Menaced by stink bugs

Stink Bug, originally uploaded by juliealicea1947.

“Laugh it off, laugh it off; it’s all part of life’s rich pageant.” – Arthur Marshall

“He is a man of courage who does not run away, but remains at his post and fights against the enemy.” – Socrates

By Amanda Gillooly

I don’t want to get all Tom Petty on anybody, but I don’t scare easy.

Unless it has to do with needles, open wounds or bugs.

While I can steer clear of most enterprises that involve the first two, I’ve been unable to avoid that last one. In fact – stink bugs have been an aggressive menace to my mornings.

I’ll admit: I’m a bit of a superstitious writer. To successfully compose copy on deadline, many things must go right – myriad stars must align. My handwritten notes must be neatly extracted from the legal pad from which it came, stapled at the left-hand corner and placed in a manila file folder before I can even begin. 

To continue, I also need a bandanna or other hair band to keep my unruly short hair from hanging precariously in my eyes while I type.

Finally, I need coffee. And if I don’t consume that first cup during a few quiet moments of reflection while perched on the swing on my front porch, the ledes just don’t seem to materialize with any ease.

So, despite the stink bug infestation Pittsburghers like me have been bemoaning (and openly cursing with profanity in some cases – mine included) I refused to let the enemy win and stay indoors with my morning cup of Joe.

But bravery comes at a cost, and for me I paid it about two weeks ago when one of those bastardly bugs dove into my cleavage, briefly becoming trapped between my bosom and its harness.

Not wanting to squish the thing (I’d never get that stain out of a white bra – do you have any idea how much a Body by Victoria demi will cost you?), I reacted calmly and rationally.

After emitting a hearty “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I stood up and brushed at the ugly little bug, causing it to fall further down into the depths of my 38-Cs. After that, it was pure panic.

For a moment of true terror, I almost ripped the blouse off – but just then the stink bug in question took his cue and flew away.

And I immediately felt like an ass, looking around to see if any of my long-suffering neighbors had witnessed my lapse into momentary stink bug insanity. They didn’t.

I’m usually a jolly enough Irish girl, but I was not pleased. It wasn’t funny. It was an assault to both my boobs and to my ability to do my job.

On the defensive, I started wearing a hoodie at all times while on the porch to prevent any wayward insects from making their way near any of my under things. It was by no means a decisive victory against the enemy as much as it was an attempt to live in peace until they all die with the change of the season.

Hey, I’m a humanitarian like that.

But then, as I was enjoying my coffee and trying to invoke the Muse earlier today, I felt a creeping up my leg – a movement that stopped midway up my right thigh. Under the yoga pants.

But I had learned my lesson. I didn’t mess around with any brushing, although I will admit I let out a hell of a yelp as I promptly dropped trou on my porch.

Problem = solved.

Just this time, I laughed and laughed. 

At myself. 

I was thankful for the whole exchange.

Sometimes just when you are taking yourself too seriously, a stink bug comes along and makes you jump around like a fool.

And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was thankful for cute panties, too.

Amanda Gillooly is a freelance writer in Pittsburgh, whose stories appear in Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and publications of the Innocence Institute of Point Park University. She has an over-sized cat named Lincoln that some people have mistaken for a raccoon.

A profound exchange on the beach

The prolific Amanda Gillooly, shown with her nephew and niece at Pittsburgh Zoo, takes on the "elephant in the room" while vacationing with her family.

“Monsters are real, and so are ghosts. They live inside us and sometimes they win.” – Stephen King

“A child understands fear and the hurt and hate it brings.” – Epictetus

By Amanda Gillooly

I boast that I’m the Greatest Aunt in the World, but truth be told, I have the Coolest Nephew in the Galaxy.

We’ve been BFF since the beginning, and as he’s gotten older I’ve discovered that our bond is directly attributed to two things: a goofy sense of humor and shameless curiosity.

Although Nicholas’ running commentary about life in general has provided richness too broad in scope to mention here, it’s always been his questions that have impressed me – both as his aunt, and as Amanda Gillooly, wordsmith for hire (freelance reporter).

For a little guy, he's always had depth, and he usually chooses to swim into the deep end of the conversational pool when we make the short trip from my home to his.

Once he asked me, “Aunt Mandy, why do some people want to be mean and grumpy all the time? I like to laugh and have fun.” Another time he asked, “Um, Aunt Mandy, who thinks this rocks?” when the radio station played one of that summer’s cookie-cutter pop singles.

I wasn’t prepared for him to dive into that pool as we were wading out into the Atlantic Ocean during our recent family vacation – but there we were, freshly covered with SPF 75 sunscreen and ready to play in the waves when he abruptly jumpstarted a heart-to-heart.

Just as we got out to the point where the water lapped up to my shins (his waist) Nicholas said (eyebrows scrunched together like they always are when he’s super serious): “Aunt Mandy, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. What’s a fag?”

While I’ve had almost seven years to practice my aunting poker face - I've always hated the mildly surprised, mildly amused facial expressions adults gave me as a child when I started to ask uncomfortable questions because they always came off as patronizing - but it failed me.

I must have gaped a little bit, because Nicholas stood there with eyes wide for the few seconds it took for me to compose myself.

I know my explanation wasn’t perfect. He’s almost 7, and I tried to tow the line between what he needs to know and what he should know. But I didn’t want to belittle his intelligence or the question with a blow-off response.

Yes, it has been brought to my attention that I could have rightly explained that a fag was either: A.) A bundle of sticks or B.) a British term for a cigarette. But neither of those explanations would have helped to improve anybody’s perspective.

But I can tell you the first thing I told him was also the absolute truth: “I’m glad you asked me, babydoll.”

And I was.

I’m especially thankful for the opportunity to explain a few things to him given the recent spate of young people committing suicide after their peers tormented them for being gay.

And then just yesterday, CNN and other news organizations reported on the hate-filled speech of New York gubernatorial candidate and esteemed homophobe Carl Paladino.

He spewed some rhetoric about children, explaining he didn’t want them to be “brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality is an equally valid or successful option. It isn’t.”

Although Paladino, a Republican, showed some restraint in rewording his prepared statement,  he further extrapolated his position about gays in copies of it that were handed out to reporters.

“There is nothing to be proud of in being a dysfunctional homosexual,” Paladino opined in that statement. “That’s not how God created us.”

…which brings me back to my “Wonder Years” moment with Nicholas.

I took a deep breath and a long pause and told Nicholas that “fag” is an offensive word some people call gay dudes. I told him that another word he might have heard is “homosexual” and that neither that, nor “gay” is a “bad word.”

