That's Church

It is December. It is snowing. In Pittsburgh. Several inches.

So naturally all hell has broken loose on the local news stations. Weather forecasters huddled up to determine how to best scare the hell out of the city residents. Words like “catastrophe” and “severe weather event” and “cataclysmic snow event signaling the end of days” are thrown about.

Someone on Twitter said David Highfield was on air stomping on snow in a parking lot to show how deep it was.

Headlines are pouring in and in fairness to KDKA, the only reason they have the most headlines is because they put ALL of their videos online and easy to find, which I LOVE so much. They easily have the most thorough website of the local stations:

KDKA: Northern Counties Hit Hard by Snow

KDKA: PennDot Crews Busy in Butler.

Oh wait! I found him stomping in the parking lot!

LOL.

KDKA: Blowing Snow a Problem in Rural Westmoreland County.

KDKA: PennDot: “Watch Out for Snow Squalls.”

KDKA: Laurel Highlands Accustomed to Snow

KDKA: Salt Trucks Hit Roads in Butler County

KDKA: Snow Nothing New for Portersville Residents

KDKA: Snow Picking up in Butler County

KDKA: PennDot, Residents Gear up for Winter

WTAE: Snow Slows Some Roads, But PennDot Keeps Things Moving

WPXI: Snow Blankets Pittsburgh, Surrounding Areas

WPXI: Crews Do Good Job Keeping Cranberry Roads Clear

What I’d love to see a news reporter dare to do:

Anchor: We’re seeing some precipitation here in Pittsburgh, making for some slick traveling conditions this evening. Let’s go to Bob Buford who is live on the scene in Butler as crews prepare to treat the roads. Bob?

Bob Buford: [hits his knees in half an inch of snow with a salt truck parked behind him] Oh, dear God. What is this stuff? WHAT IS THIS FROZEN HELL FALLING FROM THE SKY?! I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s wet, but not getting me wet. Cold but not frozen. It’s white. WHITE, I TELL YOU! And they’re beautiful in a haunting kind of way. Perfect formations of cold white lace. BUT WHAT ARE THEY? A message from an alien race? What is it?! What could it be?! This has never happened before on Earth anywhere and it JUST. WON’T. STOP. It feels like the end times. ONE LANDED ON MY CHEEK! ONE LANDED ON MY CHEEK! GET IT OFF GET IT OFF! IT BURNS. [writhes on the ground, kicking frantically] I DON’T WANT TO DIE! IT BURNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnsss–.”

Anchor: Uh. We’ll check in with Bob a bit later in the newscast, now let’s take it over to Mary MooMoo who is live on the scene at a reported toilet paper shortage at the local Walgreens. Mary?

Mary: SAVE YOURSELF!!!!!!!!!!!!! [runs away screaming]

Also? Jeff Verszyla wins this week for this graphic:

God love him and his sense of humor.

(h/t Amy)

I spent a good portion of yesterday with the shakes and a nauseous stomach and a general feeling of being on the precipice of an epic anxiety attack.

THAT’S how much I hate the Ravens.

Biblical.

Fire. Brimstone. Pestilence. Tribulation. Apocalypse. Jerkitudey buttheads.

Pretty sure that’s in there somewhere.

I see Ray Lewis, pre-game, amping up his team all, “Let’s leave our legacy. Let’s make them play us. Let blah blah blah nonsense bullshit I murder people,” and I want to jump through my television, find him, and maybe take a week’s worth of anger and frustration out on his donkey omelets like they’re miniature punching bags.

I just had a hilarious mental image of a mouse using Ray Lewis’ balls as punching bags and now I can’t stop laughing.

The Ravens give me hateful rage.

I’m not proud of it. But I do soak gloriously in it.

Let’s talk foosball, Bobby Boucher!

1.The big story of the game was of course the The Duke of Fug and the Earl of Gross was riding a lame horse, as in, his foot is broken, so he was wearing a giant clown shoe to protect his tootsies.

