thatnight.net

Back when I ran off with the noncitizens for a few months during the summer, I wasn’t familiar with Nutella. I always thought it was the sort of thing that only New Yorkers had in their cabinets, something they bought on Sundays at their deli along with feta and oolong.

But sure enough, anytime any of us complained of being hungry, no matter our location, somebody would reach into their backpack or purse or glove compartment and pull out a container of the stuff as if it were our ticket to survival. And that’s how I learned to stop complaining.

It was something we could all agree upon, which was somewhat uncommon, given the language and cultural barriers. During our first stop in D.C., I became aware that since I was the only American in our group, I was the only one with a functioning cell phone, and when I realized that we all wanted to see different parts of the city, I nearly had an panic attack on the stairs leading up to the Lincoln Memorial.

My first thought was, literally, I’m never going to see them again. I was certain that even if we set a time to meet, there would be confusion, and we’d end up never finding one another. Ever.

A few of us did get lost, and had to wait around by the car for five hours because besides the Nutella, that was one thing we all shared.

A couple nights ago when I was grocery shopping and saw it on the shelf above the peanut butter, I thought back to one of those days on the road when I was bold enough to ask if anyone had silverware I could use to spread some of it on bread, and the South African dude was all, Rachel, you just washed your hair in the Atlantic ocean and changed your clothes in the backseat of a car while Ana stood at the windows and yelled Russian obscenities at anyone who got too close. So I used my fingers.

And that’s how I came to own my first jar.

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Don’t put him in coach, they say. He’ll never kick it that far. He’s too small, guys. He’s the shortest player we got. He’s not made for this sport, they say.

Kick the ball, Bello. Just kick the ball. It wasn’t enough just to get here. I need to make that kick. To win that game. To prove them wrong.

The big dogs get the jackets. They get the points. They get the girls.

Well I have a jacket now, too. I’ve made it this far. I’ve earned these colors. They will cheer for me. They will not look away when I take the field. When my mother turns to the quarterback’s father and squeals MY GOD HOW CUTE, he will not roll his eyes. He will cross his arms and nod hard.

Damn good kicker, he’ll say, as they carry me out on their shoulders.

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Derrick’s reaction to my showing him a tiny red and white varsity letter jacket that I bought for Bello to cover up a too-short grooming travesty in anticipation of the upcoming frigid weeks of autumn:

“Why would you buy him that?”

“Because he made the team. Don’t go raining on his dreams. He got a starting position. He’s very excited.”

“Oh? A starting position? What was he assigned to be? THE FOOTBALL?”

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Last night, I decided that it would be a good idea to visit a haunted house that I had never been to, farther away from the city than I’m used to going every October. Somehow, the ones that are off the beaten path tend to be more spectacular than the city’s over-advertised attractions.

Of course we got lost. At least three times. The iPhone’s navigation system makes finding on-the-go directions virtually impossible unless you have two exact addresses to begin and end with, and even in the middle of an unfamiliar highway, it insisted we were on a backstreet at least two miles away.

And while I’m on the subject, when it does succeed in getting at least somewhat close to your current location, its first instruction is, Go East on Smith St. toward Lombardi Lane. Great. So not only do I now have to buy a compass, but also familiarize myself with every street name in the vicinity of every neighborhood I might someday ever find myself lost in before I even start the car.

We finally arrived at the Demon House to a very small crowd, which isn’t uncommon this early in the month, made up of couples and families with at least one small child who didn’t want to go in. I was more tense from the ride there than anything, because when I’m traveling through small neighborhoods lined with houses I’ve never seen, and the only places to get directions are the small, rickety gas stations which are always empty, in the dark, WITH AN IPHONE, the one thing that continually circulates through my head is this would make a great horror movie.

The house was really well done. There was a large bonfire, a tent playing black and white horror movies, a character expertly spooking around on four-foot stilts, a stand with hot dogs and hot apple cider, and a little person with a Billy mask riding a squeaky tricycle in circles around those waiting. They sent small groups of four or five at a time into the “mansion,” where we walked through some cool scenes and encountered some actors who not only emphasized the legend of the building, but seemed like they were having a great time doing it. One thing with an unmoving, white face even crawled on the floor behind me, which totally freaked me out.

The downside with visiting these places every year, and having more interest in the execution than the desire for the rush of being frightened, along with my love of horror movies, is that every season, I become more desensitized to the scariness. When I was 16, I would cling to someone who would have to practically carry me through with my eyes closed, and even then I would shriek at every sound in a five mile radius. Now I need, at least, an unexpected chainsaw.

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The other night, after Derrick and I spent twenty five minutes trying to find a decent parking spot and ended up wedged between a chain link fence and an abandoned digger, we began walking our way to Diesel on East Carson to see one of his favorite (and admittedly, one of my new favorite) local bands.

As we were approaching the main drag, we disagreed for the millionth time on the right direction, and for the millionth time, I was absolutely, confidently correct. When I highlighted that fact, he softly mentioned something about how he doesn’t know this part of town, and my reply was a very vocal, and completely mock-serious, I GREW UP ON THESE STREETS.

One thing I discovered upon moving to suburbia when I turned fourteen was that no one ever left. At least until they could legally get into one of the hundreds of bars, nestled comfortably between churches and tattoo parlors, or had to pass through on their way to a high school football game in Mount Lebanon.

While my infancy was spent in my grandparents’ home in Mount Oliver, my mother and I eventually moved nearby, to an apartment on the South Side. This period of my life wasn’t especially documented, save for a few pictures of my diaper-clad self bouncing between sidewalks, staring in awe at dozens of hot air balloons (and not just the colorful bags above wicker baskets — we’re talking giant cookies and bottles of Miller Lite) celebrating the Pittsburgh Regatta, which has since gone to the toilet, along with the balloon festivities.

