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.