From the Heart

A quick glance at the calendar has sent me into a panic. I've got less than 45 shopping days left until one of the most difficult holidays of the year. I have a large family that showers everyone in love & gifts, which is nice but is also expensive & tedious. Especially for me because I'm a real tightwad & I hate to shop. Hate. It.

For most of my life, my mother has been the most difficult person on my gift list. You know how moms are, they never need anything, they don't want you to spend your money on them, they know you're too busy to run around finding the perfect gift, etc. etc.

Problem is, my mom is awesome & does so much for all of us. It's often a thankless job, taking care of everyone in your world. Though I try to show her my gratitude & love every day, I still feel the need to find just the right things for holidays.

Sidebar: Mom feels the need to impart the same standard for holidays which involve Dad. However, Dad likes to remind us all that she doesn't speak for him & he does in fact expects gifts. Not that I mind because I want Dad to know he is loved & appreciated as well. But -- what could my parents possibly want or need that they can't get for themselves that I could supply? Ummm, nothing!!! It's a real challenge.

So there used to be many gift-giving occasions that I looked forward to with great anticipation & a handful that brought some trepidation as well. Now all that has gone out the window.

For years, I have prided myself on being able to give Mr. Steph the perfect gift for every occasion. A mix of the fun-but-useful, the purely-for-entertainment, the luxury-he'd-never-get-for-himself, the whimsical gadgets & on & on. If there was something he wanted but did not have, I've always made sure he received it for the next birthday or holiday celebration.

Then something awful happened. It seems that no matter how much he loves something, he becomes completely disinterested in it once it has been presented to him by me in the form of a gift. My bestowing a gift of any sort has become the kiss of death for every passion in his life. I'm annoyed & also completely at a loss to explain this.

He pines for that special DVD, fancy wallet, better scanner or remote-controlled something or other. He excitedly plays with his new toy on Christmas morn, his eyes shining with enchanted joy. He'll wear the new watch to his birthday dinner. Then they are put away, never to be seen again.

He claims to love his gifts & insists that he uses them & enjoys them. Yet somehow, he manages to utilize them all for tons of pleasure without me ever witnessing a single second of joy. Curious, indeed.

The straw that broke the camel's back came the other day as we watched a Pirates game. It happened like this: He mentioned how he really wants to "get a model of PNC Park".

Ummm, I gave you one for your birthday 5 years ago.

There followed an extended period of "Yes I did" & "No you didn't", that escalated to raised voices. He was quite emphatic until I threatened to produce a receipt. (I'm kind of anal-retentive so he was afraid to call my bluff here.) Suddenly, he recalls a few boxes of "special keepsakes" he's storing at his mom's house.

I don't understand this phenomenon at all. No matter what it is or how much he thinks he wants it, he loses all interest in it once he gets it. I suppose I should be honored that I haven't been kicked to the curb yet, as we've surpassed the 5 year anniversary. I think poor Rocco lives in constant fear that one day his own attraction to his master shall inexplicably wane.

It makes me wonder what may be next for us all. My daydreams are often fantastically dramatic, I'll admit, but here are some of the possible scenarios I've envisioned:

"Happy birthday, honey. Here's your favorite dinner."
"Thank you, dear, but I no longer eat food. I've found alternative means of nutrition."

"Merry Christmas, sweetie. I hope you enjoy breathing this fresh air I had tanked just for you."
"Oh, that's quite thoughtful of you, darling. But I breathe my own special blend now. See the little tank on my back?"

Maybe I don't have to understand this. Maybe I'm supposed to learn from it. Perhaps his next gift should be a sports package of all college football games for the entire season or a coffe table book about not putting your clothes in the hamper. Yes, I may just be able to use this to my advantage.

Last Seen Making Fun of Strangers . . .

Finally, a question!!!

Steph - Where's your blog? - Heather

Thanks for asking, Heather. I really didn't think anyone cared! If you can bear with me for the usual long-winded response, I'll explain.

Many aspects of the universe have conspired to prevent me from blogging in the last 2 weeks. It all started with an evil A&P prof, who shall remain nameless. Let's just say that if you're planning on taking classes at a local university, please contact me for confidential advice, as I have now actually attended most of the colleges in the greater Pittsburgh area.