After he told me he understood "fag" was on the Bad Word List, I explained that a gay person is a dude who likes to date other dudes, or a girl who likes to date other girls. And I told him that it could sound a little weird to him because he might now know anybody like that, but to trust me: They are just other kinds of normal people.

I explained that there are all kinds of bad stuff people call other people – words for being black or Irish or Jewish, and that I never wanted him to use any of them.

Then I told him my theory: That some people are so afraid of stuff that’s different that they don’t know what else to do but hate it, and that maybe the people who call gay men “fags” just don’t have enough friends.

And I told about watching Steelers games with my college BFF Ean Gensler and also making chicken noodle soup for my former ailing roommate, Derek Parker.  I told him he hasn’t heard rocking until he listens to some of the tunes my pal Jayson Brooks belts out (but to see him live, you'll have to travel to Spain where his tour is now). In short, he learned some things about three of the most fabulous gay men I know.

For his part, Nicholas took the information in quickly, and nodded his head to let me know my explanation was palatable.

Then he went running wildly into the waves, giving a decent karate chop and yelling, “I don’t want a piece of you – I want the whole thing.” What can he say? He digs Adam Sandler movies.

Clearly, the exchange at the moment was more profound for me than him. But I hope the answer helps him understand that “the gays” are just like anybody else – potential friends.

If he can understand that at his age, he won’t be a Paladino when he’s an old man, right?

An open-minded letter from Amanda Gillooly

Dear RuPaul,

The fact my Pap thought you were sexy endeared you to me way back in ’93.

You were sashaying down a cat walk in a skin-tight white dress and hair stacked high and mightily. Despite your perfectly applied eye makeup and impeccable lip liner, I knew – we all knew – you were a man.

Except Pap.

Although never a fan of the new fangled music featured on MTV, he would sit in the living room while it was on, reading the newspaper or suffering over the last few clues of the daily crossword puzzle.

I had been waiting for him to look up, see a man in full-on glam mode and utter a less-than-kind assessment of your talent, Ru.

But when he finally looked up, a sly grin had worked itself across his wrinkled face and there was no trace of disdain.

“That’s a good looking woman,” Pap said, his eyes fixed to the screen.

In my head a record had screeched. Had my 70-something-year-old Pap just called a drag queen a siren?

I could have let it go, and perhaps should have let it go. But leaving well enough alone has never been my best look.

So I said: “Pap, you realize that’s a dude, right?”

His response was dubious.

“You’re crazy. Look at her…”

And then he did. For a good minute he drank you in. But when he spoke next, it wasn’t what I expected.

“Well, he’s a good lookin’ woman,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulders with a little surprised chuckle before going back to that day’s 43 across or 27 down.

We’ve come a long way since 1993. Since then, you’ve become the symbol of drag queen glamour, and most recently introduced main stream America to the inner-workings of gender bending through your hit cable television series “RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

I regret that I did not see that first season. By the time I got on the ‘Drag Race’ bandwagon, you had assembled a second ensemble for your sophomore effort.

And I was hooked. It was really quite compelling. From famous taglines such as, “Shantay, you stay” and “It’s time to lip sync… for your life – and don’t (bleep) it up” to the wonky challenges, I tuned in regularly.

I’ll admit my 50-something bachelor uncle was less than pleased when I declared I was watching an episode I had saved on the DVR one evening. He groaned and uttered the appropriate “I’m a straight alpha male, what is this crap?” grumblings by the first commercial break.

By the end of the first show, he told me, “If you tell anybody I like ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race’ I will adamantly deny it.”

By the end of the second show, he informed me Jujube was the queen to beat. I, of course, politely disagreed – Raven was clearly the front runner.

As it turned out, we were both wrong (but both of our chosen queens still made it to the top three, so there’s something). And to me, there was as much sentimentality as humor in the show, which I appreciated.

Forgive me for this sort of “Wonder Years” revelation, but the contestants’ backgrounds showed the humanity behind the makeup.

As they put on their padding and applied their foundation and lashes, they also dished about their lives. About how they want to marry their longtime partners and aren’t legally permitted to. How their parents disowned them when they discovered their sexual preference. But at base, how they all found a sort of security and newfound sense of self in their female alter egos. 

Having attended Point Park University when it was still just two buildings in downtown Pittsburgh and a Playhouse in Oakland, some of my best friends are fabulous gay men and some of those fabulous gay men are even more fabulous drag queens.

So I thank you for helping people put a more human face on the whole culture, all while maintaining the levity that allows people like my uncle and even my Pap to see the beauty in what may at first seem too different for folks like then to be comfortable with in a more sanitized setting.

I’ll be watching your newest venture, “Drag U,” which will help actual ladies get in touch with their inner divas with the help of your instructors – your “Drag Race” contestants. And I can’t help but wonder what my Drag Point Average would be.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “Raven needs to teach me the smoky eye technique” Gillooly

Amanda Gillooly is a freelance writer in Pittsburgh, and currently working on a project at The Innocence Institute of Point Park University. She can be reached at, amandabgillooly@gmail.com

Give it with a heart or forget it

Happy Valentine's Day (♥♥♥♥♥♥ MP3 Compilation ♥♥♥♥♥♥), originally uploaded by Aleem 3.0.

“It is not you but your radiance. It is that which you know not in yourself and can never know.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Love,” explaining why one person loves another.

By Amanda Gillooly

The last thing I wanted was to out myself as a hopeless romantic, but I’m stepping out of that closet to give a humble request to my friends – both single and married – this Valentine’s Day.

I knew I had to go public when a friend on bed rest sent out an APB asking for poems, pictures, quotes and lyrics that best articulate love. She can’t get out to purchase a gift or prepare a special evening out for her husband, so she asked for suggestions to include in something she is calling a Love Book.

And thanks to the “reply all” function of the Facebook messaging system, I began receiving responses from some of the fellow ladies on the mailing list. Their suggestions included quoting the band Lone Star, Canadian cliché Celine Dion and then most sadly 98 Degrees.

I lost all belief in romance when someone quoted the 98 Degrees' lyric, “You are my fire. My one desire,” and simultaneously understood why divorce rates are so high. That’s the best they got? First of all, I don’t know if the complexities of love can be examined in such rigid rhyme structure. Secondly, none of that stuff has any heart.

And that’s the problem with modern-day romance. I think: People are thinking about what love and romance SHOULD be, instead of feeling it. While I admit my credentials in matters of relationships could be reasonably questioned, my heart can’t.

I’m all heart, baby.

So as the romantics and the cynics line up on different sides of the Valentine’s Day debate, I’d like to see a little more heart from everybody. And I want to ask as humbly as I can that if you’re going to attempt to woo someone this holiday, please do it right. Love deserves better than boy-band ballads.

