's WVU pin didn't end up in Dana's pupil or common carotid might just be, a minor Christmas miracle.

Occasionally, the lame ducks don't just avoid homicide charges. They make good.

The 111th Lame Duck Congress just closed, and surprised most politico talking heads by being much more productive than 46 graduate students cramming Pamela's for breakfast on the last day of finals. There wasn't a lapel-pin transfer ceremony to be found. Not surprisingly, the only Congressional lame ducker in danger of being stabbed by anything was Nancy Pelosi, but she's now got Steven Spielberg to "re-brand" she and her Party. That might lead to a John Williams soundtrack and Pelosi-Reid bobblehead dolls, but omigosh, why not?

So are you really thinking at this point...hmmm, this is all vaguely interesting and a little weird, but what was your real point, Girl? That is.....

Uh,

Sorry, oh yes. Lame duck appliances. Potentially as lethal as Bill Stewart at a lapel-pin ceremony. Two unfortunate appliances both came with this home. The first is an archeologically significant microwave oven that almost fits a Volkswagen Mini (for those folks who like to microwave funky things, just because). The next is an equally ancient yellow Sears Kenmore electric range and oven. In its defense, two of its four burners have never worked, and it cooperated when I replaced the baking element a few years ago. These two workhorses have gotten us through 3,263 meals without sickening anyone, but recently they've gone above and beyond old and unpredictable to a level of malicious intent.

It's partly my fault. I openly spoke of their upcoming "rotation" with Dan the kitchen man, while leaning on the oven. Dan is steadily helping to update a few things, including replacing the decrepit appliances. So while planning, Dan and I should have either used sign language or texted each other when talking about the sexy new, stainless replacements, because the originals....

Have revolted. A little like menacing HAL 9000 in "2001: A Space Odyssey." This was fine, because you know what happened to HAL 9000. And as a feisty soul I was ready for a little battle in a "no major commercial appliance will get the better of me" kind of way. Especially during Christmas week. So bring it, crusty avocado yellow mid-century Sears domestic apparati!

And they have.

The old microwave was first (but last now....haha). A week or two before being disconnected it started to withhold, so the only way the buttons worked was to punch them repeatedly with an electric cake beater. Which was actually kind of therapeutic (....or naughty, in some quarters). But when the buttons worked the 'wave' randomly spewed and exploded various food items, painting the inside of the oven. Either way, anything I sent into that old thing came out looking the same - like curdled and rusted UPMC Shadyside tapioca. The microwave is sitting in the garage now after being ignored by the garbage-day treasure hunters, and BFI, the last two weeks. I'm convinced it's transmitting messages to the big oven upstairs.

Because the upstairs oven is heeding. And suiting its size and sheer ugliness, it is grossly, chemically reconstructing most of what's going into it. It's Christmas week. The cookies have taken the brunt of it. So FINE. Bring It. Someone gently suggested that it might not be the oven (ahem), but I own up to my culinary goofs, most of which involved experiments with oven bags and parchment paper during my first year marriage. This is different. I know roasting and broiling and baking. And the maimed baked goods I tried to rehab this week were oven prey, pure and simple.

So upstairs oven, come January 8th........."I'm afraid, Dave." Sorry, HAL-OVEN 1962. You may be the lame duck, but I'm no shrinking violet.

'Twas the week before Christmas, and the cards just went out

I'm a wee bit behind, yikes, of that there's no doubt

The cookies aren't eaten, 'cause they still need baked

The shopping's not done...who, has put on the brakes?

It was me, and I tell you, with a wee bit of shame

Christmas lept out of nowhere, with its jingles, and flames

My spirit for Christmas is abundant, and true

This pure season, has nourished family, and special friends, my life through

So, why's this year different? So why aren't I "done"?

Done wrapping gifts, done gingerbreading, done stuffing stockings...none, done

It could be the schooling, which I've been doing, it could be money is tight

But those few reasons, don't stop the season...and then the words of a sprite

Who said, "It's okay, it's all, alright! We made a snowman instead!"

"And we played Star Wars, and swung on hammocks, when there wasn't snow for the sled."

And so it hit me, this Christmas worry, was only just in my head

Since to my loved ones, it doesn't matter, that I'm not quite ahead

So I'm humbled, and happy, to be let off the hook

And can stop planning, each ticking second, and maybe sit and read a book

But I'll still be baking, lighting, gifting...just with a little more in mind

Than being perfect-ly ready, or perfectly on time

Because these chances come often, these great prospects to do

Simple things, and pay attention, to each other year thru

I'm not soapboxing, or giving speeches, and I hope I'm not trite

I'm just relaxing, and doing some laughing....that wise sprite is, always, right

~Merry Christmas, Friends~

That's no dummy. That's my patient.

Have you ever seen a ventriloquist? For real I mean, not on TV. I only have once, at the after-prom party my junior year of high school. Or maybe it was at the Improv in Chicago. They're so similar I don't remember which it was. Either way, after watching the ventriloquist manhandle his dummy and do a preTTy bad job of giving it a voice, anything kind of resembling a fake human being has given me the creeps. Haunted houses are no problem - they're fake (hmm?) ghouls and I love that - but I usually pick up the pace if I have to walk past a department store dummy (only to run into the dummies chasing people with perfume spritzers. which is one reason I haven't been inside a mall in almost four years. uh-huh). Avoiding those has been pretty manageable so far.

And then I decided that changing careers was the best idea, ever (and, it still is). When I chose this graduate program I knew that classmates and I would be spending lots of time with cadavers, at the beginning. Which was just fine. But no one told me we'd also be practicing patient care skills on hospital dummies. I should call them mannequins, but I can't. Mannequins wear bad prom dresses each spring. Hospital dummies wear nothing but drafty little gowns and skid-resistant socks. And a Giada-like grin. Plus many, many, vital sign monitoring devices.

So today, after years of successfully avoiding these things, I was sent to a virtual acute care simulation hospital full of "medically fragile" patients. Dummies. Patients. Both. Dummies. Damn.

We were told that this virtual experience was one of three available in the world, which is a true privilege. It's actually amazingly cool......allowing virgin healthcare clinicians to practice in a real-world setting that won't kill anybody. I respect that a great deal, and am thankful for the access to it. Except.....

Today we were to perform patient transfers from hospital bed to wheelchair, and all the pre-post stuff that comes with that. We were warned that in this high-tech simulation environment our "patients" would breath, react to what we were doing to them, maybe say a little something (oh. Sweet. Jesus.) So I was ready for real-life, squishy dummy-patients that look like Grandpa Joe.

You wanna know what happened?

My colleagues and I high-fived at the chance to be out of the lecture-world and into the ultimate lab. Then we hyperventilated. Then we divided to go solo, from room to room, with 10 minutes to complete the tasks for each dummy. But they were patients, with cardiac issues, and internal trauma, and oxygen tanks. And not one looked like Grandpa Joe. Instead, we manhandled 6-foot Ken dolls. I know you're wondering - they were not anatomically accurate.

So I washed my hands 39 times in 45 minutes, recorded vital signs, successfully switched Ken 3's oxygen from wall to portable oxygen but choked him on his heart rate monitor line, catapaulted Ken 2 to the point his heart rate plummeted to a concerning level (but, I maintained proper body mechanics), exposed the private parts (such as they are) of Ken 1 when I lost his Pulse-sock in his groin area. I didn't drop anyone, though, and Igot a thumbs-up from the professor after Ken 1. Unfortunately I'm pretty sure the observers for the other two Kens giggled the same way that the 911 operators did the day I got stuck in a remote Port-a-John. And, it was all videotaped for 'feedback' purposes (the dummies, not the port-a-john escape).

But weirdly, the last thing I wanted to do was run away from the creepy medically-fragile giant Ken dolls. I talked - okay, rambled - to them the whole time. I'm not sure why, but being in someone's very personal space at a very uncertain personal time feels better with a familiar soundtrack, even if it's your own not-so-certain voice.

Talking to a dummy. Who smiled at me. I swear.

