Here We Go Steelers, Here We Go!!
or Holy Crap the Stillers made it to the Super Bowl?!?

Okay, so as many of you know by now my sports-luvin heart belongs to my beloved Boys of Winter, Sid the Kid and the rest of our fabulous Penguins. That said, it's hard not to get caught up in the fervor of Steelers mania when they've managed to overcome key-player injuries, huge fines and a major pre-season controversy involving a quarterback being an utter asshole jerkface jagoff, to somehow win a Super Bowl berth. 


Have you heard?


We're in the SUPER BOWL, BABY!!!


And almost everyone is consumed by the spectacle. Believe it or not, the Burgh has more women donning team sports shirts (football or hockey) per capita than any other city. We lovely ladies are loyal franchise supporters... or maybe we're just a town of beer-swilling tomboys. Whatever the case, virtually every office is awash in a sea of Black and Gold wearing employees on Fridays. Hospitals, banks, doctor's offices, department stores, television anchor desks...

They got the fevah...except for Gomer there

Pittsburgh is weird, but in a good way. 


The tremendously tressed Troy Polamalu and company are in search of their seventh trophy, while the Packers of Green Bay are hellbent on returning the Lombardi to its roots. As I write this, things don't look so good for the home team. We're down by 11. 


UGH!


The thing is this. The Mother of all Sporting Championships is being played in Dallas, Texas. 


Dallas.


Frelling.


Texas.


There is a long, storied history of hatred between Cowboys and Steelers fans. We CANNOT lose here. We just can't. Losing in Dallas would be akin to the searing pain of falling to the self-proclaimed "America's effing Team" back in 1995. It's a matter of principle.


The Steelers hoisting their seventh Lombardi trophy in Dallas would be a poetic end to this troubled season. 


And then there's this.

http://www.dallasnews.com/video/?bcid=773867573001

Et tu, Rhette? 

As much as I adore Rhett Miller, and you all know how ridiculously deep that is, he can't get his wish. He just can't. 


This game is already way too freaking tense. I doubt I'll have any nails left when this is over. There's no way I'm getting any sleep tonight. Tomorrow will definitely be a espresso-IV-drip kind of morning. Until the outcome is determined, let me leave you (and me) with the most ADORABLE photo of my friend Lori's Terrible Towel-waving bambino to calm our collective nerves.

Look at that beautiful cherub! How can you possibly disappoint the cutest toddler on the face of this crazy blue planet? Do you hear me, Steelers? Good God! Win this thing already, you know, for the kids. 


Where the hell's my valium? 


Go Steelers!!!

In Which I'm Caught In A Customer Service Loop Of Lunacy

Okay, so remember last year when I was convinced the bug world had put a hit out on me because the creepy crawly sons of bitches kept ambushing me? Well now I believe automated customer service phone systems are conspiring to Gaslight me.


(Gaslight is a classic 1940s thriller in which Charles Boyer marries Ingrid Bergman and sets about to convince her she's going mad so he can have her committed enabling him to freely search the house for Ingrid's Aunt's (whom he's murdered, by the way) missing jewels. Great Gent, that Chuck. "Gaslighting" someone is pop cultural slang for intentionally tricking someone into thinking he/she is bonkers.)


Last year I grappled with a grizzly gas pump that gave me the third degree, sucking up what was left of my youth by asking me 20 zillion questions before it would entertain the notion of releasing its crude. I had to threaten to throw down before it would allow me the "pleasure" of pumping my own frelling gasoline.


Asshole.


Fast forward to this morning.


Point of fact: I'm susceptible to the allure of the infomercial. It's a job hazard working in television on weekends when filler programming consists of 90% video hucksters and 10% locally produced, mind-melting BS.


Case in point, I got sucked into a Cindy Crawford fronted face care cult regiment. Hey, I'm a gal of "a certain age" whose skin used to be as lush and moist as a welcomed Oasis, but is now more akin to the surrounding arid and dusty Mohave dessert. In my defense, the moisturizers are terrific. Really. They're great, but it's one of those deals where you pay a certain amount every month for a shipment of product which continues in perpetuity, until one day you find yourself unwittingly surrounded by teetering towers of boxes filled with enough of this shit to make the faces of an entire village populace in the Andes feel baby butt smooth.