And you can do better than Shakespeare’s sonnets or anything by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. While everlasting, they’ve been overused. But at bottom, the poets have come closer to any in explaining the inner workings of the hearts of lovers – so don’t forsake the likes of Whitman and Keats and Cummings.

Cummings, for example, explained that “kisses are a better fate than wisdom.”

And remember to look past the poems to the men and women behind them – many of whom lived the romances they wrote about. Men like John Keats and women like Zelda Fitzgerald.

Keats wrote to his Fanny Brawne, “You have ravish'd me away by a Power I cannot resist - I cannot breathe without you.”

Fitzgerald wrote to her husband, “Scott -- there's nothing in all the world I want but you -- and your precious love -- All the material things are nothing. I'd just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence -- because you'd soon love me less -- and less -- and I'd do anything -- anything -- to keep your heart for my own -- I don't want to live -- I want to love first, and live incidentally.”

Those wordsmiths lived in an era when love letters were sometimes daily indulgences. And while the e-mail age has made faraway friends and long-lost lovers feel closer, the chapters of our romances have suffered from the brief and impersonal nature of text messages and Internet chat capabilities. If that is too dramatic, I’m confident you’ll agree that at least the history of our great modern love stories have been undermined.

I encourage you all – us all – to change that. Don’t just quote the ancients, and jot down the beatings of a dead poet’s heart. And if you must, at least add some sentiment of your own. It doesn’t have to be Keats. It doesn’t have to be Fitzgerald.

It just has to have heart. And yes, especially on Valentine’s Day.

Bring on the sappy holiday flicks

wrapping presents and watching a movie on hallmark, originally uploaded by jelene.

“Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny Kaye.” - Clark Griswold

Cheech Marin: No, aw, man, you don't know who Santa Claus is, man!

Tommy Chong: Yeah, well, I'm not from here, man. Like, I'm from Pittsburgh, man. I don't know too many local dudes.

By Amanda Gillooly

About this time of year, I think everybody needs a shot of Christmas. The retail stores know it. They’ve been pimping red-and-green merchandise since they started stocking the shelves with the season’s first candy corn.

Every year I try to wait as long as I can to once again make myself a toadie of The Christmas Spirit, which for me usually means multiple viewings of “It’s a Wonderful Life” a date with my soul mate, Cousin Eddie and a mistiness about the eyes.

Whether it’s “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” or George Bailey running through Bedford Falls hollering, “Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!” if I am watching, I’ll be sobbing.

But it isn’t Christmas to me, not even close to Christmas, until I hear “Father Christmas” by The Kinks and “Santa and His Old Lady” by Cheech and Chong.

I hadn’t heard them yet, so I sought them out on YouTube and had a good chuckle. And that’s what reminds me of the so-called Christmas spirit more than most anything else: Unrepentant jolliness. Silly, crooked smiles. Natural merriment and uncontrollable nostalgia.

At least that’s what I like most about this time of year. Thanks to those guys, I’m ready for twinkling lights wound around pine trees, visits with old friends, wrangling with wrapping paper and the wishful thinking that comes free with mistletoe.

And all those things will help me cope with holiday traffic and people who have huge cutouts of Santa holding signs that say, “Jesus is the Reason for the Season” (now THERE is a mixed message).

Amanda’s Musings: Miss Lilly Belle arrives with tears and laughter

"I love her and that's the beginning of everything."
--F. Scott Fitzgerald

By Amanda Gillooly

Hi. My name is Aunt Mandy. You might know me as Amanda Gillooly. But whatever the name, I’ll tell you this: I’ve become a giant gush ball.

I was swatting away tears last night while I watched the waning scenes of a teenage paranormal romance novel. This morning on the drive to see my BFFs – Nicholas and Lilly – I heard The Beatles song “I Will” and started blubbering all over again.

I didn’t have this reaction when my nephew Nicholas was born. I don’t remember being overcome then by emotion as easily or as quickly.

My niece, Lilly Belle was born at 11:11 a.m. Sept. 11. After several hours of labor and a C-section, she arrived at a healthy 8 pounds 8 ounces. She was 20.5 inches long at birth.

And as soon as I saw her, I could understand Mr. Fitzgerald a little better when he was inevitably referring to the love of his life – his wife, Zelda. When I held her today and watched her stretch, coo and then open her eyes and look at me with her little brow furrowed I knew it was the beginning of a whole new adventure.

As a woman known for being more perverse than profound, I never expected to have this type of growth spurt at 29. But when I met Lilly, it was like a whole new room of my heart opened up – and it’s as large and vast as a grand ballroom. I don’t want to get too scientific, but I think the heart transformation probably looked a lot like what happened to The Grinch in the famous Christmas cartoon.

I didn’t know it was possible to squeeze any more affection in there after all the precious moments I’ve had with my nephew over the past almost six years. Maybe I didn’t think I could get so lucky.

But I did.

And I am equally thankful for the moments that help bring me back from the edge of sappiness. As much as I appreciate the gift of a niece and all the emotional responses it’s brought, a good laugh is still a good laugh.

And the dynamic in my sister’s household never keeps me overly emotional for long.

Yesterday, when I went to play with Nicholas and check in on Ash and Lilly, my little buddy answered the door and immediately gave me the skinny.

“Oh, hey Aunt Mandy. My Mom is upstairs. She is trying to get milk out of her boobs,” he said nonchalantly before turning back to continue viewing a particularly funny episode of “The Backyardigans.”

When Ash descended the stairs a few minutes later, bottle of milk in hand, Nicholas looked at her with his broad blue eyes and smiled.

“Nice, Mom. You got some this time!”

I didn’t know if it could get any richer until this morning, when I stayed with him while Ash, Nick and the baby went to an appointment. He was Mr. Puke, and regaling me with his story about the illness.

His concluding statement: “I think I got the morning sickness, Aunt Mandy.”

Life is, indeed, good.

AMANDA’S MUSINGS: The presumption of popularity

Amanda's rockin' nephew, Nicholas, prepares to bomb her with a water balloon. Photo by Amandablu

By Amanda Gillooly

Drawn to the 75-percent off rack at a local department store, I flitted through the various boys clothing and didn’t see much that called out to me. Then I saw it: A small red T-shirt with an awesome, not-too-menacing image of a dragon breathing fire.

It was my nephew’s size, and it was definitely his style. And the price of $2.98 sealed the deal.

Nicholas, who will start kindergarten this fall at Wilson Elementary School in the West Allegheny School District, was enamored with it immediately. While his beaming smile and sunshiny aura made me feel like a cloudless day, his vocal response first struck me funny, then tragic.