Coping with Cadavers

For the last two months I've spent almost all my time with the same few dozen people, and, a few dead ones. The alive and kicking group are my graduate school classmates. They're fabulous. I've been trying to downplay our age difference, mainly so they don't ask what it was like to watch original episodes of Seinfeld. Lord knows I would never mention that I sat in the front yard with my Dad a few minutes after watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon, so we could wave at him and ask if he had had enough to eat that night. I was a babe, but I remember it.

Just so you know this might get lengthy......but I can't help it.

So, since June 7th I've spent most of my time with young men and women who may have studied high school history about when Reagan was shot.....not JFK. And I couldn't have enjoyed it more. They're vibrant, incredibly smart, big-hearted, laugh easily, and have minds that instantaneously process complex bits of information (which is both admirable, and makes me a little pissy). A few may have married too young, as I did, and a few probably like to party too much for their own good, but all of them, I am really fortunate to be with. And it's a good thing. We're stuck with each other for two years.

"Stuck" isn't really the right word. That's more for unusual Uncle Al. "Interested" is one, better word. My classmates are diverse, and it's incredibly cool to learn what they did before landing in this graduate program, and how they got here. "Humbled" is another, better word. My mates seem to be in a perpetual mind-in-full-sponge-mode groove, and I feel like a clanky "uh, but wait..." screech owl. I was always one of the annoying straight-A students at any grade level, and the top-tier performers in my corporate life. I sailed through last fall's prerequisite courses (which feels like a decade ago at the moment). But the adjustment from that track record to this full-time adult student/life performance, has been humbling. Both my mentor and academic advisor - who are each also 30/40-something career-change-with children people - shared how their adjustment to this program was as funky as mine has been so far. No excuses....these young men and women are intellectual studs, and I hope they're contagious.

Now, there's another whole category to describe these guys. "Fighters"? "Huge-hearted"? "Vocational soulmates"? "How's their lunch box so much cooler than mine"? I can't put my finger on it, but there's a deep, alive, love-of-live-and-others vibe across this group. For example.....I hope he doesn't mind but one classmate - let's call him the "Resilient as Hell K", is getting brain cancer treatments. He was getting chemo every two weeks throughout this intense summer agenda, and knocking it (all of it) out of the park. He still owes me a Five Guys burger (WITH, fries), but I think I owe him a little more. Other classmates, they're also managing families and paying mortgages. And others are still in that starting-to-build-a-grownup-life phase....which is hard to do. And while the under 30-somethings way outnumber the overs....the unders don't seem to care about age, and don't seem to care that some of us tend to look like soccer moms. But they do care about being in this program, and the patients they'll help soon. We all have that in common.....the need to help people grab back some of the most meaningful parts of their lives.

If that's not cool, I don't know what is.

Now the other group? The dead ones? They were, are, were, are....sigh....the cadaver donors in our anatomy lab. Which is where we spent 5-6 days a week, and a good part of each of those days. I've been married, I've had an intensely close relationship with someone I thought would be husband #2. I've changed diapers and survived toddler vomit and wiped poo-ey butts and blown clogged noses. I helped my Dad with, "ahem", in the months before he died. But I've never been as physically intimate with a human body as I have the last two months.....and with more than one (gasp), and, one was female (gasp).

It's hard to explain the cadaver lab. And it might be just as hard to explain how people cope with it. The first day was terrifying. Really, it was probably the 20 minutes before punching the secret lab code for the first time, that was terrifying. Pre-initiation visit things, and smells, build in your mind...scary, gory, horror movie special effect kinds of things and smells. But within a few minutes after meeting our dead instructors - I don't know what else to call them - and realizing that they wouldn't rise up from the gurney to grab and strangle us, it was KIND of, okay. The groovy music in the background didn't hurt. But not one of us really touched on that first day. A few maybe - me included - did on day 2. By the third day we were able to joke a little, and had acclimated to that singular smell, and had our hands pretty well covered in lab goop.

Daily, we learned more about our donors' lives what they had suffered with, and what ultimately killed them. Which was fine, if we didn't get too cozy. So we gave them nicknames. And then picked and probed and marveled, and learned. Muscles, bones, nerves, ligaments and tendons, organs, nerves, joints, arteries and veins, hearts and lungs, vertebrae, brains, more damn NERVES. Big Bert the Bricklayer and his descending aorta, and the "triple-A" that had sent him to the lab. Bert had been over 300 pounds while alive, and it wasn't hard to see the strain that had put on his body. Butt Guy was in telephone sales and had great musculature. I hope people told him that when he was alive. Skinny Minnie grandma had been an administrative assistant all the years she battled heart procedures, and cancer. She had petite everything, but something tells me that she was a top-notch professional and someone to contend with. And Juicy Jim....he was.....'enough said.

Other than that they were in Chris's lab, the one thing they all had in common was their human body. I can tell you, after having spent the better part of two months learning every part and relationship and function, that it's the most impossibly, beautifully-designed instrument. Ever. Without a bit of waste. Everything should be put together this fabulously and efficiently. Whatever your spiritual inclinations are, I wouldn't be a bit shocked if someone entered the lab a God/Higher Being/Intelligent Designer skeptic, and left it convinced otherwise. You want high-tech high-end sexy beautiful machinery designed by Man (uh, or Woman)? Go buy a Maserati. You want a high-tech high-end sexy beautiful instrument designed by God/Higher Being/Intelligent Designer? Look down. Or in the mirror. We are amazing. Value it.

So this summer, and these classmates, and this lab, became a weirdly intimate and kind of reverent place. And I started to become a different kind of professional.

Thanks Guys. Thanks, Chris.

Off Schedule is Onto Something

As a Girl With a Twist I'm a little off the schedule, that everyone else seems to be on. I was the tallest kid in class, until the boys finally caught up in 10th grade (apart from Mr. Robert Stonewall Mitchell, that is). I bought a Hyundai nine years ago. My first real, lip-on-lip kiss was from another six-year-old (the very cute and happenin' David Tokas) while we rode bikes. My bosom is just blossoming, now. At 46. At this rate my menopausal years will probably kick in just as I'm recovering from my retirement party.

So of course, it's a personal law that I go back to school a third time. At 46. In June, which is either 9 months behind or 3 months ahead of everyone else, depending on your mood. It's not really my choice. The graduate program I'm about to begin just happens to have a very Girl With a Twist-like schedule.

I'm not complaining one bit. I'm fortunate and thankful beyond belief, for this career-change chance. Especially since the new career is just about one of the most gratifying vocations I can imagine being a part of. It's occupational therapy, which isn't the workplace occupation it sounds like (I'm not certain who was in charge of naming, but I wouldn't be surprised if their dogs were named Fluffy and Meowy .) "Occupation" here, are the purposeful activities that are motivating to someone and in a therapy setting, "occupation" will help someone recover physical and cognitive function that's been impaired because of injury, or illness, or disability.

How really amazing, is that? I haven't quite begun yet but I already know that I would do this, for free.

I won't have to, which my Mom and others are happy to know. I could recite data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and other sources about the job stability and growth outlook for occupational therapists (OTs). It's good (very). I could also repeat the colossally positive OT job satisfaction polls I've read, and later heard from the OTs I worked with last fall. And, OTs are well-paid regardless of where they practice. So, all of these things kind of could make someone think, that I was really really strategic about making this choice.

But in twist-like tradition, I wasn't. Not a bit. What I was, was (is), a sucker for a job that's as close to being a professional volunteer as there might be. And, to being a lifelong student. Which you don't have to pay tuition to be.

So, take a chance. Give your rational, externally-influenced mind a break and do what serves your soul. Then you'll really be onto something, even if it throws you off schedule.

Thanks, Mr.Tokas.

Danny

My friend Danny will be graduating soon, then heading to Duquesne University this fall. I admire him for lots of reasons - he's worked harder than most people do to reach this point, he respects and loves his family and friends, he relates quickly and easily to everyone he meets, and he's a hell of a dancer. He's human sunshine. Danny has Down Syndrome, but I don't think anyone would mind if it were renamed Up, for him.