But as if that wasn’t enough, the Ravens went and immediately broke his fug, gross nose, making it fuglier. Grosser. The Kingdom of Fug and Gross gains acreage right before our eyes.

Before:

Normal ugly straight-ish nose.

After, taken from Mikey’s twitter account:

It looks like a sour gummy worm is trying to break free from his schnoz.

Vomit.

The best part was the announcers were saying, “We’re being told the Steelers are saying Ben’s nose is bloodied, not broken,” meanwhile I’ve seen Zs straighter than that nose.

It reminded me of that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the knight gets his arm chopped off and he’s all, “IT’S JUST A FLESH WOUND.”

Also, I’m embarrassed to admit that when Benny came to the sidelines with blood pouring from his nose, I got my sports confused and almost said aloud, “They drew blood! That’s an automatic penalty right?!”

Hockey on the brain.

Benny, the beast that he is, soldiered on through the broken foot, the broken nose, and the “NO MEANS NO!” chants in the crowd.

The crowd that cheers for murderers.

2. Michael Phelps was there and seemed to be having a jolly good time cheering on the Ravens.

Why do I have the incredible desire to feed him a carrot? Or a sugar cube?

3.  If kicking multiple 40+ yard field goals last week wasn’t enough of a challenge, Shaun Suisham took on a whole new challenge yesterday when Daniel Sepulveda tore his ACL again forcing Suisham to serve as both kicker and punter.

And then if that challenge wasn’t enough, they decided to keep getting penalties during the punts, forcing him further back five yards at a time.

And then if THAT wasn’t enough of a challenge …

God. Give the boy a rest.

He’s been perfect. Let’s not wear him out lest he pull a Jeff Reed and morph from a clean cut college boy into a bloated bag of sexually transmitted diseases.

Speaking of, here’s Jeff Reed and his spare tire kicking a 44-yard field goal for the 49ers yesterday.

(source)

He might want to get himself checked for a tapeworm.

4. Did I mention Daniel Sepulvedanomnom is out for the remainder of the season?

5. I realize smiling is kind of Hines Ward’s thing. He smiles. All the time. Most of the time it’s endearing, but when we’re playing our mortal enemies, locked in heated battle of wills and testaments …  or something, when blood has been shed, noses broken, ACLs torn, and you drop an EXTREMELY important pass on a third and long and you smile about it?

To quote my exact words yesterday, “Chingas a tu putisima madre, you smiley son of a bitch.”

Which translates roughly to, “I would prefer you not smile when you drop a pass, you smiley son of a bitch.”

I’m good at Spanishisimo.

Ask my husbando.

6. Bryant McFadden couldn’t cover a pimple, let alone a receiver.

I also wish his putisima would be chinga-ed … or something.

7. Third quarter, Heath Miller is the victim of a vicious helmet-to-helmet hit. Knocking him into some weird state of existence where his arms are tightened up in a scary and eerie fashion. I worry he’s paralyzed.

I wait for the flag.

You know. The flag. The flag that would have been thrown with joy and abandon like rice at a wedding had it been James Harrison that delivered the hit.

The flag. El flago? Flagito? Donde esta los flagos?!

No flag. Heath lies while the sound of the helmets echo through the stadium. Still no flag. Ben asks what’s up.

These refs are jokes.

Or.

8.  So the entire game practically, we’re hanging in there at 6 points to their 10 when finally A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE.

Troysus karate chops Flacco’s arm sending the ball hopping away to be retrieved by the Steelers who run it to near first and goal.

Troysus saves. Always.

1st and goal. Benny avoids a sack and frantically tosses the ball away like a blind drunk working a paper route. Finally. After YEARS of shouting “GET RID OF THE BALL” at my television screen, the Duke finally heard me.

2nd and goal.

3rd and goal.

And here’s Redman. Stopped at the five yard line. I’m angry at the world. Angry at Ben. Angry at Hines. Angry at Arians for being as predictable as a menstrual cycle. I prepare to unleash a string of Spanish invectives unheard since I destroyed my husband at Mario Kart.