“Hey, Bub, do you like this?” I asked him, making him turn his back to me so I could eyeball the shirt to make sure it would fit him.

“Oh, yeah, Aunt Mandy. That dragon is cool. And it might help me be popular,” he responded

There, in the middle of the store, I imagined somewhere a turntable was screeching to a dead silence. Crickets stopped crooning in grasses across the Commonwealth.

“That dragon is cool,” I expected him to say. He’s 5 years old. I didn’t know he even knew what “popular” meant.

And it made me sad.

Nicholas is a free sprit, a free thinker who asks questions like a seasoned reporter with the type of insight you might expect from the book “Tuesday’s with Maury.”

On a drive home he once shared with me: “Aunt Mandy, I don’t know why people like to be grumpy. I like to laugh. Laughing is fun.”

It ain’t Socrates, but I like his style.

OK. I know. Everyone thinks their son/daughter/niece/nephew/granddaughter/grandson is totally uber awesome. But while others in my family recognize Nicholas for his model behavior or verbal skills, I like to focus on the stuff you can't teach -- the most important of which is his ability to see humor even in the most dry situations.

Nicholas is a silly boy. He is the first to joke or tease. He understands sight gags and simple irony. And I guess when he mentioned the P word I thought of my own primary and middle-school experiences, which were punctuated with self-doubt and a longing to emulate the “popular” kids in school.

I never understood how one became “popular.” Some of the popular kids were kind to everyone. Some were jerks. But there was no common denominator. While we all deny it, I think there is a little piece of all of our hearts that wanted, at least for a few fleeting moments, to know what it was like to simply be awed and revered for no other reason than your having had the cool clothes and sat at The Popular Table.

I thought about No Child Left Behind and the emphasis it places on math and reading skills and not necessarily on character or the arts or social sciences. I thought about how it must be even more difficult for a free spirit to retain his splendor in a society that has always unconsciously judged them on his looks, wealth or family reputation. Now the public education system, thanks to that federally unfunded-mandate, further restricts the worth of a student.

Now it depends largely on how well he can retain information and then regergitate it on a standardized test.

While I wish I could say I got over the idea of cliques and discovered the concept of an “over soul” that connects us all with the human experience of high school, I would be lying.

It was actually in college, when I became friends with myriad characters -- grungy, preppy, nerdy, gay, rich or poor. None of that really mattered. The saddest part is that we would often say to each other, laughing: "You know, I don't think we would have been friends in high school."

When you get to know a Candy or an Ean or a Louis Philbert -- when you grow to love anyone (or anything, really), it doesn't occur to you what particular adjective group-think would attach to it.

Popularity, or at least the importance of it, is at last as fleeting as high school itself.

At the end of this brief reflection, I laughed at my nephew and told him simply:

“Nicholas, you don’t need a T-shirt to make you popular. Just be yourself - you are naturally awesome.”

He didn’t look at me when he spoke next. His eyes were transfixed on the dragon’s scales and breath of bright orange fire.

I know,” he said with a little audible sigh -- the kind that clearly meant “Duh!”

Then it was time to laugh at myself. I had no reason to worry about him after all.

Amanda's Musings: Dear Janice Dickinson

Janice Dickinson - Pirates 3 Premier - Disneyland, originally uploaded by ~nico~.

For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off you. And it isn’t because you are the self-proclaimed super model. And it isn’t because of your emaciated, corpse-esque physique.

It is because you are certifiably ca-razy.

Your body is an enigma, though, my dead friend. With the majority of your weight derived from silicone implants and other plastic bodily adjustments, I can’t understand how your collection of cosmetic procedures could make you look a solid 35 years older than you are.

As a testament to the trashy television shows that so enrapture me, I have been watching your latest venture “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here.” I have also watched “The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency” and even got my work out on while watching the train wreck that was a “behind the headlines” account of your rise to fame.

From those viewing experiences, I gleaned a few things about you:

1. You are undoubtedly one of the reasons why young women puke up their dinners and work out until they pass out.
2. You are not anywhere near as attractive as you once were (or remotely as hot as you believe you are at this point in your waning career).
3. You are a loud-mouthed, aggressive woman who was inevitably kicked in the teeth and discouraged as a youth. I can only imagine that’s why you treat other human beings like they were put on this earth to give you an impromptu pedicure should such a procedure be so desired.

But girlfriend, I won’t lie: That overzealous, I-could-give-two-craps attitude is the reason why I kept watching. There is a small sliver of my heart that emotes a great love for people like you … people who exude so much confidence that they can’t possible understand how someone could possible be offended.

That sliver went into cardiac arrest last night, though, Janice. As sad as I was to see you get voted out of the jungle in your quest to fight it out with other B-list (or C or D-list) “celebrities,” I think it might be the best thing for you.

As the other “stars” go on to compete in asinine stunts to win food and immunity – and ultimately a sizable donation to the cause of their choice – you will be back in the States, criticizing fatties at your modeling agency (you know, those heifers who can’t fit into a size 2 mini) and berating any number of poor schleps over any number of small gaffs.

I just hope that part of your homecoming plans include a trip to a certified therapist to deal with some issues I’m not even sure you are aware of, one of which must be a deep neurosis.

I’m not a psychologist, but I do have some expertise in the matter. I am crazy myself. The only difference, darlin’, is I’m medicated.

So from one looney toon to another: In the name of all that is holy, please invest what you will spend on your next Botox injection for some mood stabilizing drugs.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “Thank you, Effexor!” Gillooly

Amanda's musings

Sonogram, originally uploaded by mgmcinnis.

I saw the first pictures of Lily last month.

My niece is set to arrive in September, but we saw her clench her fists and kick her feet during my sister’s sonogram, which turned out to be more entertaining than the last one.

When I went with Ashley during her first pregnancy with my nephew, Nicholas, now 5, I almost passed out. As soon as the sonographer said the baby was healthy, normal and of the male persuasion, I started fading fast.

The room went wobbly, I saw stars and a nausea washed over me. I left the room, and a kindly nurse at the hospital offered me juice.

I declined, and said I had again embarrassed myself. Weak stomach, I told her. I’m just squeamish.

“Oh, honey. Don’t worry about it. Lots of people get light-headed when they have blood drawn,” the nurse answered.

When I informed her that I had not, in fact, come into contact with one of her needle-wielding colleagues, she sneered at me, let out an audible huff and stomped away.

I thought that would forever be The Funny Sonogram story, but alas, I was dead wrong.
The second time around, no one was as giddy as Nicholas to find out if the new baby would be a boy or a girl. He had announced early on that his mother was going to bear him a little sister – so the sonogram was seemingly a formality.