In a week or so he'll graduate from the school program that's he's been part of, and then walk with the the other graduates from the high school he would've gone to, if he weren't "Up". And then, just like a lot of his classmates, he'll go to college. His parents and older brother have cultivated a normal life that Danny contributes to, like anyone else.

And no one, contributes exactly like he does.

For example, Danny and his Dad (Jeff, a good friend) came to help dig me out from under Snowmageddon a few months ago. Jeff's enormous snow blower broke through, but Danny's wild "WOOOOO, yeeaaahhhh!!" shoveling kept us far out ahead of any thought of stopping. I mean, who could quit on that? That boy has some lungs, muscles, and a huge heart. He knew my Mom needed rescuing and wouldn't let us stop until I could back down the driveway. He also wanted to show off his upper-body strength. Did he, ever.

Last week he knocked on my door on prom night....showing off his look, as suave as could be, swinging his fancy cane, and excited for the night of dancing with his date and friends. He blushed when I kissed him, but didn't hesitate to smack me back. A few nights later he was off to another year-end school formal, looking just as debonair.....but his graduation party in a few weeks should be 'island casual'. It's MUCH easier to dance, in cargo shorts and funky sneakers.

I'm starting school a few months earlier than Danny will be heading off to his Duquesne University program. I'm ready, I'm excited, and I'm anxious about some things. Danny, is ready, he's excited, but he is not wasting his energy thinking or worrying too far forward. He's too focused on today's activities and pleasures to bother much with nerves. I only have some sense of what his school day is like, but I am absolutely sure that it's packed with the same attention to this very minute, and curiosity, and laughs, that his hangout time is.

So, what if I - or any of us - were more like Danny? Aside from having a closet full of cool Hawaiian shirts and a bitching CD dance collection, we'd also.....

Know that whatever is happening right now this minute, is just fine.....take people as they are and give them a chance, even if they have a hard time understanding you.....eat as many s'mores as you like because you don't get them everyday.....not hold back anything, ever (even the occasional gassy stuff).....help.....not apologize for what you feel deeply but do say "sorry" if it's insincere (No, Faking, says Dan)......let your guard down, people won't disappoint you.....don't let the worst version of yourself (which will turn up once in awhile) stick around too long.....hold onto pure love if it's offered from others.....dress up when it's time, dress down when you can......and always, lay down the boogie and play that funky music til you die.

You think you can dance? Dan knows he can.

So, Dan is at school now and will get off the bus this afternoon, asking how my day was before heading into his home to see how everyone else's day went. And, getting ready to be a college man....AFTER, making sure that today is done, well.

You're the man, Dan.

The "nap-read-repeat" Experiment, and other Year One Thoughts

Sigh....the Mellon Arena (forever lovingly, The Igloo) will be quiet, my stunning 16-year-old niece is quickly looking forward to life after Beaver Sr. High School, my Mom's 73rd birthday was yesterday, lots of high-school graduation parties. It's kind of a reflective time, so I'm looking back.

Just a little. Just a year. I'm geeky that way.

It's been about a year since I lost a job with a company I loved for most of my time there, with people there I still love. But I'm about to start a two-year graduate program in a field that so far, seems so gratifying that I can't believe my luck in having the opportunity. So, I want to check-in with myself, and record some of the things I learned between the two events. Geeky, I know. But, I just want to remember that.....

• Even though some other careers sounded equally gratifying, I chose the right one.


• I can share a work bathroom with four healthily gassy men. And, a spider.


• There's a huge value in being income-poor. The financial restrictions of planning full-time studenthood have helped me appreciate more what I already have, and get creative about how I spend what I can. Just ask the mailman, who liked his homemade Christmas gift so much that he gave me a homemade, "you really shouldn't have" card in return.


• Certain people are irreplaceable. So I'll be less full, if the bond breaks.


• How to be lazy: work hard and be busy, so that you actually salivate and dive passionately into idleing time. Laziness, in doses...the best. Especially, with a fellow idler.


• Cheerleaders are everywhere. People really do want other people to succeed.


• Caring for and being with others is boatloads better, than hyper self-absorption.


• The garage will probably stay the creepy spider haven that it is. I will rip up carpeting, I will change light fixtures and toilet seats, I will paint, I will prune big trees with big scary pruners. But that garage, will wait for my future husband - wherever you are, darlin.


• I would've loved being a stay-at-home Mom. But I also love work outside of home. Am I really that unspecialized? Maybe, I'm just really lucky.


• The garbage men will take anything, for a few bottles of water and a little appreciative sweet talk. And, homemade cookies.


• The Allard School crossing guard is really Santa Claus. He HAS to be.

Now the other thing, was the Idler experiment. You know, because a few of you've been asking how the "nap-read-eat-read-read-nap..." plan has gone. It sounded great back in January but right after that, I started working lots of part-time hours, and endlessly shoveling snow. So I didn't truly try idleing until last week. And I can tell you, I took it too far. So.....

• How not to be lazy: Extreme Idleing, as done last week. It annoyed the HELL out of me. I had no part-time job accountability, avoided people, and ignored anything other than basic life functions, some frenzied tree-pruning for garbage day, and, the confused dogs. By Wednesday I was a self-certified sloth, and couldn't start a coherent thought or utter a meaningful sentence. Probably because I laid awake all night after too many daytime naps (so, sadly, no young David Cassidy dreams). A few friends told me I was "off" and seemed worried that I'd turned into a sleep-deprived 14-year-old boy. So, thanks, SO much for the mid-afternoon calls to make sure I'm now not sprawled on the couch, or patio, or, your front lawn.

So, experiment interruptus. Or at least, revised protocolus. Back to "normal" activities. Which means I'm back to being girl-with-a-twist, sleeping through the night, then unleashing whatever I usually unleash on the world at large.

And, so darn thankful, for all of it.

There's a Fine Line Between Anal and Retentive

The show-of-hands was kind of fun the last time, so let's do it again. How many of you have a love/hate relationship with your favorite local TV weather person? Okay, more than I expected. Well, you shouldn't feel guilty about it. And you won't, after this.

This morning it occurred to me I could be the best local weather forecaster ever, but unfortunately I'd need the entire news time slot to share it. It's a curse, the need to share the full story in all its guts and glory. It's my Dad's DNA, in me. I know it. My Dad was a great talker, with one of those silvery voices you wouldn't mind listening to all day long. And we did.

Daughter: Happy Retirement Day One, Dad. How was it?

Dad: Aw, thanks honey. It was busy...first your Mother and I had breakfast together. You know, that great breakfast casserole she makes when we have company. Except this time she used Canadian bacon instead of sausage. I think she usually uses Bob Evans sausage but maybe she didn't have the coupon for that. But anyway, it was SO good. So good. I had to have two plates because I haven't had a breakfast like that on a weekday for so long. Wow, I better take a good long walk tomorrow. Maybe I'll just drive down to the Trail since it's nice and flat. This neighborhood is SO hilly, you know. Which is probably what I need but I'm not so sure about my knees anymore. Anyway, after breakfast I.......

Daughter, 37 minutes later: Dad, I'm glad lunch was so good, too. I hate to stop but I have an early day tomorrow. Can I call you then? Love you.

Dad: Wha? Oh, yes! Of course. I forgot you're my corporate girl. Which reminds me......

So what's this got to do with the weather?

This morning when I woke up I expected to hear horrific hail, and to see that my neighbors' minivan had landed in my driveway. And I'd planned all sorts of indoor projects because MY LOCAL WEATHERMAN SAID IT WOULD BE CLOUDY AND STORMY, ALL DAY. The perfect day, for indoor things. So instead, I woke to the kind of partly sunny skies and brittle breeze that make me antsy, and more likely to take a roadtrip, or transplant large shrubbery....anything outdoors. Which is exactly what I did. I'm sure it was cloudy and stormy all day someplace in southwestern Pennsylvania. It just wasn't anywhere near me.

That's when I imagined that this Dad curse, could make me the most reliable and helpful weather girl anyone has ever seen. Because I could tell folks......