Anyway, Dr. Meaniepants teaches for the test. No, not the all-important professional exam I must pass to receive certification, but rather his own tests. Apparently, this seemingly kind & gentle man is a tyrannical ruler in his own mind. His very lifeforce is dependent upon ensuring that nobody learns anything about A&P that will be useful in the future. He wants us to learn the useless miutiae of the human body because he seems to receive joy only from torturing his students. The only thing he loves more is to give tests. Sometimes 2 in one week.

We have a test every week 2 weeks at least. Often, we only have 6 days from the intro of new material until an exam. The pace is maddening. Although complex science courses always include a lab component, we don't get to "do" anything in lab except have more lecture. There is no hands on action & we aren't in any way exposed to living things. Thus, it's a theoretical kind of abstract biology course which means nobody is learning a damn thing!

Which is too bad, because anything below a 75% is failing & failing any course gets you dropped from the program. So in many ways, studying has become my life.

Usually I still manage to fit in the important stuff, like feeding my dog & blogging but a chain of unforeseen events was recently set into motion. If you recall back to the original posts on this blog, this whole thing was supposed to be a vehicle to develop a character in my novel, which has since begun to collect dust because I spend most of my free time studying. But that sudden nerd-o-morphisis has drained all of my creativity.

No longer could I call up a cool comeback to my snarky neighbor or a witty quip to flow from my characters' lips. Neigh, I could only think & speak & write in stilted, uptight grammatically & scientifically correct non-fiction. All of this studying was driving me mad & sucking the very coolness out of me.

There've also been some concerts, a wedding, a dog-breaks-bed incident & some other miscellaneous situations that demanded my full attention. Compounded with a buggy home computer that was "in the shop" for weeks, a loaner computer 10 times worse than the one being repaired & this being busy season at the widget factory, I had no means of blogging without getting fired.

A couple of times, I managed to get to Widget Co. early or blog during lunch but that just wasn't working for me. I need to blog unrestrained without fear of bosses or coworkers or time constraints. However, I've learned some valuable lessons here & plan to put them to work in the future.

I've decided to stop spending my entire life trying to get an A in A&P. I have a high enough grade that as long as I pass the rest of my exams, I'll pass the course. This is one case where mediocrity is good enough for me & I will sacrifice the A (or even the B) to take my dog to the park, go fishing or just watch a TV show without feeling guilty.

And I've got my computer back, but it's still not fixed. It's barely 6 months old & I've had nothing but problems, have sent it back 3 times for repairs but received no satisfaction whatsoever. So if my blog ever halts permanently & without explanation, you'll know I finally snapped & strangled the bastard that sold it to me & am in prison with no means to blog.

Until then, I plan to keep it coming & be more regular with the posts. But thanks for asking!!!

Arrrrr, mateys

Swashbuckle This
The other day at work, everyone was talking about movies. You know, what's your favorite, remember that scene, unforgettable quotes. Then it turned into a discussion of horrible movies, wastes of time, wish I had my $10 back, that kind of thing.

My pal Jim went on for almost 10 minutes about some particularly awful no-name-actors-straight-to-DVD-stranded-on-a-desert-island pirate flick. The "plot" is loosely based on a Survivor-type game show & the movie starts out pretty bad & gets progressively worse.

He couldn't even make it halfway through, that's an hour of his life he'll never get back, he can't believe he spent even $5 on this garbage, etc. So imagine my surprise when I walked in to work today & Jim comes skipping over to thrust this dvd into my hand.

"Hey, I thought you might want to check this out," he said.
"Isn't this the worst movie ever?"
"Well, yeah . . . " awkward pause . . .
"Ummm, thanks . . . I guess."


I'm a Cartoon Burglar
My fascination with pirates has combined with my total lack of fashion sense to bring a new, nautical-themed piece into my wardrobe. Feeling kitschy & cool, I flounced off to work in my new top but only got as far as my own kitchen before the heckling began.

"Did you escape from jail? Are you robbing me? Where's your little mask?"

It only got worse as the day progressed. By the time I got to my desk, I was considering a dash over to the dollar store for a different shirt. Yes, it was that bad. Henceforth, I'm now known in the office as The Hamburgler, or so I'm told.