I warned him before the sonographer lubed Ashley and started poking around her belly that we had to be quiet and be good during the appointment.

The quiet part lasted as soon as the image of his yet-to-be-born sister came up on the screen.

His eyes went wide and a smile crept across his face as he saw the baby open her mouth.

“Look at that, Aunt Mandy,” he laughed. “It’s like a baby TV.”

I stifled a laugh, shushed him and turned my attention again toward the screen, listening as the woman told us about the size of the baby’s brain and other parts.

A few minutes longer I noticed Nicholas squirming in my brother-in-law’s lap – a sure sign of boredom and a pending spaz attack.

“What’s the matter, bud?” I whispered.

He gave a huge sigh before answering:

“Aunt Mandy, why do they call it a ‘babysound?’ She’s not saying anything.”

My sister's sonogram

After explaining that he was getting babysounds, sonograms and ultrasounds confused, he nodded and went back to watching.

Just as the appointment was wrapping up, and the technician gave Ashley a towel to wipe off the jelly from her burgeoning belly, I asked Nicholas if he wanted to go outside and wait for Mommy and Daddy there.

He jumped off his dad’s lap and ran toward the door, emphatically waving for me to come hither.

I knew this look. Nicholas either had a bombshell to lay on me or an extremely important question.

“Uh, Aunt Mandy? When are they gonna pull her out?” he asked.

He thought the baby would be able to sit by him on the way home.

I explained that Lily still had to get big and strong before she makes her debut.

And I think that was one thing he actually understood that afternoon.

Amanda's Musings: Dear Extenz...

(image originally uploaded hopeandmegan)

Dear Extenz Customer Service Representative,

Despite my love, respect and deep admiration for the comedic genius known as Chevy Chase, a girl can watch “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” only so many nights in a row.

So it was then, in the wee hours of the morning a few months back that I flipped on the boob tube, saw your company’s infomercial about “male enhancement” and gave you a holler.

Usually, I would just scroll through my collection of trashy reality television episodes or reruns of something like “The Adventures of Pete and Pete” but alas, my DVR was depleted. That night, not even Cousin Eddie could hold my meager attention. Unfortunately for both you and me, the uber-happy middle-aged couple featured on your program did.

As a reporter by vocation and a nebby-ass by nature, my curiosity was immediately piqued when the way-too-exuberant Ken doll spokesactor said something about how Extenz really came through for him with its promises of “male enhancement.” His equally enthused girl-piece nodded in eager agreement, and that’s about the time I picked up my cell and dialed.

I guess I’m writing to apologize. For the record, I wasn’t crank calling you. There was simply no succinct definition of what the product was gonna do. And ashamedly, you weren’t the only customer service representative who has received a past-midnight phone call from me.

See, I’ve never been a good sleeper. I wouldn’t call it “insomnia” as much as “lack of talent.” And trust: It sucks being bad at something that billions of people do completely normally each and every day.

When I recently expressed my concern to my dad over whether those phone calls could be considered a sort of neurotic obsession, he let me in on a secret: I’ve always sucked at sleeping. He said as a kid I would insist that someone sit in the room with me until I fell into a slumber – even holding my arm up at a 45-degree angle to ensure that Mr. Sandman wouldn’t be able to enrapture me so easily.

“Yeah, you would just fight sleep, Mand,” he told me. “It wasn’t like you were scared of a monster in the closet or something. You just hated going to sleep.”

Flash forward 25 years and it’s much the same. And with nothing on television and no one to talk to, my bedroom can be a pretty lonely place at that hour.

You were very informative. You basically confirmed what I thought, and told me a few things about the pills I wasn’t aware of. I know you were upset when I told you that I didn’t want to sign up for the free trial – you know, since I have neither a penis nor a boyfriend at the moment.

But I didn’t think our brief verbal encounter was all for naught. You made me laugh – without really meaning to – and that was just as helpful at that moment as your explanation of how the drugs work.

I never expected anyone to say to me, “Well, we are referencing the penis, ma’am.” But you did, and I laughed. And somehow, someway, I was able to get a few winks shortly thereafter.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “please don’t file harassment charges” Gillooly

Yoda misses the groove

Yoda's Playlist, originally uploaded by Orange_Beard.

“Humor is just another defense of the universe.” – Mel Brooks

By Amanda Gillooly

I finally got over myself the other day. I get in some pretty weird funks, and it doesn’t take much to set me off into a downward spiral of depression and self-loathing. And while I know Yoda advises that fear and anger lead to the Dark Side, I respectfully disagree.

You can harness fear, and you can harness anger and make those emotions work for you. My fatal flaw is a horrible sense of self-pity. Sorry, Yoda, but I think that’s what leads people to the Dark Side.

Bemoaning yourself is like quicksand – the more you think of all the travesties in your life you just keep sinking deeper into a pretty useless place. Because, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “People grieve and bemoan themselves, but it is not half so bad with them as they say.

It wasn’t half so bad for me, either. But when I’m in a Gillooly-style funk, I pile up all the unpleasantness in my life and sweep it into one of the corners of my mind. And when they’re all piled up, things look a lot worse than they are.

For me, no number of inspirational speeches can help bring me out of my melancholy. I pout, sulk, sigh, and convince myself that a correction I had to write makes me unworthy of being a writer. That leads me to question my ability as an aunt/friend/sex goddess. If left alone for too long, I can convince myself of pretty much anything.

That is until the laughter arrives. In the midst of a grade-A funk last week I snapped out of it when I watched an octogenarian gentleman wearing a “Sopranos’-style jogging suit paired with a black leather fanny pack. Sitting there, miserable and searching for more reasons to hate myself, I looked down and saw that, as an added bonus, his bright white shoes were adorned with Velcro.

I laughed. Out loud. And I realized again that life is too damn funny to be a cranky ass all the time. For so many years, I've wondered why I’ve always been privy to these Velcro relics, and seem to always find myself in the midst of situations that none of my friends ever understand.

So thank you, Mr. Velcro Fanny Pack Man. I owe you a shoe shine, buddy. Because I think that might be life’s way of shaking me back into my senses by helping me remember that there are few things that can’t be laughed at.

And laughter seems to melt away all that funktasticness.

One of my college girlfriends, Apple, clued me in on this a few years back. When undergoing her first annual pap exam, she was told she first had to give blood. To her horror, the doctor who would be examining her was maybe one of the hottest dudes on the planet. And having never been naked, unmentionables to the wind, they asked her to sit up and walk to another room for the draw.

Already dizzy and nervous, Apple took a few steps, passed out and urinated all over the floor.

And it took Velcro to have that hit home.