"North-northeastern quadrant 11, you'll start seeing sprinkles at 6:48 Monday morning. That's a little atypical for you all but I expect that time advance due to all the hot air - originating in the southwestern quadrants 63-74 where the Tea Party rally is tonight - pushing quickly your way. But, 11, showers will also end before the elementary school kids start their walk to school at 8:13am, so leave the slickers at home."

or,

"Now, looking at the 5-day forecast for Wyngate Drive addresses 128-143, the best times to plant those tomatoes will be Tuesday between 3:28 and 6:59 pm, and anytime Friday afternoon. Remember, tomato plants love warm soil and mildly breezy conditions, which you'll have in spades during those times. Wyngate 101-127, the breezes just won't be there for you then due to the topographical features of that darn hill, so don't try to plant just because the others are. Happy planting Carol!"

It's the Curse. Like Father, like Daughter.

It's been worse since going back to school. Last fall I was in anatomy-physiology/biochemistry course pre-work, which just might be the worst thing for someone like me. The terminology for body parts and processes and other fun things, are lengthy. It's detailed and exacting and takes forever to write, and even longer to speak it. And, we were allowed - encouraged - to blah-blah-blah all of it.

So the Dad curse is a kind of glossopharyngealorrhea.....just think, "oral discharge". Which means if I actually were a weather person, we might just have a hate/love relationship.

But I'm just a girl, with a twist. And a curse. So tolerant love/love mail only, please.

Love you, Dad.

What Would David Cassidy Do?

How many of you dream at night? All right, good, I'm counting lots of hands. Now, how many of your dreams are relatively straightforward and logical? I see very few hands going down. All right. Now, how many of you have crazily vivid, sensory, action-packed, nonsensical dreams, night, after night, after night? Uh....okay....just a few of us. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.

That very scientific poll doesn't say much. We all have wacky dreams once in awhile. Some of my friends don't remember dreaming at all, which might have something to do with trying to feed 2.8 kids, 1.4 pets, and .78 husbands (again, very scientific statistical medians) and get out the door on time each morning. But most admit to having some crazy dreams once in awhile. Which helps me to feel a little less....unusual. Because compared to others my dreams have always been a little deviant. I say that because when pulled into a dream conversation, the others always seem to want to offer helpful suggestions for my rehabilitation.

Take this past week. David Cassidy paid a visit to woo me while on a camping trip. We got caught by my Dad heading to first base (you know....), but my Dad seemed to be cool with it once David assured him it was okay because, he's something like, 77 years old now. Even though he looked like young David Cassidy. Then we chopped wood. Last night, I filmed advertising spots for soup, with various celebrities slurping and tangoing because it was SO good. Martha Stewart can gyrate with the best of them. She sticks out because she also sang Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. She cannot sing with the best of them, just so you know. Not long after that I was in a van driven by a childhood friend's Mom when police sirens and a blackout stopped all traffic by the mall. Then we all saw why.....the enormous Mother Ship was hovering over J.C. Penney's and appeared to be ready to suck up the feisty ones. So of course my friend's Mom turned the headlights back on and floored it because, you know, minivans have been known to outrun advanced intergalactic spacecraft. I don't remember what happened when we got to the tunnel but we survived because, not long after, I was borrowing my ex-husband's sister's shampoo to shave my legs. That's just what you do.

I am not making that up. Those are the normal, printable parts from the last few nights. The rest.....

See why I wake up tired sometimes?

There's no point in trying to find meaning or purpose in these things. They're just curious and kind of entertaining. Sometimes I just wish I knew that other people were having similar, consistently whacked-out dream experiences.

So, join the club and share some of your kookiest dreams. Maybe we'll discover that the Mother Ship visits more people than I realized. And David Cassidy? He lives on to woo more unsuspecting women in the throes of REM.

Sleep tight.

Ed Grimley Visits Suburbia

While walking the dogs this morning I saw an oddly-shaped man ahead of us, walking himself. Really quickly. I guess his shape wasn't the actual kooky-looking thing. It was more that he walked with a very noticeable pelvic-thrust, like Ed Grimley, and wore a white t-shirt and bright blue shorts pulled up to his nipples, like my Uncle Joe used to (which, I loved about him). But it was really his black socks and shiny black shoes that got me wondering a few things, like.....who was this memorable-looking man? Where was he headed on a frosty morning without his long pants? And, why haven't non-perturbative string theory formulations progressed beyond a divergent series of spacetime approximations?

I tried to catchup to chilly Mr. Grimley, not because I'm competitive or anything (wink), but I needed to see where he was going, or belonged. This would've been much easier, without two somewhat large dogs who were much more interested in checking-in on their favorite pee-poles and staring down a variety of critters. Which apparently can only be done while at a complete stop lasting at least 19 seconds. I've clocked it - I know.

Unfortunately Mr. Grimley didn't need to stop for anything. Even a pee pole (thankfully, I suppose). Maybe he was too cold to linger along his route. But by the time the dogs and I crested the hill and rounded the corner he'd just thrust his pelvis around, he was gone.

So sad. Until he resurfaces - if ever - I won't know if he made it safely to his destination. And where that would've been. Which just meant imagining one of these possibilities......

• Mr. Grimley is a renowned speed walker training for an Alpine-based world championship, by thrusting himself up and down the dreaded Madison Drive hill across the road from my house. I didn't check the bottom of the hill but if he's still there, I'm afraid the wild turkey flocks got him.


• Or....he's in the Witness Protection Program after blowing his undercover assignment as a Goldman Sachs informant. So hiding in Western Pennsylvania should work out just fine for him....apparently certain professional athletes do it all the time.


• Maybe I caught him in a morning after Walk of Shame. Which he deserved, for wearing that Uncle Joe outfit for his date the night before. Just ANOTHER reason I need to avoid match.com.

And oh gosh....so many more possibilities.

So until the next sighting, I'll keep imagining what Ed Grimley-dressed-as-Uncle Joe, was doing in extreme suburbia.

Don't you say.....

Boys Will be Men

For some reason I've always had an easy time with guys. I don't mean eeeasy (get your mind out of there). I mean, comfortable, natural. Many girls and women have been precious friends and influencers and allies, and continue to be. I don't know what I'd do without my Mom and sisters' unique way of relating and knowing, or the varied and many facets of my friends' experiences and perspectives. There is nothing like the connection of a long-time girl friend who may be your opposite on some levels - Cyn, I will never, ever, walk through a Sephora again - but who can provide such sentimental memories as sneaking me a post-marathon beer and hugging my sweaty butt.

But you GUYS. You bring a sometimes foreign but completely welcome twist to friendship. And it doesn't have everything to do with your preoccupation with bodily functions, though that's part of it.

For example, my current co-workers. Til May, I work 20-25 hours each week at a running store with a bunch of fabulous running dudes. With me, they love talking sports, talking Man vs. Food, talking silliness (how many "fart-oops-it's-poop-pants-while-running" stories can you handle hearing?), and doing silliness (how many creative burps can you witness?). But they're also each smart, witty, and - they'll THROTTLE me - sensitive. Not sappy-sensitive. Just acutely aware and appreciative sensitive. They're all 20-or-30 something and love being boys, but they're also mature beyond their years about certain things. They unabashedly love their wives and protect that pact with everything they've got. They relish and protect their friendships. They know themselves well, and understand and abide by their personal boundaries better than I do mine. They easily empathize with the struggles of the folks who walk through the store doors. And they're COOL. Completely unpretentious, and uncensored.

I've loved my time with them, just being a girl (with a twist). They just let me BE. Because of them I've laughed hard the last few months, learned how not to fill out an NCAA bracket, and re-connected with a few important personal precepts I think I'd moved a little too far away from. I have no idea if I've added anything to their lives except a sure-fire way to cure hiccups, and how to win a pizza-eating contest. But I'll take my lessons from them with lots of gratitude, and the laughs with a few hiccups here and there.

The fabulous running dudes are just the latest of the many fabulous guys I've been lucky to know over the years (you know who you are). And all of you marvelous dudes have taught me things I might not've let the equally marvelous girls in my life teach me. Girls get "this", guys get "that". Between both, I'm covered. I'm not sure why. It's just happened that way.