Like mushrooms they grow.


Well said, Yoda.


Anywho, today I hopped on the horn to suspend my shipments until which time I find myself in need of product replenishment, say, oh...early 2020. Since most businesses refuse to actually speak with customers because, you know, people are icky, they have adopted more of a "just shut up and pay the bill, Round Eye" kind of philosophy by instituting an automated customer service menu. 


Yeah. Yeah. It's supposed to speed up the process by vetting questions in order to efficiently direct your query to the corresponding robotic operator, but I believe it's a conspiracy to send you round and round until you're so confused and frustrated you want to strangle yourself with the phone cord to bring on the sweet relief of death. 


It started off like any other service call.


Evil Automated Chippie: Welcome to Blah Blah Blah. In order to assist you better, please state what it is you need today. For example, say "fill an order" or "check payment schedule". Okay. Go ahead.


Me: Suspend my account.


EAC: Okay. So that was "place an order" right?


Me: Um...No.


EAC: Okay. Let's try a different way. State what we can do for you today. Say "Check on my order status." Okay. Go ahead (idiot).


Me: Suspend my accou... Wait. What did you call me?


EAC: So that was "File a new credit card" right? (asshat)


Me: What the..?! NO! Did you just call me an as--


EAC: Alright clam down, loser. Let's try this one more time because clearly you are a slow learner. I'll speak s-l-o-w-l-y... S-t-a-t-e  w-h-a-t  y-o-u  w-a-n-t  u-s  t-o  d-o. (rolls mechanical eyes)


Me: Hey, what's with the attitude, jerk? And don't think I didn't hear your eyes rolling out of your robotic eye sockets. I'm done with you. I want to talk to an operator.


EAC: Sphincter says what?


Me: What? Oh nice! You're a douche. (pushes "0" a thousand times)


EAC: Ahahahahahaha! I can't believe you fell for that. What a tool. *snort* Hold your knickers, Grandma. I grow tired of you now. Transferring.


Me: (pounds head with receiver repeatedly)


What fresh Hell is this?


Just another trip around the customer service loop of lunacy.

Wherefore Art Thou, Demoncat?
or missing a loyal commenter

Okay, so last year my cavalcade of copious crappy writings were being viewed by a mystery reader named Demoncat who would comment faithfully. I don't know anything about her. For some completely unscientific reason, I choose to believe D-Cat is a lovely young gal. There is absolutely no information available online about her to support my decision. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I can find no notations regarding gender, geography or general facts. The only thing I do know based on her comments, is English is not her first language.

Demoncat is a shadow.

The thing about a shadow is you tend to take it for granted until one day you look down from your self-centered circle and realize... it's gone.

And you miss it.

Several months ago, I felt a void. Demoncat was gone.

Was it something I said? Have I bored her to tears with my recent lackluster contributions to this bloggity blog blah. Or worse yet, with all the unrest in the world, has something horrible happened to her in her corner of the globe. Please Lord, let this not be the case. I worry about my little ethereal friend.

Whatever the reason, I feel like Peter Pan searching for my faithful, shadowy companion. Feeling incomplete without it.


Demoncat. Demoncat. Wherefore art thou?

In Which I Owe My Guardian Angel A Big Box Of Chocolates Or Maybe Porn

Okay, so Pittsburgh's been wallowing in wretched winter weather of late. We dodged the blizzard bullet that hit the East Coast, but have been languishing in soul-sucking grey skies and bitter, bitter cold temperatures with a liberal sprinkling of snow and sleet mixed in because winter doesn't blow enough.

Blerg.

Anywho, this morning imagine my surprise when I opened the door expecting to be greeted with a viscous knee to the groin of merciless single digit temps, but instead was kissed by a balmy 34 degrees. Yep. 34 degrees. The double-edged sword temp: warm enough to go without gloves (yeehaw!), but warm enough to sleet (SHIT). The wet roads of my 10 minute drive weren't icy at all from my driveway through the tunnel.