The funeral parlor pickup line

By Amanda Gillooly

There are certain places you’d never expect to be hit on. These places include, but are not limited to funerals and the gynecologist’s offices. Thankfully, I’ve never been asked, “What’s your sign?” while getting my lady parts examined. But funeral homes? Apparently they are now fair game.

Or maybe it was just Darrell.

I can’t imagine many people aside from him screaming, “Damn woman, you lookin' sexy” at a passing driver while standing outside a funeral home in Coraopolis.

But then, it was Darrell, so I should have considered the source. And if nothing else, I should appreciate his patience and tenacity over the past 13 years. Some women live their whole lives without ever having a man hit on them consistently for more than a decade.

My friends know who Darrell is all too well. He briefly attended my high school, where we all thought he was some kind of idiot savant. It was only a matter of weeks before we discovered that he was just an idiot.

I was on my way home from getting my hair did in Pittsburgh last Friday, when I heeded a traffic light on Fifth Avenue, and found myself stopped in front of the venerable Copeland’s Funeral Home. I was starring straight ahead, waiting for the green light to beckon me forward while flipping through the radio stations to avoid yet another Hootie and the Blowfish song.

And I hadn’t noticed the young black man staring at me from just outside that building until he shouted, “How you doin?” Hoping that the light would change, I didn’t respond. But then, about 20 seconds later he shouted loudly: “Hey girl, how you doin?”

I finally looked his way and gave a half-smile of acknowledgment when it hit me: This wasn’t the first time I’d been on the receiving end of this dude’s advances. In fact, after the shock wore off, I realized that the guy looking spiffy in the beige suit was in fact Darrell.

He is the same guy who followed me home from the bus stop when I was 15, walking way too close for comfort . Just when I was about to reach my doorstep he spoke: “Girl, how about we go out sometime?”

“Go out sometime?” I thought. But I said: “Uh, sorry I’m only 15.”

His response has been a joke since then: “Huh, I’ll wait!”

Although he then knew my age, it didn’t stop him from hitting on me (and friends) while at restaurants or while buying groceries. The weirdest thing is that he’d creep up from out of nowhere in places you couldn’t easily escape.

Just like last Friday. Stopped at a red light, I was trapped. When the light finally turned, I gunned it, afraid he’d approach the window and want an update on the last 13 years.

But he didn’t. He just bellowed, “Damn, woman you lookin’ sexy!” as I drove away.

I smiled and gave him a quick waive in the rear-view mirror. At that point I saw mourners in black stepping out of Copeland’s, and doubted they appreciated the exchange as much as I did.

Amanda's musings: Out with the old sports bra

Bra Fence (same), originally uploaded by imagesnzimages.

Dear CW-X executives,

“Flopping” and “boobs” are two words that should never be uttered in the same sentence. But in the midst of an elliptical workout this morning, I found myself contemplating if one of my breasts were going to jump ship and liberate itself from my sports bra.

Not a good thought. Hmm. Not really a good image, either. And for that, I apologize.

I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your concern for my girls (and girls everywhere), and ensuring that they are stationary even during the most rigorous workouts.

It’s a touchy subject for me personally, because while I welcome weight loss, any woman who has been overweight for any length of time laments what goes first: That extra cup size you inherited along with those 30 pounds.

Yes, I am really pumped about my shrinking figure, even while silently crying over the boob situation. I can deny, deny, deny, but when a breast almost jiggles its way out of its support garment, you have to face facts.

So I’m going shopping tomorrow for a new bra. One of yours, in fact. The CW-X Ultra Support Bra has to be the most high-tech model out there, what with the “nine fully adjustable back and shoulder closures,” which offer a whopping 18 combinations for a snug fit.

Then there is the “Coolmax” fabric, which the ad indicates “wicks moisture away from the skin.” All I can say to that is a healthy “hallelujah.” Anyone who has battled the detested boob sweat hears me.

Most impressive, though, is the “motion control” cup designed to keep excessive movement at bay (If you ever need a new research and development guy to test those puppies out, my friend Paul said he would be into it).

This bra means business, indeed. And while I intend to pick one up, I want to offer one suggestion to make the garment even more useful. Two words: Side pockets.

Before you snicker, please know that yoga pants and other workout gear rarely have pockets, making a jog on the nearby Montour Trail or gym workout cumbersome. A girl never knows what to do with her keys, cell phone or Ipod. Hence the pockets – everything you need in a safe, secure area.

While some men would say, “Lumpy boobs should not be a trend,” I assure them more women than people realize utilize their brassieres for extra storage space.

Yeah, that one fire chief DID give me the stink eye when I whipped my cell phone out of mine to check the time, but it works.

Just a suggestion.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “help me lift and separate” Gillooly

A perky sale offer

boob job fund, originally uploaded by littleREDelf.

Dear Doctor’s Say Yes executives,

It’s hard out there for a B+ cup. Especially when everywhere you turn there are perky, perfect C-cups (or more) staring you in the face. Women like me are sort of becoming the VCRs of sexuality – we’re being phased out quickly by the ease and affordability of breast augmentation surgery much like the DVD made the VCR obsolete.

I’ll admit, I’m tempted to get a boob job every time I see Say Yes ads splashed in Cosmopolitan and Us Weekly magazines. While I’m happy with my particular set, I’m always trying to be a better version of myself. And sometimes I think upgrading to a nice, full C would suit me nicely. So, believe me: Your ads guaranteeing financing for everyone really tempted me for a few moments.

Then I see the newest advertisement boasting 25 percent off any procedure and the bust line of my dreams keeps coming into clearer focus. I’m already this awesome with my current mammaries so I’m sure that awesomeness level would increase by 12 percent with a lift. Then I think better of it, and it isn’t because of any moral or ethical issues.

Nah, it’s because I know a few chicas who have undergone the procedure, and despite their magnificent melons, they told me a few secrets about the whole ordeal that makes me a little uncomfortable.

For one, the life of an implant is about 10 years. I’m 28 now, and if I’m doing my math right, by the time I hit 38, I’ll likely need to have those puppies replaced. Your ad does not specify if the replacements also will be 25 percent off.

One particular friend also told me that she had to affix a belt around her bosoms and “exercise” her new found glory. I think it had something to do with keeping scar tissue at bay to keep the boobs from feeling like plastic tomatoes. I have a difficult enough time getting the rest of my body into the gym, so I just can’t commit to another routine right now.

So, I’m kindly asking that you keep me posted about any future discounts. DVD players were expensive at first too, but now you can pick one up cheap. Yeah, 25 percent off is a good deal, but BOGO is better – buy one, get one free.

That’s an offer I wouldn’t be able to pass up.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “my cups don’t runneth over” Gillooly

Kung Fu flicks will cure the blues

Kung Fu (2), originally uploaded by BrainErp.