So boys and men, thanks. And running store dudes, I'll miss being with your comfortable, gassy selves on such a regular basis.

Lesson learned.

Girl With a Twist Meets Dr. Awesome

It's only been a month or so since Girl With a Twist hit match.com, but I'm ready to admit it: I STINK, at online dating. With a real, rotting-carcass-in-the-chimney kind of stink.

I truly did join match.com with a new, "just say yes" mindset, which so far has led to encounters such as:

DUDE169: u have a really gr8 profile. i luuuv ur pics. do u like my pics?

Girl With a Twist: Thanks. Your profile was, um, out of the ordinary. And that was a very different profile picture. Not too many guys can take their own picture while driving a golf ball. Did that hurt?

DUDE: nah. but i went to the doctor after taking the bench pressing pic. it was worth it..... i look awesome

Girl: Yes, Dr. Awesome, that is quite a photo. #26, I think.

DUDE: nah, 26 thru 31 show me dressed up looking hot with my wife. uh, my ex-wife, i mean. wanna hook up at the gym? u could spot me. then i could show u more pics.

Girl: Oops, the toilet is overflowing. Gotta run.....!

Now, I am all for healthy egos. I love them. My irrepressible nine-year-old nephew - the REAL Dr. Awesome - has one that keeps me laughing, and loving him for his sheer joy at being. But that is something that can only be appreciated "live"......truly, nine-year-old Dr. Awesome just wouldn't translate as well in two dimensions as he does in your face. So for someone like me, who needs to see it, touch it, smell it (the guy, not the carcass) before dating it, online matching is about as appealing as pulling 23 ticks from a large, squirmy, long-haired dog. As drama-and-diva-free as I hope I am, it's just way too easy for me to shut-down a two-dimensional opportunity over something trivial. Like 43 self-shot vanity photos.

So stinking at this is actually okay, because over the last month I've had a lot of laughs - mostly at myself - and I've reconnected with my dating mojo. And if even a small percentage of the men online are legitimately single, then I've also learned that there are many more available men in Southwestern Pennsylvania than there are black bears. Which until recently I wouldn't have thought.

Which brings me to....meeting Dr. Awesome. My match. The adult version. I haven't met him yet, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to happen online. Which means Girl With a Twist needs to take the new, open, "just say yes" attitude on the road. Single friends have been alerted, and are maybe a little alarmed. I mean, it's been a long time since any of us have undertaken a targeted, let's-meet-Dr. Awesome mission.

But this might be a little bit different than my friends expect. The Dr. A roadtrip doesn't mean going to every happy hour and saying yes! to anyone who buys me a chardonnay. None of us want to become the newest Texts From Last Night girl.

So I guess the heart of this is....paying attention. A whole lot more. To the encounters I have in the running store, and while volunteering, and at the Home Depot, and yes....while out to drinks or dinners or activities with my friends and family. Maybe that will help me really see the authentic things I can wholeheartedly connect with, instead of discarding opportunities because they don't fit my tiny little framework.

Girl With a Twist is ready. Are you, Dr. Awesome?

Girl, With a Twist

Timeout! It's such a simple concept, with so many applications. Some of my friends have used it with variable success to discipline their kids, though I always felt awful when Thomas the Tank engine and his friends were put into timeout instead of the little boy who'd just used Percy to whack his little sister between the eyes. TV timeouts are another debatable thing. And I don't know anyone who loves that the last two minutes of some college basketball games can take foreeeeeever to go by, thanks to team timeouts every possession or two.

I really shouldn't bitch about very very, long timeouts, since I'm just finishing one. I started a dating timeout last July after a promising relationship ended. I haven't counted days (I'm saving that for the end of this five-month vacation), but that's a seven month-plus break from any sort of me+guy-in-a-relationship effort.

It might've started - the little dating seed in my head - when an online scholarship search got me so frustrated that I almost went to confession after dropping the F-bomb about 37 times a minute for the better part of an afternoon. Those search results were sooooo imbecilic, all I could think was that even a dating website could produce more actionable results than the scholarship folks. So I did a match.com search, and confirmed that scholarship-matching sites should just stop trying to connect left-handed guys named McGillen with southwestern community colleges offering duck-calling grants to right-handed people of British royal descent. It's just not gonna happen.

But online matching? That, most definitely, can. At least I can add to match.com's forced inputs by writing a respectable "in my own words" introduction. So I visited match.com and, a "Girl With a Twist" was born. Or, unleashed. About two weeks ago.

This time, I made a commitment to be much more open-minded about the possibilities. That means respecting where my potential matches are coming from, and no passing up men because they're shorter than 5'10, older than 49, occasionally misspell words, or have unfortunate screen names such as "LOoking4U", "How4everFeels" (um, endless?), and, "DUDE".

I wish I could say I've honored the promise but so far, I've said "no thanks" to an earnest Emerson-quoting 57-year-old retiree in D.C., an excitable gentleman who added an "!!" to the end of every phrase, a 5'9" atheist who took a little issue with my spirituality and humor, and, others. For varying slightly picky but completely defensible reasons (honest, Mom). I just honestly can't see myself eventually meeting a guy who last read a book during President Reagan's first term, or only eats white foods. I mean....a girl's gotta read, and gotta eat. A lot.

So maybe a little compromise is in order now. I should look, I should learn, I should respond, but I should not pretend that tattooed free-spirited road-trippin' "DUDE" is really going to be interested in my career change, or that my heart will be captured by a man who has the edge of Winnie the Pooh.

I am a Girl With a Twist. So help me God.

The Truth About Teaching Old Dogs, New Tricks

More or less, for the last 37 years I've had a dog or two in my life. All have been wonderful animals who earned lots of "good boy" or "girl"s, as dog-praising goes. For the most part they were rescued and adopted from questionable circumstances, so they weren't exactly up-to-speed with basic commands. But when faced with "NO" they seemed to understand to stop whatever unsavory activity they were up to, no matter how completely occupied they were by it. Even the slightly demented five-year-old springer spaniel my former husband brought home one day - he chased his little tail stub BACKWARDS (the dog, not the husband) - knew to stop, even though it probably took a few dozen "NO"s and a Milk Bone.

I have two dogs now, both shelter rescues adopted at older ages. Snoopy (Dog 1) is nine now, and Reesie (#2) is five. They're wonderful dogs....curious and pokey as puppies still, sweet-souled, eager to play and to please, love to walk and run and hike, and love to eat even more. But inevitably they do things, which usually are much more laughable than they are scold-worthy. Until recently. I think they're deep into cabin fever, because they've started doing two things that are driving me ab-so-lute-ly nuts.

The first, I actually can't blame them for because it's partly my fault. Plus, if I were a dog, I'd do it every chance I got. This week they disappeared into the acres of woods surrounding my Mom's home, and ignored every call and bribe to come back. This was inconvenient, since my sole role was to get my Mom to the hospital for surgery and help with various post-operative things. I knew the dogs would be fine - we could hear lots of happy barking and other dog-chasing-critter activity way in the distance - and would eventually stagger back, gasping, exhausted, happy, and hungry. But they chose the romp over food bribes and quite honestly, ME....and, my pride took a little blow. My Mom took this with great humor. And yes, the dogs limped back, totally thrilled with themselves and their adventure. So I was actually happy for them (even though Dog 2 still smells a little weird). It's just that the next time we ventured into the yard, they were ready to take off again, and ignore me. So I kept them leashed, and felt a little badly for spoiling their next romp. We're back home and they're still exploring every nook in the fenced back yard but, in my mind, they seem a little disappointed.

Which brings me to the next thing. The other activity that's almost sent me running from the cabin (as in, fever) is something a friend has described as, "turdsicles". You KNOW what I mean.

The dogs eat them. Apparently, turdsicles are the irresistible snack choice of dogs who are not ever ever going to be near starving, and know exactly when they'll get their next meal. They're all over the yard now, because it's impossible to keep up with poop-scooping the backyard during prolonged snow emergencies, when we're not taking the same long walks during which the poop-scooping typically happens. I don't mean to spoil your appetite, but Snoopy never showed interest in these until Reesie came along, and now he's shadowing her, and both are filling up on them faster than I can get the NOs! out. This has not hurt my pride. It just makes me want to figure out how I can make dogs gargle before they lick me and everyone who pays a visit.