Then I got to the ramp.

You know how sometimes the Universe tries to do you a solid by whispering little warnings in your ear? Turns out you should really listen to that thought flashed in your head. As I approached the end of the tunnel, this flashed through my mind:

"I wonder how the road is on the bridge."

God love her, the Universe tried to warn me. She really did, but did I listen?

As I bear left onto the two-lane ramp to town, I started beelining for the barrier. In slow motion. Why is drama always in slow motion? Somehow I remembered to steer with the skid, then I was skating towards the other barrier, then back towards the first barrier at 90 degrees, then back across two lanes towards more concrete... On the way back to the right in what was looking more and more like a perpetual ping pong game with my beautiful Rita as the ball, instinct took over and I slammed on the breaks, braced for impact and watched in silent dread as the Jersey barrier got LARGER IN MY WINDSHIELD...

Then I stopped.

Perpendicular to the road. Inches from that which would have ruined my morning along with most of my engine. At one point in this macabre ice folly, I recall looking in the rearview mirror thanking the Traffic Gods for being the sole driver on the road. I also remember thinking in my usual genteel fashion, "What the EF?!? How the hell did I not cream the car."

Clearly, my Guardian Angel loves Rita as much as I do, and couldn't bear to see her bashed to Smithereens, no matter how good their music was.

You want to know the weirdest part? I was freakishly calm afterward. Weird.

So, yeah, I owe my Guardian Angel a debt of gratitude, and (depending on its gender) a big-ass box of Godiva chocolates or a lap dance from a nubile chippie.

In Which My Body Has Decided To Dick Me

Okay, so I'm coming up on the end of my 50th year. Alright, technically it's the end of my 51st year on Earth. A fact that only douche bag, egg heads hell bent on making me feel ancient would dare point out.

Assholes.

In any case, it has been one hell of a terrific year spent traveling with my ever-loving Geo to see our two favorite fellas, Francis Dunnery and the divine Rhett Miller multiple times in multiple cities, meeting and befriending a bevy of beautiful, smart, fun women from all over, reconnecting with old friends and generally having the time of my seasoned life.

For the most part, my main frame held up extremely well with only minor creaks and cracks.

Until now.

Over the last several weeks, my corporal being has staged an all-out mutiny that would make Mr. Christian stand back and say, "Daaamn!". That crazy Bee-yatch is loaded for bear and taking no prisoners. Hip joint harassment, neck immobility, teeth issues, skin anomalies, hijacked hormones... You name it.

You'll feel a slight discomfort

Don't get me wrong. Staring down the barrel of 50 has been one of the most freeing experiences I've ever had. Truly one of the best years of my life, but the minute you click over the fictional halfway mark (seriously, who actually lives to be 100 besides big-ass parrots with huge talons and beaks strong enough to rip a vein from my neck. *shudder* Just add parrots to the long list of crap that freaks me out.) everybody wants a piece of you. And not in a good, "hey sailor, show a gal a good time?" kinda way. Nooooo. Instead every doctor you come across wants to stick some kind of tube up or down every orifice in your gravity-challenged body.

*Ding Dong*

Here's your AARP card and a cavalcade of white coats to completely violate you in the name of science and good health because, you know, it's good for you, dammit! Get those leeches away from me, Dr. Wellsville.

What the hell are you looking at?

 But I digress...

That all said, I find myself unable to ignore the physical revolt happening within me in spite of my indignant refusal to acknowledge my inevitable decay. So this winter has become my personal 50,000 mile check up:

1. I'm back on the chiropractic crack circuit three times a week in an effort to get my spinal column to SHUT THE HELL UP! This also affords me the opportunity to rekindle my torrid love affair with the massage table. Oh how I have missed thee and thine loving caress. (lights two cigarettes Ala Now Voyager)

2. I'm scheduled to have all kinds of nonsense extracted from my exterior along with a complimentary buff and wax. (Thursday is Ladies Day, don't ya know.)

3. Graft flesh to a gum line that's gone South for the winter. It was supposed to be back by now, but then decided it was really nice in Florida and opted to give me the one-finger salute and take up permanent residence in the Sunshine State.