“You will always be your child’s favorite toy.” – Vicki Lansky

“Everyone was Kung Fu fighting.” – singer Carl Douglas

By Amanda Gillooly

Some people head for church when they need a little reassurance after a rough week. Some people (mostly my close family and friends) head for the nearest bar stool.

While beer has always been a friend of mine, and Sir Harold the Great of River City Inn is always kind to me, after a day of worrying about work and handling the embarrassment that inevitably comes from a quasi-date blow-off, I seek out neither alcohol nor God.

Sometimes I just need my Dad. Unlike some of my contemporaries, who bemoan having to chat with the ‘rents, I seek out dear old dad. He knows where the center of the earth is, if you know what I mean.

And when I rush through the door, red-faced and Irish temper raging, he knows I don’t need reassurance or any sort of smoke blown up any orifice. Nope, Dad knows I need something far more important. Far more inspiring. Far less complicated.

Sometimes all I need is some Kung Fu. And if you ever stayed up late on a Saturday nights watching the “it’s-so-ridiculous-it’s-awesome” black-and-white Kung Fu flicks with your dad as a small child, you know as well as I do the therapeutic benefits.

I happen to love the genre because of its winning combination of arse-kicking martial arts, silly premises and really horrific dubbing.

Yesterday, while sharing a hot cup of Joe (black, Dad’s signature beverage), the subject of those nights watching Kung Fu came up in conversation and he said something I hadn’t thought of before.

“You know, I love it that ANYTHING – no matter how stupid – can be made into a Kung Fu flick,” he told me.

And while I was inclined to believe him, he did me one better. He told me about a movie starring the great Christopher Lee. If anyone else told me there was a movie about a Chinese, butt-kicking Dracula, I might have thought they were trying to take advantage of my admitted gullibility.

But I know Dad wouldn’t bust my chops about something so important to my quality of life.

Dad couldn’t remember the exact name of the film – it’s circa 1960-something – so I need a little bit of help finding the thing. And then owning it immediately.

I mean, come on, man. A Kung Fu horror movie? Dude, where has this movie been all my life.

He thinks it was called “Curse of the Golden Vampire” or something. I haven’t yet embarked on a Google quest; so if you happen across the movie (or one like it), please let me know.

Because I’m into it. And I’m sure my dad would appreciate it, too.

Watch out Ann: Big Girl's ready to rumble

Ann Coulter at Pro-life event, RNC in NYC 2004, originally uploaded by KSheinin.

Dear Ann Coulter,

You strike me as a woman who doesn’t mince words, so I’ll do us both a favor and cut right to the proverbial chase: I want a piece a’ you.

I’m ready to throw down. Me. You. A steel cage. A fight to the figurative death.

Now, I’ve always been more of a lover than a hater, but I feel compelled to challenge you in this violent way. I’ve been fighting the Irish rage that rises up in me every time I hear your baseless rhetoric.

And trust me, Ms. Coulter, it ain’t your politics that offend me as much as your character. Go ahead and hate liberals, I don’t give a damn. And I doubt they do, either.

Nah, my dislike quickly morphed into unbridled rage when I saw your recent appearance on a daytime talk show. I know it’s kind of your thing to be a bitch, but you were so much nastier than that.

Yes, it was Dr. Phil, and you were one of many panelists who weighed in on the inauguration of President Obama. You didn’t field questions as much as make personal attacks that had little to do with the issues at hand.

Being aggressive is one thing – and one thing that can sometimes be a necessity. But you were more than that. Your overblown opinion of yourself is more apparent than your so-called political know-how.

Indeed, you came off as a hateful woman who is entirely too impressed with her own feeble sense of sarcasm. And believe me, honey, you’re not fooling anybody. I’m sure I’m not the only woman out there who looks at your Skeletor-esque figure and sees the inner pock-marked fattie who had to use her scant wit to make it through those middle school years.

But it wasn’t necessarily that revelation that prompted me to challenge you to a cage fight. It was your Web site. There is a list of “Reporters who are allowed to interview Ann again.”

Below it is a list of articles I chose not to read.

Who do you think you are to decide who will interview you, sweet cheeks? So, Ann, I’m more than ready to battle it out with you to knock the obnoxious pretense out of your nonexistent booty, and maybe for something even more important.

I want to face off in that virtual steel cage for journalists everywhere. Because if you can’t get a decent haircut, you sure as hell can’t control the news, or the reporters like me who write it.

And even though I’m sure you have a killer reach, and even a respectable right hook, I know I’m a nastier fighter than you.

So name the time and the place, chica.

I’ll be there.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “get ready to get fitted for a gold tooth” Gillooly

My first 'Monster' million

An open letter by Amanda Gillooly

Dear Producers of the “Monster” CD collections,

I’ve been a faithful viewer of your program-length infomercials for years, although the collections you’ve peddled so far aren’t really my style. “Monster Ballads” was just a little too mature for me. I was too young to consider any of the musicians in Extreme hotties, and I couldn’t name one love song Mr. Big ever crooned.

As for “Monsters of Rock?” I’ll admit, I dig Living Colour a bit and there are some Alice Cooper songs that are pretty bitchin'. But I never thought the likes of Winger, Warrant and Ratt were “rock” as much.

So I thought about it, and I consulted my pal Sam Adams, and I think I have an idea that will help you sell records. My goal is much more humble: I’m just trying to make my first million.

Picture it: “Monster Cowbell.” I’ve long been a fan of the instrument, but I won’t deny that Will Farrell’s portrayal of the cowbell player in the infamous Saturday Night Live skit that reminisced about the making of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” lended it national appreciation.

The befro’d comedian, wearing a too-tight V-neck sweater rocked out with the thing, gyrating maniacally as the other members of Blue Oyster Cult tried in earnest to cut the track.

The skit, while it made me collapse a lung laughing like a fool, also made me think of the beauty that is inherent to the under-utilized instrument – and how it has brought so much unbridled joy to the world through the plethora of songs that feature it.

So I hereby present to you, dear producers, with a sampling of proposed track list.

Here goes:
“Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” BTO
“Breaking the Law” Judas Preist
“Life’s Been Good” Joe Walsh
“Honky Tonk Woman" The Rolling Stones

Is that too old school? Gotcha. Here are some newer hits:
“Welcome to the Jungle” Guns ‘n Roses
“Pets” Porno for Pyros
“The Distance” Cake
“My Sharona” The Knack

Need something to grove to? I got you for that, too. How about something like:
“Groove is in the Heart” Dee Lite
“Funky Cold Medina” Ton Loc
“Play that Funky Music” Wild Cherry
“Baby’s Got Back” Sir Mix a Lot

Personally, I believe that “Monster Cowbell” will have us both blowing our noses with C-notes we’ll be so filthy rich. Let me know what you think, and if a corporate jet might come with any record deal.