Both of these things have helped me to realize that my use of dog commands, really kind of stinks big ones.

So, if turdsicles are to NO what kryptonite is to Superman (old Mr. Boettcher would've liked that analogy), and woodland adventures are impervious to ME, then maybe I should try a different approach to them. Which is why I'm thinking the "Leave it" command might work just fine. If you click that "leave it", you'll find the online training guide I found to try. It outlines seven steps, starting with a "willing" dog in step 1. Since the training involved food rewards, I felt pretty good about the willing dog part.

This looked simple and completely do-able. I didn't see much to be concerned about except that maybe I wouldn't find a "jackpot" treat, since these dogs eat everything offered in the same ravenously, joyful way. But some leftover meatloaf seemed like a perfectly good jackpot treat so I took some of that, and started with Dog 2.

And, ended with Dog 2. Reesie got it, quickly, and moved right into the "behavior generalization" of step 7. With Snoopy, however, we were stuck on the "....your dog will probably look up at you in a quizzical, puzzled manner" described in step 3 or 4. I think because he knows I'm a sucker, and frankly, because he's nine and doesn't give a damn about my new commands. He's still an obedient boy and good listener, but I'm noticing in the last year he's become a little more like my Irish Grandpa was....dead set on enjoying the few small vices he has, no matter what anyone else thinks about it.

So, I'm not going to fuss about turdsicles anymore, and will be sure to find safe, open spaces where they can run free and explore.

I think Snoopy just taught me a new trick. Good Boy.....

My Mom, the Sherpa

My Mom became an honorary Sherpa last week.

Okay...technically that might be stretching it a little bit, since her long gravel driveway and steep front yard are about as far from the Himalayan region as I am from ever being carded again at the wine and spirits store. But I think she deserves a loving hug (or twenty) because she was such a trouper during Pittsburgh's recent "snow-maggedon".

Wait. You say missed it? "Snow-pocalypse"? I'm really happy for you if you did. Honestly. Because right now I feel like starting a snowball fight with the snowplow man who has single-handedly built and rebuilt Mt. Dover (my street's name) at the end of my driveway, for almost 2 weeks now. I'm not mad at him - he's doing a really GREAT job of clearing everything else - just very, very sore. I should stop shoveling, hide my dogs' toys inside Mt. Dover, and let them dig right through just as they're doing in the back yard.....after they've returned from scaling the fence because the snow is so high.

But that's a different story. This, is about my Mom.

She is a trouper. This shouldn't surprise me because her Dad was a warm and strong Irish steelworker, and her Mom a gutsy, beautiful Ukranian...and ahead of her time. My Grandma was born in 1910, worked in a candy factory after high school, and moved to Washington D.C. at 19 to work as an administrator in a government agency. My Mom's extended family all seemed to have similar stories - nothing seemed to phase them. As my Grandpa used to say...."everyone's got to eat a peck of dirt before they die". And so they did.

My Mom was accomplished and independent at a young age. Maybe it was the combination of my grandparent's trust and her resourcefulness and determination, but as a pre-teen, my Mom would hop the trolley from McKeesport into Oakland for her Tam-O-Shanter art classes each week, and make her way without adult supervision for her other regular extra-curricular activities, too.

She quit her job at KDKA-TV after having her first child, and started to apply all of that creativity and resourcefulness to home and family. She did all of the typical Mom things. But she did it with gleaming gusto. My Mom created a warm and wonderful home, managed the finances, investments, car maintenance and repairs, and the schedules of three active girls. Plus, my Dad. She usually fed at least two extra kids who were at our house each day, and rescued our dog from whatever game we tried to involve him in. And, my Mom learned the little ins and outs of basic plumbing, gardening, landscaping, household repairs....she would've looked great in an appropriately feminine toolbelt, if she'd ever thought to get one. My Dad would've loved that, maybe even as much as he loved her legs!

During really snowy winters, she and my Dad took turns climbing the roof to shovel snow, and to steer our boat of a station wagon through nearly impassable South Hills roads to fetch us from school when the buses couldn't. Mom also made a very respectable snowman, wonderful snow angels, and the best hot chocolate and mac 'n cheese on snowy playdays. I don't remember what year, but one wicked January when we lost power for 3 or 4 days, my family moved to the basement with our sleeping bags, a pack or two of hot dogs, and wood for the fire we used to cook and for warmth. I have no idea how the poor dog managed his business, but we all managed just fine. And we had a blast.

So why did I worry so much when the recent storm zapped her home's power? Even though she managed all that? Even though I knew we'd "rescue" her and bring her to one of our homes?

Well, I didn't worry because she's faint-hearted, literally or figuratively. My Mom may look like a merry Irish elf, but she has a physical and emotional stamina that I hope I've inherited. She still manages the home and property we all moved to 38 years ago, volunteers with her parish and works all of their festivals, meets friends and relatives for monthly breakfasts and roadtrips, and flies to visit the high-school friends she's still very close to. And she does Zumba - which I haven't - she does yoga - which I haven't - and she does aerobics - which I've sworn off since a regrettable step-class incident a few years ago (that, is another story).

My Mom hasn't lost any of the ladylike gusto with which she has always approached her life. So maybe I worried because she has lost so much else, including my Dad three years ago. But she probably wouldn't see it that way. She'd say she's gained the enormous benefits of the experiences and relationships, not lost them.

So she lost her power and was "rescued", and stayed here til things at home started to hum again. She never got angry with Allegheny Power. Instead, for almost a week we hugged good morning and goodnight, read the paper, shared crosswords, drank lots of coffee, shared the pleasures of Steak 'n Shake (my Mom, an S & S virgin no more!), rubbed dogs' bellies, made big breakfasts and dinners and sipped way too much tawny port (her favorite), laughed about long-ago snow-mageddons, and giggled about her very cute Valentine's Day socks. And lots of other things. Really, we had a blast.

And when it was time to get her back home my Mom trekked through the two feet of snow still on her long gravel driveway - twice back and forth - inspected the house and the pipes, turned her water back on, and marveled that her car started right up. I think she could've hot-wired something if it hadn't. And driving home I realized I'd stopped worrying the minute we first showed up to liberate her from a freezing home, when she'd marched through all that snow to my car like Buddy the Elf, as though this was just another adventure to savor. With her Valentine's socks remembered, and packed.

So, my Mom lost her power. And I gained a week of dear experiences, and a deeper appreciation for her stamina and spirit.

Cheers to you, Mom. And thank you, Allegheny Power.

More Cowbell, Please....

The Olympics are here. The Olympics are here. The O-LYM-PIIIICS.....!

Sorry, for shouting.

I'm about to be a very very very, happy though-fiscally-restricted-grad student. The Olympic Cauldron at the Vancouver 2010 Olympic games will be lit on Friday February 12th, which means I'll be unavailable for anything apart from basic daily living functions (and my job) until the Closing Ceremonies on February 28th. That's over two weeks of my Facebook friends not knowing how to respond to my posts about the Men's Curling Round Robin Session 11 action, or the St. Moritz hotelier who created bobsledding in the late 1800s.

Olympic Games, why do I love you so much?

My family has always been a little nuts for the Games, both Summer and Winter. As kids we even created our version of the Summer games one weekend, at my maternal grandparent's house. Events included the Milk Dud Relay, which involved rolling a sad little Milk Dud across the ground with your nose while hands tied-behind your back, and, Bike Hurdling, which involved multiple injury timeouts. My sisters, cousins and I re-named ourselves so that we could represent as many nationalities as possible, which resulted in many memorable monikers such as, "Yucca Plucca" (I believe she was Romanian), "Ima DeFastust" (Welsh, maybe?), and, "Ken" (sigh...my cousin, no creativity at that age). My Ukrainian great-grandmother, who lived with my grandparents, was still alive then. She watched us with shining eyes, clapping and nodding even though I'm sure we confused her a little bit. My grandparents and parents, uncles and aunts, even the next-door-neighbors, gave us free access to property and props. The only adult-dictated rule I remember is that we try not to get ourselves killed by accidently plunging down the formidably-steep, tree-studded hill on one side of the house.