Manly Men
Lest both of my readers suspect the pirate-themed posts have anything to do with that movie, I'll just nip that in the bud right now. Yes, I like pirates & I probably just have them on the brain because of all the baseball I've been watching lately. As far as carribbean pirates go, I'm just not interested. Not my kind of movie.

Plus, Johnny Depp is so feminine. Men that look like girls are creepy. Drag queens are cool because they go all-out & you've got to appreciate their abilities. But this quasi-feminine, metrosexual, pretty-boy thing -- whatever you want to call it -- gets on my nerves. Men shouldn't have hairdressers, wear make-up or have less body hair than small children.


Torturing Homophobes with Pirate-Themed Silliness
In high school, I worked at a pizza place with a guy who was extremely homphobic. He was constantly concerned that his male coworkers were "secretly gay" & checking him out. The paranoia was probably rooted in the fact that everyone stared at this guy all the time. Although we were firmly ensconced in the 90's, he was always wearing a leather vest & fingerless gloves.

Add his trademark dangly gold earring, too many cheap gold necklaces to count, shirt unbuttoned just enough to let a little chest hair peek out & you've got a real looker. Oh, plus he had a tail, which of course has never been, isn't & will never be ok. I used to call him "Early 80's Guy" but the nickname alone just wasn't enough.

His preoccupation was stupid, disruptive & annoying. I have a mischevious streak & just love to find an easy mark so this guy was throwing himself to me on a platter. I devised my own little game that seemed to eventually take on a life of it's own.

Whenever he walked by, I'd fake a cough & mutter "Ass Pirate". He'd flip out every time.

Frankly, I don't see any homosexual connotation in this phrase whatsoever. It doesn't even make any sense, it's just gibberish. But it drove him crazy & his tantrums were entertaining for all. Even his wife liked this game. His agitation was an aphrodisiac to the mischevious little devil Steph inside me so every few tantrums, I'd ramp up the "Ass-Pirate" game a notch.

It escalated to the point of little cartoons of a swashbuckling Dave marching little cartoon people with round, voluptious asses down the plank of his ship . . .

Those were good times indeed. Maybe I'm a terrible person & I'll burn in hell for flaunting my evil. But I've given tens of people hilarious memories that will last a lifetime so I have no regrets.

Tribute to OIP

In the spirit of one of my favorite blogs, I just had to share my own very own "Overheard" moment of glory.

I only hope that I can convey the hilarity of this moment. I was in the Glenshaw Eat 'N Park with my sister & parents for a late dinner, maybe 9-ish. Anyone who's ever been there knows that this place is full of mutants & defies accurate description but I'll try so here goes:

Our meals had just arrived & everyone was digging in so it was pretty quiet. A flock of late-middle-aged dollar-store aficianados rolls past. Everyone is wearing some sort of stretch pants that leave nothing to the imagination. Their heaving bosoms are covered in cheap polyester in all it's bedazzled glory.

They're all oooh-ing & aaah-ing over some fantastic Romeo & talking about what a "lucky girl Julie is" to have him. They are so jealous of her!

"Right here! Right here!", one of them is shrieking excitedly. "This is where they had their first date so of course it's where he brought her to propose. Can you imagine anything more romantic?"

Umm, how about a proposal that doesn't feature the absolute most ghetto Eat 'N Park in the area? For that matter, how about a proposal sans Eat 'N Park altogether? Maybe I'm some kind of horrible snob but I prefer my romantic dinners at restaurants that don't make me sick on a regular basis.

For the very best of strange tidbits of mysterious & hilarious conversation, visit Overheard in Pittsburgh.

Again with the Weinermobile

Creepy payroll guy may be a closeted Ask Steph reader becasue he's ceased to sexually harass me. Of course, he did say that he was accused of sexually harassing other clients (unfairly, of course) so maybe he's been disciplined in how to not be creepy to clients.

Sadly, he is now connected in my mind to my beloved Weinermobile. Although I'm not terribly fond of eating hotdogs, I do love the whimsical nature of this vehicle. The Weinermobile is celebrating it's 70th birthday & this compels me to share my own tale of this hallowed American treasure.

It's always been my dream to drive it. Is it a full-time job or more of a contract thing? Can you make a living driving the Weinermobile? I had no idea but I knew it was what I wanted to do. I never expected anyone to support this pipe-dream, least of all my parents because they had far more realistic expectations of their kids, like law school & engineering.