Thank you for your time.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “I’d like an oversized check, please” Gillooly

Come as you are......

Sheep-man in blue skirt, originally uploaded by Bergius.

By Amanda Gillooly

That summer, the nights could be both hot and dangerous. The college experience wasn’t that extravagant when you lived in a crappy apartment building with no air conditioning, afraid to even leave your ground-level windows open because of a criminal who had become known as the East End Rapist.

One Friday, as friends and I lounged on one of our second-hand couches, pounding beers (to keep cool), one of our most audacious acquaintances came in with his usual flair.

“OH MY GOD, you guys,” he exclaimed. “You will NEVER believe what just happened to me.”

If past experiences – and the peasant skirt Derek was wearing – was an indication, he was probably right. We probably DIDN’T have any idea what just happened to him.

For the sake of clarity, Derek is one of my more outrageous gay friends – the kind of guy who had no qualms wearing a skirt in public. He wasn’t a transvestite; he just wanted to be cool and comfortable.

All Derek’s friends, myself included, warned him about wearing women’s garb, all for the sake of his safety an not for the sake of someone else’s idea of masculinity. Yeah, we went to Point Park College, and there was a substantial gay and lesbian community there. But we always tried to explain to him that although we knew he looked fabulous in that particular pattern, other people may not be so accepting of his, well, style.

But he never listened to us. Not when it came to fashion. And not when it came to comfort.

And so his story began:

“So the PAT bus pulls up and I get on and show my pass, right? Then I look up and OH MY GOD, all these, like, really burly mean dudes are sitting there, staring at me. I was, like, so scared.”

At that point someone asked the inevitable question: “Well, what did you do.”

He paused for a minute as if he didn’t know how to respond. He looked serious. Then he said very simply.

“I did the only thing I could,” he answered us helplessly. “I worked it!”

He then snapped his fingers and sashayed fiercely across the living room floor, showing us his best catwalk.

Indeed, he had worked it.
So as you get buzzed and ponder your New Year’s resolution, I suggest you emulate Derek. It doesn’t involve wearing a skirt.

Eric Clapton said, “It’s in the way that you use it.” Tom Petty said, “Think of me what you will, I’ve got a little space to fill.” Derek said, “Work it, girl.”

I think all three men will agree that maybe that maybe this year, the best resolution is to simply be you.

Unapologetically.

Happy New Year.

Amanda

Marching to your own guitar hero

By Amanda Gillooly

Forget the commercial with Victoria’s Secret babe Heidi Klum dancing Tom Cruise-style, the one I’ve come to respect is far less cheeky.

I’m sure you’ve seen it. An uptight, WASP-looking family is jamming to some song featured on the hit video game “Rock Band.” I’m not sure if it was Fleetwood Mac or some other such band, but my first reaction to their “Yeah, I'm a rock star” facial expressions was a killer smirk.

Some part of my psyche that I couldn’t control thought: “Oh my God, what a bunch of tools. I have not, in the past several days, seen anything so dorky.”

But then I stopped myself. To make fun of some middle-aged mom in a sweater-set trying to get a guitar riff down would be just as bad as snickering at the overweight guy getting red-faced on a treadmill while working to depork at the local YMCA.

It’s just not cool, dude. For real.

Here I am judging this poor pretend family because it didn’t look the part of a rock band. And I felt ashamed of myself. A quick recall of the Middle School Years and even some of the High School Years was enough to remind me how terrible it is living your life afraid of what other people are going to think about you.

I doubt I was the only awkward teenage girl consumed with trying to act cool instead of acting like, well…myself.

It’s a tragic thing – I’m sure you’ll agree – when you base such things as leisure activities, hairstyles and off-color jokes simply on how you feel someone else will react.

So there I was watching Sweater-Set Lady doing her best Eddie Van Halen or Jimi Hendrix and I finally smiled, remembering an adage that my uncle shared with me. Despite my awesome Internet research skills, I was unable to find the exact quote, or who its should be attributed to.

I was just glad I saw the commercial, and that I wouldn’t have to wait until I’m eligible for a senior citizen discount to learn the lesson.

“When you’re in your 20s and 30s, you care about what other people think of you. In your 40s and 50s you stop caring about what other people think of you. And in your 60s and 70s you realize they were never thinking about you anyway.”

So, to you Sweater-Set Lady, I extend a gracious “thank you” and a healthy “rock on.”

Finding the bright places

“When you’re in a slump, you’re not in for much fun. Unslumping yourself is not easily done.” – Dr. Suess



By Amanda Gillooly

This is when winter starts to really suck.

Our beloved Steelers are headed into their last regular season game against the hated (but wretched) Cleveland Browns, and after that there are only a few more precious weeks of football left.

No more quarterbacks getting jacked up by James “Silverback” Harrison. No more diving catches by Santonio Holmes. No more little prayers that a third-and-long will be somehow converted.

Nah, this is the time of year that Dr. Suess described in all his work (and one of my favorite books) “Oh the Places You’ll Go” as The Waiting Place.

That’s not a good place to be, surely, but here I am: Waiting for the New Year, waiting for March Madness, waiting for spring to emerge from the gray that pervades this part of the country for a few miserable months each year.

Suess advised that to combat The Waiting Place trap, we must “find the bright places where boom bands are playing.” I’m not sure what a boom band is, or where they might be playing (I check Mayrz Inn, no dice), so I’m thinking that place might be different for everyone. Some sort of metaphor or other literary measure.

So, I guess I could grumble and whine and wait for any number of adventures to come my way. I could stay in, wrap myself up in an afghan, read some books and wait for the sun to come out sometime in March (hell, this is Pittsburgh. It might not be ‘til April).

Or I guess I could press up, and try to find those bright places for myself. So before New Year’s, before Levance Fields affixes his “I’m ready to tear it up” headband and kicks ass for his Pittsburgh Panthers, I’ll have to combat the winter yucktasticness and get my fun on.

For me? My bright places include my sister’s house for SpongeBob and beers (to clarify, I watch SpongeBob with my nephew before he leaves for Grandmas’s house, then drink my brother-in-law’s microbrews). And visits with my pals at our college bar being served refreshing adult beverages (not Beveridges) by renowned mixologist, Sir Harold, is always a bitchin’ time.

Yeah, there’s no more football, no more Steelers Huddle, no more Uncle Billy and Tunch. But there’s still fun to be done, I suppose, with or without James Harrison.