I have no idea who won what - Yucca Plucca still claims gold-medal victories in all of her events (she's 44, her memory is shot) - but I do know that we competed hard, laughed non-stop, and that the adults celebrated it all with us. Even my Uncle Joe, who could fall asleep at a monster truck pull, stayed awake to officiate.

But that was Summer. And I LOVE summer. So why do the Winter Games do if for me a little more? Is it the mammoth crush I had on Eric Heiden and his thighs? Coach Herb Brooks, Mark Johnson, Mike Eruzione, Jim Craig, and the rest of the 1980 U.S. Men's Hockey Team's "miracle" in Lake Placid? And I maaay have had a thing for Alberto Tomba.

Hmmm, pattern here....but there's probably more to it than teen-crush hormones.

Maybe it's the athletes who commit bodies and souls to competing in sometimes obscure winter sports (like, skeleton), which has a "for the love of the game" aspect that I just love. Maybe it's the fantasy winter wonderland venues, that make both the athletes and the spectators seem like other humanly creatures and part of the earth. Maybe I'm just a sucker for neoprene. Whatever the reason, since the 1976 Innsbruck Games I've been worthless between torch lighting and extinguishing (I cry at both), to almost everyone except anyone glued to the tv with me.

But I couldn't watch the '02 Games in Salt Lake City. Because I was IN Salt Lake City. With tickets to some of the most unforgettable sporting events, in unspeakably beautiful venues. Sometimes I still can't believe I was there, watching Lemieux and his Canadian teammates in a bad loss to a very blond (kid you not) Swedish team in the first round (ultimately, they won Gold), Bode Miller literally rip through Deer Valley in a wicked downward manner on his way to Silver, the U.S. Men's Curling team silently edge past Russian and Japanese athletes, hundreds of distance cross-country skiers talk themselves through every wall to finish what they came to do...and others.

And as truly awesome as the events themselves were, the real soul and humor and Olympic experience came from unexpected sources......like standing literally three feet from the cross-country skiers (and their sweat, and their coaches) as they powered through the killer course at gorgeous Soldier's Hollow, hot chili breakfasts, the Jamaican cross-country skier who came in dead last but got the biggest ovation from the thousands of people willing him across the finish (a good hour behind everyone else), cowbells, bare-chested and face-painted U.S. Curling Team fanatics who made more noise in two minutes than a rink full of curlers did in 3 hours, more cowbell, thousands of engaging volunteers with wide open faces who instantly made visitors feel like natives, more yummy hot chili, making instant friends with strangers from all over the world who happened to be sitting or standing near you, soooo many cowbells, the nasty fan-fight two rows ahead of me at the Canada-Sweden hockey game, a day off spent at Antelope Island hiking remote areas and running along the bay (heavenly), sneaking down a sidestreet aside Rice-Eccles Olympic Stadium to stare at the Flame one night (also heavenly). And, too many more little things to recount that all added up to one, awe-inspiring, experience-of-a-lifetime.

So, I've got my Olympic cowbells, chili, hockey puck, and O attitude. I'm completely ready to watch. And to remember to pay attention to little things, too.

C'mon over. There's enough for everyone.

It's Not A Foot Fetish If You Get Paid For It

I get paid to touch and do things to people's feet, sometimes while their loved ones watch. And to inspect feet as their owners walk back and forth like doomed ducks in the arcade shooting game. And, to listen or talk about arches, bunions, toenails, and all sorts of foot-bound things. Honestly, I don't have a fetish. I work at a running store.

I stumbled upon this job, which is not uncommon because I stumble on lots of things. Usually this ends badly, with me icing a throbbing body part (or two) with a bag of frozen blueberries and cursing at the bandaids that never stay where I need them. But I'm lucky. I have months of free time before starting a full-time graduate program in June, and wanted to find a part-time commitment where I'd be useful on the days I didn't have a "read-nap-read-nap-nap" scheduled (it's brutal....I know).

This is a perfect temporary part-time job. It's in a respected, local running store, owned by a former corporate guy who encountered the perfect storm of a brother's untimely death, corporate distaste, love of sports, love of people and community service....all leading to the creation of this store. That is grossly simplifying Kevin's journey from the whitest-collar background to store owner, but ten-plus years later he has a robust business that's much more than just a place to buy running shoes. And now, I'm a little part of it.

I'm a runner (we RUN, not jog), and have loved it for years. The longest I've gone without running is a month, not counting the 6 weeks off to let a broken foot heal. I love it so much I ran a marathon on that broken foot, which some have said makes me a fool. It's sometimes hard to explain to people who ask, that my love of running has nothing to do with fitness. It's a spiritual and emotional necessity, which is why I suppose I generally don't share the actual running with anyone but a very few. So, working in a running store gives me the chance to hangout with and help others who have the running bug, too. These store visitors, and my new co-workers, and the store's approach to its visitors, are all wonderful.

So, I'm feeling it's time for an inaugural "The best parts about working at a cool running store (so far)" tribute. And I swear....the guys at the store did not put me up to it.

Best Part #1: The staff.

I'll save detailed staff descriptions for another time but for now, I'll just say that Kevin (the owner) and his three full-time 20-something associate 'dudes', are in love with all things running, and are especially passionate about - and excellent at - teaching people and helping them fulfill their running and wellness goals. They know as much about shoes, equipment, biomechanics, and injury prevention and treatment as some licensed therapists I know. They're all smart, quick-witted, slightly nuts, and just ooze a genuine lovin' life vibe. They're also some of the nicest souls I've met. I love the fact that each of these guys own more shoes than I've had in a lifetime, they run in shorts in 23 degrees, that they don't blink at the size of my appetite, they like when their beards freeze, and that the 'dudes' think I'm only maybe, ten years older than they are. Don't ask me why they're apparently delusional about women's ages. Juuuuust let'em think, what they think.

Best Part #2: The shoes. Or actually, the shoe education.

Shoes, shoe components, and the nuanced differences between Brooks, vs. Adidas, vs. Asics, vs. all the others. Who knew such precise adjustments to flex grooves and hydroflo insets and patented foams and rubbers and all the other things, would result in such performance differences for people. It's fascinating. OK, I'm a geek. Apparel can be tricky, too. I thought I knew running, until I started this job. Now I realize I only know anatomy and muscle physiology and biomechanics, and enough about training to be respectable....but almost nothing about all the rest of it. Which is a lot. I'd really like my work hours to count as credits towards my upcoming graduate degree. I mean, Kevin gives TESTS! I have the basics down now, but have a 10-K's worth of "insider" info to learn still. So, bear with me if I agree with you - for just a sec - that the best reason to buy that pair of Asics is because they make your feet look cute. Or fast.

Best Part #3: The customers.

Ho-hum, la-de-da, typical list stuff so far, you're thinking. But as educational as the store's merchandise is - at least for me - the store's customers are even more so. I didn't make up the 'make my feet look cute' comment. A woman last weekend - let's call her a "cougar" - spent approximately 68 minutes trying on everything but the shoe we wanted her to try, because all the others made her feet look more cute or matched her CAR, and there was just no way she needed an 8 1/2 in any shoe because she'd never worn an 8/12 in anything before in her life. I am sure she has a weekly mani-pedi, and may be in denial about one or two things other than her foot size. If that sounds like a complaint, I didn't mean it to be. She was a challenge but ultimately a good sport, and the source of endless good-hearted entertainment for us long after she left (with the right pair of 8 1/2 shoes!).

Like her, everyone visiting the store, is a story. This may sound cliche, but the staff really tries hard to unearth each one, and respect the story they find. Even the cougar's, especially hers. And apart from her, almost everyone visiting the store is in an open, exploratory, full-of-hope state of mind. It's refreshing. So far I've met octogenarians who still tear up their treadmills, women with tremendous weight-loss stories, people bouncing back from life-saving surgeries, folks of all ages who are training for their first races, experienced ultramarathoners, high school athletes of all abilities....and it's only been three weeks! Who will walk through the door next, is anyone's guess. That's part of the learning, and a big part of the "how cool is this!" factor.