Open wide

This last bit is already done. It's a lovely procedure where the dentist uses an offset baking spatula to stretch ones gum line four feet where it's tacked to a bulletin board while said Doc takes a Williams Sonoma cheese slicer to the roof of ones mouth, smears a little cream cheese and capers on it, tucks it in the cavernous space next to the shivering, naked tooth then pulls the pushpin, letting the stretchy length of gum snap back in place where it is gingerly stitched with a curved upholstery needle the size of your hand.

Mo, Larry ... CHEESE!

Okay, so I exaggerate. The bulletin board was only two feet away.


All I can say is thank God for numbing agents. Lots and lots of numbing agents. In the non-hyperbolic real world, it wasn't that bad. I look like Alvin and the Chipmunks, but the drugs are kicking the soreness square in the arse. The worst part is having to consciously chew only on one side for two weeks and avoid all things crunchy. Of course now all I want is all things crunchy. I swear I can hear the bags of potato chips, pretzels and peanut butter crackers mocking me as I walk through the kitchen.

Evil bastards.

And now I sound like an old fart bitching about every flipping ache and pain. Nice. Next thing you know I'll start  referring to dressers as chifforobes and davenports in a sickeningly sweet Southern accent. ACK!

Behold...a chifforobe, bitch

(oh great. I've just used a word so old the blogger spellcheck didn't recognize it. Stop suggesting cherub! It's not a cherub, it's an effing chifforobe!! P.S.: Bite me.)

So there you have it. My major overhaul has begun. I should be a new person by Spring, but I draw the line at tubes up my colon, Dude. There's not enough wining and dining in the world right now that will make me consent to that. Not. Gonna. Happen.

You know what you can do with that tube, right?

That's what I'm talking about.

Another Reason Why I Love My Penguins

Okay, so it's no secret I adore hockey in general and our Penguin franchise in particular. In my not-so-humble opinion, it's the only sport with a blue-collar work ethic played with enormous heart, intensity and grace. It's physically taxing and at times brutal, but the hard hits, scuffles and broken noses are justified--brought about by honest, intense emotion. Besides, few things are as exciting as a drop-the-gloves, shirt-over-the head, all-out hockey fight.

One of the many things I love about hockey is you never once hear a player with a freshly stitched cheek, two black eyes, and a wad of cotton shoved up his nose complain about his injuries. On the contrary, he's usually chomping at the bit to get back out for the next shift. Battered and bruised, they muscle on, literally giving their blood and sweat for the team. And once the battle is over, they line up to shake hands in a sign of civilized sportsmanship. How could you not love them or this amazing sport? It's a game of passion, of honor and of brotherhood.

And check it out. My Boys of Winter are all about team support, even when it doesn't pertain to their own.

Look at the picture on top. That's a Terrible Towel hanging behind the bench yesterday in support of the Steelers playoff game that was played later in the afternoon. For the record, the Pens handily beat the Bruins and the Steelers defeated the Ravens (sorry Steph) to advance to the Conference championships next week. Sid and company aren't shy about waving the old black and gold terry to cheer on the fellas of football during their post season.

Classy.

Just like their community outreach. Owner Mario Lemieux (you remember him--the legendary Le Magnifique #66) et al encourage the boys to give back to the community. This year one of their many charitable acts included a handful of Pens players distributing food to needy local families so they could enjoy a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.




Now wasn't that a lovely holiday surprise.

Let's Go Pens! Love ya!

In Which Reserved Brits Bring On The Funk, Ukulele Style

Okay, so once again my fantastic crack(ed) staff (AKA, my coworkers) have succeeded in finding another couple of delightfully entertaining videos from the YouTube.


This time it's a couple of iconic songs performed by the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain.


Let me say that again:


The Ukulele Orchestra...of Great Britain.


Watching these tuxedoed Brits drolly rock out to Shaft and Smells Like Teen Spirit is absolutely snort-worth fun. Enjoy!


Had Kurt Cobain seen this, even he would have smiled and forgotten he was married to Courtney Love for a minute or three.



SHAFT! Damn right!