That's Church

While you’re waiting for WTRT: Slapsgiving Edition and while I take an hour to enjoy this beautiful Burgh day, which by the way sure as heck had better not be God’s or Mother Nature’s way of saying, “Sorry for what I’m going to do to you this winter,” have a read at a few things I’ve got going on at Pittsburgh Magazine:

1. My December column is up and it’s a pop quiz! See if you’re one of those Burghers that makes other Burghers stabby, ya jagoff.

A snippet:

4. You’re on the bus the Monday morning after a horrific Steelers’ loss to the Patriots on “Sunday Night Football.” Do you:
A. Talk quietly. Do not make any loud noises. Do not laugh. Do not even smile.
B. Break a smile, but only because a friend texted you a hilarious Tom Brady-eats-kittens-for-energy joke.
C. Shout, “Dang, it’s quiet! Who died?! Oh, yeah, THE OFFENSE. LOL.”

2. I have a blog post up called, “You love Pittsburgh; I love you” and it’s all about how easy I am.

A snippet:

How sad is that? I went from being all, “Wow. You’re a pompous jerk who has rage issues, aren’t you?” to “You want … I should kick those kittens out of your path?”

Apparently, I had kittens on the brain.

Happy reading and I’ll see you later right here for a recap of whatever the hell that was yesterday.

So, you know how old I am.

“HOW OLD ARE YOU?”

I’m so old that I’ve had the song “We Got a Bill of Sale Right Here” stuck in my head for days and I can say that I haven’t seen Pete’s Dragon in TWENTY-FIVE YEARS.

I’m so old that when I was in elementary school, girls didn’t wear much pink. I don’t think I have one picture of my childhood where I’m wearing pink. I don’t think I even owned pink toys.  Whereas when my nieces play in their playroom, you couldn’t find a pink elephant in that pile of pink.

So now that I’m in my mid-thirties, I am coveting this tattoo that reader @carolineanne got because, as she wrote to me, “the only thing I could guarantee I would still like in 5, 10, 20, 50 years is Pittsburgh.”

Isn’t that awesome? She lives in Minnesota for now and wrote, “Every time I see Pittsburgh, particularly on Penguins or Steelers game broadcasts, I lift my wrist up to my face and compare. So dorky, but it makes me grin, every time.”

She used the All-Star game logo as her template:

And then went to Cara at Black Cat Tattoos in Oakland on Craig Street.

Now I want a Pittsburgh tattoo on the inside of my wrist. SOMEBODY STOP ME.

I can actually hear my father rushing over here all, “Five daughters, forty years, and NOW one of them wants a tattoo?!”

Update: Debate as to whether this is real or CGI. Have at it.
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I love twitter because it is full of girls who love hockey and who are awesome at finding hockey-related things on the internet.

This is one that @GenD80 found and was retweeted by @KylieD87.

I can’t even stand this. It’s so spectacular it makes my heart race and the hairs on my neck stand up.

Sidney Crosby isn’t human. He doesn’t walk with us, he walks AMONG us.

Over at Twitter there’s a fantastic hashtag –

Uh, let me translate for those of you not on Twitter: “Over at that site where people communicate in 140 characters or less, there’s a fantastic label categorizing certain messages…”

That category is this “Whatmakesmeayinzer.”

Forget for a moment our debate over whether “yinzer” is positive or negative because I am right and you are wrong and yinzer is negative.

[winky emoticon so you know I'm just kidding]

The point of the hashtag is, “What makes it evident that you’re from Pittsburgh.”

There are some really awesome ones:

But this one really struck home:

I didn’t realize until I was married that “dippy eggs” or “dip eggs” as we called them in our family, was not the correct way to refer to it. I always ordered dip eggs at local restaurants and I was never given a “WTF?” look.  I would ask for dip eggs and they’d bring me dip eggs goshdarnit. Eggs that you dip your toast in. This is so basic.

So I got married ten years ago and one morning I asked my new husband to make me some dip eggs and you’d have thought I’d ask for eggs with hair of goat.

“Dip eggs? What is a dip egg?”

“An egg. That I can dip my toast into. Dip. Egg.”

“Would you be meaning an over easy egg by any chance?”

And that’s when I looked at him like he’d said “egg with ball of donkey.”

Over easy? Who ever heard of such a thing?

So I learned him good and then asked him to say “focus” for me.

It has been [go Google it and fill in the blank] days since the Pirates announced Clint Hurdle as their new manager and I haven’t written a word about it.

Why?

Because what do I say?

“Second verse, same as the first?”

“Been there, done that?”

“Stick a daisy in a pile of shit and it’s still a pile of shit?”

“This too shall pass?”

“My dog rolls in bunny poop?”

No really, my dog rolls in bunny poop. This is gross and upsetting and has nothing to do with this post unless we substitute “My dog” with “The Pirates” and “rolls in” with “smell like.”

This is a weird post.

I guess I’m not getting excited yet. We have all winter. We have football and we have hockey. Then spring training will roll around and we’ll see how the Pirates fare against some of the better community colleges down in Florida.

I can’t believe I just wrote that. [sigh]

You know me. You know I want to win. SO BADLY. I staked my name on it. I literally BET on it that 2010 was the year, and 2010 laughed in my face and bitchslapped me with 105 games lost.

So this is Clint Hurdle, Pittsburgh:

I have no comment yet, except to say this: I want to touch his amazing hair.