So, I'm heading off to see if this is the day that Mario, or Marc-Andre, or my Mom, will finally walk through the store door.

And, let me give their feet a little above-the-board lovin'.

Why Online Dating Beats Online Scholarship-hunting

The University of Pittsburgh wants paid. Not yet, thankfully. I know that I'll need financial aid to cover my program, but I want to do my best to minimize the loan (potential fist-bump coming from financial advisor), by applying for as many scholarships as possible. That I actually qualify for, I mean.

Last week I started to visit the free scholarship search websites, which is a lot like running through an unavoidable cosmetic section of a department store, to escape the women who are hell-bent on spraying something on you, or worse, drawing scary eyebrows above the eleven-step eye makeup that's a sure improvement over what God gave you. Which is one reason why I've boycotted malls and department stores. But, that's another creepy story.

So, through today, the scholarship search has produced one opportunity I've applied for - a $2,500.00 award from a wonderful-sounding sorority called Zeta Phi Beta. What a remarkable group they seem to be - and they award a half-dozen or so undergraduate and graduate scholarships each year. I'd be honored to earn one from them. Explore it, if you have the need to for someone. I never would have learned of them except for scholarship.com, or FastWeb or FastAid (I forget which site delivered it).

Now, this is where my enthusiasm for the online scholarship people starts to dip a little. And, here is why I don't think it'd be the worst idea ever for the match.com folks to takeover the scholarship guys; golf turf management. And, horseshoe pitching. For starters. Those are just two of the...unusual...activity selections on one of the scholarship sites.

What you read next, I swear...I am not making up (right, Dave Barry?).

To help match students to scholarships, the online scholarship people (OSP, to shorten it from now on) ask for the expected basic background information - GPA, standardized test scores, stuff like that. They also encourage completion of a detailed student profile to improve the search results - duh. So, to help with that, their solution is to provide various "organization/activity" sections, intended I guess to personalize results as much as possible. I'm all for that. I'm also a 46-year-old "career do-over" graduate student who has done a few things since high school and undergrad, so the extracurricular activity options that the OSP folks provide, aren't really a good fit. Like golf turf management, which I'm sure rocks for the 1/2% of students who can claim it. And, as cool as it would have been to select the "college newspaper cartoonist" or the "harness racing" options, it just didn't seem like a good idea.....though I might do it later just for fun. It was also concerning that Pittsburgh wasn't an option for my "city of legal residence", or that Pitt wasn't included in one site's "schools you plan to attend" section. Maybe I should've applied to Bergen University of Norway, instead. Under "special characteristics" I could've chosen - and I am not making this up - "undergrad named Gatlin", or "left-hander attending Juniata College" ....but none of the things I would've really liked to mention. Like, I am a !$##!#*#%! female middle-aged career-do-over occupational therapy grad student, who's ready to get going and needs some !#$##!! money!

So it's not shocking that the scholarship matches I've gotten based on the inputs I could provide, are a little whacky. I mean, do I really qualify for the $5,000 award for architects, and the $2,500 for travel agents? Or is my doppleganger messing with the me?

I'm trying to be as specific as they ask but, c'mon OSP people. Help me - and the others like me - out a little bit here.

Which brings me back to today's proposition - that online dating effectivity beats online that for scholarship-hunting. I can build a scorecard to support it. I just finished a basic match.com search. For fun, let's compare those results, to the some of the scholarship sites':

Scholarship

• Agriculture Loan Foregiveness Program - it's $20,000, but I don't think the tomato seeds that an expert gardening friend gave me, are going to get me there.
• PMI John Fondahl Memorial Fellows - for people in project management. Wait...maybe that means that LOOKING for scholarships is like a PROJECT, which the looker is MANAGING. Yes, that's gotta be it!
• Brickfish "Best Toy Ever" Contest - umm....
• Grand Canyon State Games Essay Contest - winners must attend a southwestern US college. Pitt, the Big East conference, Pennsylvania, Eastern Standard Time. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Eastern Standard Time. But, that's right....the 'Burgh doesn't exist! Which means the Steelers never won the Super Bowl! And my Pens never won the Stanley Cup! Sigh....

match.com

• Holy cow. It says that there are 2,000+ "mutual matches" based on my selections, including preferred age range, distance from me, "interests/activities" and "favorite hot spots" (not THAT kind). It's hard to imagine that over 2,000 men within 50 miles, are that compatible with me. So, even assuming that 95% of them aren't really compatible because their best friend - or ex-wife - coached them through their online profile (which means they don't REALLY like pillow fights, or running in the rain)....that leaves 100 solid-quality matches. That's about 94 more than the three scholarship websites - with no 50-mile limit - were able to produce. I was going to highlight a few dating matches to make the point, but I'll save "akbobnpa"* and "runrefrun"* in case one of them ends up being the reason I change my facebook relationship status someday.

*Not their real online dating names. Or....are they?

So, the online matching effectiveness scorecard? So far, I'd bet my first semester...okay, maybe just my textbooks....on a match.com takeover of the other guys.

But, I'd still win the pillow fight.

It's Not About the Money

I'm not always practical. Please don't get me wrong. I'm not frivolous, either. I was raised in a home where we saved scraps of foil and plastic wrap to re-use well beyond what the Saran Wrap people are probably comfortable with, even though Saran Wrap was apparently once sprayed on fighter jets. Until 2007 I still had the living room furniture that my former husband and I bought in 1990. I'm proud of my "new" home, partly because the property and decor updates have been made with cans of paint, a borrowed rear-tine tiller, a well-worn tool belt, handy friends, and some sweaty ingenuity. You get the idea...impractical, no, reasonable, yes.

So why don't I feel a little naughty for spending $59,634.17, that I don't have?

I committed to that number when I sent one-hundred dollars to the University of Pittsburgh last week, which secured my spot in the 2-year occupational therapy graduate program that begins there this June. Two years - at least! - without a paycheck...which I'm used to now as a seasoned displaced worker. Luckily I have a streak of my parents' thriftiness, with no debt and a healthy savings because of it. When I lost my job and decided to change careers, my financial advisor almost fist-bumped me when we ran through all of the "can I do this?" numbers - a move that might've been hard for him since he's never even high-fived. But, that's another story.

So with the fiscal blessing of a very proper advisor, I spent twice the equivalent of a Mario Lemieux rookie hockey card this fall, to finish the prerequisites for the really expensive credits to come. And it felt good. Not to spend the money, but to know that I have a career-change plan with both certainties, and with a big "follow your heart/by-the-seat-of-my-pants" aspect. Which is helping to build something so gratifying that I can't describe it very well yet. And the impractical part is that no matter how much some friends tease about my new debt monkey, I'm not worried about it. Not the least bit. Even though I know that in my new vocation I won't come near my previous earnings. Even the part-time job I just agreed to at Elite Runners and Walkers has nothing to do with the paycheck. I may be endlessly confused and sometimes off-base about other matters of the heart but this one, is crystal clear. There is just a powerful but easy, comfortable, knowing...that there's no reason to worry about this part of the future.

That's an accomplishment because for as fortunate as I am in so many things, I can also get in my own way. Actually, my ego does. Becomes the boss of me. Frustratingly and sometimes unpredictably. I've talked myself into bad decisions or behavior, and out of good ones, just by listening to the blahb-ing in my head. This is commonly known as acting like a mind-numbing ass. That's not a put-down, it's just the truth. Honestly, I should know better by now but, like Man vs. Food, the head vs. heart or the ego vs. id, can be a full-bodied challenge. This abundant life has always been even more so when I've just given my agitated ego a hug, then sent it off to be of some service in another part of my body (don't ask me how it works, it just does).

So, a stepped-up resolution (as much as I dislike the concept) to give my ego enough busy work, to let the other pure parts do what they do best. Like, bringing me to an enormously gratifying new vocation. My financial advisor will be proud of me, but my loved ones will appreciate it most.

And, I might even earn more fist-bumps along the way.