And as we continued walking, I realized how I haven’t just gone out and taken pictures of the city for a while, and yesterday on my way to work, I shot a few of my old neighborhood and realized how happy I was that I grew up there.

The playground, near the once-home of the South Side Summer Street Spectacular, which my grandfather took me to every summer. There was a massive (from a six-year-old’s perspective), ripply slide that one could climb up via what seemed like a rickety fire escape and ride down in burlap sacks.

Our little Ukrainian Orthodox church, which we attended at least once a week, and had some big effects on my upbringing.

If we walked along these far enough, we’d eventually meet a group of ducks by the river, and feed them slices of white bread.

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P.S. Thank you to everyone who let me know that this post was printed in City Paper. It was strange, and awesome, to see something I wrote published simply as black text on paper, without photos and colors and links. And electricity. In any event, as is usually the case, I’d be clueless without you.

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I attended PodCamp Pittsburgh 2 last summer without knowing a single person or what exactly went on there. In my mind, I envisioned a crowd of programmers and online entrepreneurs, and there I would be, a student who wrote about high school marching bands and scarecrows for an audience of five.

It ended up being the most fun I’d had that year, and that included my 21st birthday and Halloween. Those I met were, and still are, some of the funniest and most talented people I know, and have become not only incredible friends but all-around lifelines. While the subject matter is obviously techy, the atmosphere is completely laid back and approachable, and as a Pittsburgher, it was probably the most beneficial event I ever attended in the city.

The website lays out a schedule of events, which begin Friday, the 17th at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. Everyone is welcome, even if you bought your first computer yesterday (in which case, wow, I’m really amazed that you’re already reading this).

Unfortunately, my schedule won’t permit my presence on Friday or Sunday, and on Saturday, I’ll be bouncing between locations, pushing the limits on how many smoke breaks a non-smoker can take. I will, however, be there in the early afternoon, at least, for one panel.

Panel Details

Title: Success! (Blogs, shows, podcasts)
Time: 11:00 – 11:45
Location: THE HUB (Room 440)

I’ll be discussing (my take on) goals and criteria for success in new media from the point of view of a personal blogger, and will be joined by John and DJ G of The G Spod (America’s foremost gay podcast), Sickpuppy and Father Spoon of Should I Drink That? (the podcast beer gods), and Rich Westerfield, owner / blogger of Aldo Coffee. The session will be moderated by Justin Kownacki of Something to Be Desired fame (2008 Yahoo! Award-nominated web sitcom).

I’m positive there will be a lot of great info and plenty of laughs (and not only at me). I really hope you’ll come not only to our panel, but to the event in its entirety. You won’t want to miss the after party.

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October is the perfect month. While I love summer, and even though fall borders on a long and dark five or six months punctuated by an early and overwhelming holiday season, …

holiday season…

Did anyone else just shudder? Get unnerved? Anxious? I can say things like, mittens. Hot chocolate. Christmas Eve. Fine. But I hear “holiday season” and I’m running faster than I would being chased by a giant butcher on stilts wielding an obnoxiously loud chainless chainsaw through a cornfield maze which I hope to experience later this month.

Anyway, I’m not going to get into terrifying things. Like shopping lists. Replace that bloody butcher’s apron with a Santa suit and you have my ultimate nightmare.

There are a lot of good things about this month, a lot of stuff to look forward to and acknowledge. Today is Bello’s first birthday.

He’s been with me through bouts of drama, multiple residences, mixed emotions, happy times, and huge mistakes. It was a good year to have him here. He’s now fully grown and still not much bigger than a toaster.

I would love to take the day off and spend it with him, but like with any other one-year-old, I’ll push the celebration to Saturday and get through the workday as quickly as possible. I’ll find consolation in the fact that as the uppity neighborhood parents see my 22-year-old self pushing a stroller full of babies, pumping Celine Dion’s A New Day Has Come through my iPhone’s speakers for everyone to hear, they’re probably thinking, wow, that woman looks great for her age.

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Zucket.com

Usually when I come across a new website, I add it to my reader to get a feel for a few of the entries. From there, it either rides along with the rest of the feeds for eternity, or it becomes one of those little links that I refresh obsessively or save for the end of the list because I want my love to linger — like this one.

Sass is the equivalent of saying you hate the college sorority queen but then going home and checking her blog because while the prettiness of it initially draws you in, you realize there is a reason that people actually really like being with her, and you secretly wish she would be your best friend.

She is open about the things that most people don’t have the guts to be open with online, and while she’s hot and outgoing like so many others out there, she also manages to be poetic and interesting. Plus, she updates at least daily. Literally.

He does everything my ex did.
And I do everything his ex is doing.
Then we explain it to each other.
Then I feel pathetic. And he feels like a dick.
Then we don’t change.
Because people don’t.

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White-Collar Redneck

Have you ever gone to a party and met a person that made you laugh so hard that even though it was at a crap apartment and hardly anyone showed up, it was more jubilant than a six-year-old’s birthday at SeaWorld? And every party after that seemed dumb without their presence? For instance, a friend calls about some festivities:

Hey! Party! Tonight!

Well, will Nomina be there?

I don’t know.

Wow. Sounds like a pretty stupid party.

His entries are hilarious and relatable without trying too hard or using exhausted jokes. He’s pretty much mastered the personal blog.

I spent the weekend bachelor partying on a lake up in Michigan and used the “Self-applied suntan lotion” technique. This technique is very similar to sponge painting your upper-half but instead of using paint you are coloring yourself with sunburn. Lets see Crayola come out with that color.

“Do you have Red-Orange?”

“Hmmm – no but I do have Excruciating Sunburn. It has more purple in it.”

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