But at one time, my mom encouraged me to follow this dream. At a loss as to how to even apply for this job (not to mention they probably weren't even hiring), I was whining about it to her one day. She suggested I send them a letter & see what happened.

I promptly set to writing my masterpiece, full of admiration & detailing my dedication to this particular career field. I spent days drafting, editing, redrafting until I was driving everyone around me crazy. Finally, when it couldn't possibly be any better, I licked that fateful envelope.

There were butterflies in my stomach as I dropped the letter in the mailbox. I skipped home to wait, full of anticipation. I'd be perfect, I thought, how could they not want me? I'd be the best Weinermobile driver ever!

A few days later, my dream crashed around me when the latest issue of some popular magazine was brought to my attention. They had recently interviewed the guy that drives the Weinermobile & he said he got the job by sending a well-crafted letter inquiring about the position. After that interview was published, they were buried in letters & emails from everyone & their mom who wanted to drive the Weinermobile.

Mine was lost in the crush of thousands of pleas, never to be valued for it's sincerity or originality. My dream was irrevocably lost. Like the day we stopped at a gas station & my parents were in too much of a hurry to let me take the Pepsi challenge, this will haunt me forever, keeping me from ever being completely at peace. Sure I don't think about it every day, but these things are always there, just below the surface, occasionally rising into my consciousness to torture me with thoughts of what might have been, if only . . .

Tales of a Warped Childhood

I'm sure both of my loyal readers are just dying for the next installment in the saga of my half-assed elementary school, so I won't make you wait any longer. I do apologize for the delay in posting; Let's suffice it to say that the last week has been somewhat hectic including yet another dog bite. But we'll leave it at that . . .

In second grade, I remember a particularly awful woman who actually shook a poor student for inadvertently making a pencil mark on a table. Maybe all first grade teachers routinely shake innocent children but I have a feeling it was unique to my school.

The fun really began in the sixth grade when the goal was to teach us a foreign language. It's a great idea & they should have been teaching us foreign languages, so no complaints there. The downfall was the teacher: He didn't speak any English so of course this experiment didn't last very long & was completely unproductive in every way.

The scariest thing about my school, hands down, was the evil witch that taught the 7th & 8th grades. I'm not using witch as a metaphor or a euphism here. She was thin & pinched with a pointy nose, scary bulging eyes & long, stringy, unkempt hair. Lest I offend any Wiccans, I'd like to clarify that this woman looked like the stereotypical cartoon witch & had a personality that would make Hitler seem like an ok guy.

She struck fear in the heart of the average student & was mercilessly mocked by the less easily intimidated. Helpless in the face of mockery, her response was to exert even more cruelty on the weak & innocent. She would pepper her speech with foreign words & phrases, in an attempt to seem educated & cosmopolitan. Unfortunately for her, even most middle-schoolers were familiar with these words & knew that she was using them incorrectly.

A ceaseless bully, there was hardly a parent that didn't come head-to-head with this dragon lady on a regular basis. Psychotic screaming fits, name-calling, belittling students, she was guilty of all these & more on any given day. She would punish students for not participating in church functions on weekends, but was herself exempt from them.

In 7th grade, she mercilessly skewered a girl who had opted to visit her dying grandfather one sunday, thereby skipping an annual religious procession -- in front of the entire class, no less. But in 8th grade, that same teacher spent an entire period detailing why she herself had skipped the festival that year by regaling us with a story of a "fantastic" marathon party she had attended instead. Ooookay.

Even as children, we realized that this was a desperate cry to belong. I mean, who has marathon parties anyway? And even if someone does, who goes to them? Better yet, who views a marathon party as more important than religious duties, but doesn't find visiting a dying grandparent a viable excuse?

We could only presume that this was the first time she had ever been invited to any party at all & that because of her desperate reaction, would probably be the last time as well.

Luckily for me, I was able to get into public school by 10th grade. The Catholic high schools around here are fine for regular students but when your education had been as severely handicapped as mine had been, you need some special help catching up to the rest of the world. After 3 years at one of the city's best magnets, I graduated with an honors diploma, college credits & a full scholarship to one of the most prestigous colleges in the US.

Luckily for everyone else, that school closed years ago & no other children will ever suffer as I have suffered in the name of neighborhood schooling, at least in my old neighborhood.