But wait! He eluded. He eluded again!

TOUCHDOWN!

This is followed by a defensive stand that ended with Flacco mis-firing on 4th and 2, which, in 20/20 hindsight, they should have tried for the field goal to tie.

13-10.

Steelers win a tough one, take over first place, and they paid dearly for it. They did it for Heath’s battered brain and Ben’s gummy worm schnoz and ogre foot and Daniel’s knee and Flozell Adams’ ankle and oh my God, how are we going to continue to win with our team as healthy as emphysema?

Eff-o.

Or something.

My charter self-united husband and future best friend, Pittsburgh’s own David Conrad, appeared in CSI: Miami‘s 200th episode last night as a man whose pregnant wife was brutally attacked.

I don’t want to spoil it for anyone, so click away now if you’ve still got it sitting on your DVR, because … SCREENCAPS.

Playing against type and doing it in a ridiculous lime-green sweater. That takes skillz.

Seriously, step off.

Or I’ll step … [sunglasses]… on your face.

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

On a personal note we’re still hanging in there in the aftermath of the fire at Las Velas. Chins are up. Smiles are lit. Insurance papers are being pored over. Meetings are taking place. This is going to be the week that makes or breaks us, so to speak, so continued good thoughts and prayers are appreciated as we wade through the insurance process. It’s all new to us, so we’re not sure what to expect.

Posting here will be pretty much back to normal today, as it’s a welcome distraction.

On another personal note, this Christmas the entire family will gather here in Pittsburgh, including Tina Fey from Texas and Ta-Ta from Virginia. All 22 persons. This of course meant the following email from Ta-Ta, the Giant-Breasted Grand Poobah of Planning and Agendas, with the subject line “Plans.”

“Hello my dearies!  Hope everyone is doing well today.  Wanted to kind of lay out the plans for the week before Christmas.  You know how I love plans.  So this is what I know…please email the group with corrections, additions.”

I thought it was a joke until she went day-by-day detailing what we as a family would be doing that week. Things like girls night out, lunch with friends, Pens game for two of the family members, Steelers game for another two, Syrian family dinner, etc.

I bet she often wakes up from a nightmare, covered in sweat, gasping, “OMG. I just had the worst dream that I flew by the seat of my pants.”

Related, Ta-Ta claims I pick on her. I don’t know where she gets that.

My father responded with the following, where “Dottie” is my mother’s nickname:

Dec 20 – Dad painting woodwork or something that Dottie deems to be unsightly and not suitable for the family to see.
Dec 21 am- Dad repairs leaky gutters because Dottie freaks out when she sees icicles.
Dec 21 pm – Dad touches up earlier paint jobs following Dottie’s inspection with a magnifying glass.
Dec 22 – Dad calls Geek Squad to increase speed of his desktop because Dottie is embarrassed that kids have to wait too long to surf the Internet.
Dec 23 – Dad searches for good divorce lawyer.

Sad part is, he’s totally serious about everything but December 23.

He can’t divorce her. It’s not on Ta-Ta’s agenda.

Also, he’s not kidding about his PC. You click a link and then grow a mustache while you wait for it to load.

Do you know that scene from My Cousin Vinny where Lisa is going on about her biological clock and Vinny is all, “… my career, your life, our marriage, and let me see, what else can we pile on? Is there any more SHIT we can pile on to the top of the outcome of this case? Is it possible?”

I’m trying not to get like Vinny. And I won’t let myself.

As you may have heard by now, Las Velas caught fire early Wednesday morning, they tell me at 1:30 in the morning or so. This is hours after closing so fortunately, no employees were in the building at the time.

I was laying in bed that morning, getting ready to get up to go rent a car as mine is still in the pound from my accident as we wait for the other driver’s insurance company to accept liability, which can’t happen until the other driver STOPS IGNORING HER INSURANCE COMPANY’S PHONE CALLS, when I saw a text from Mike/Woy/Woycheck mentioning he’d heard a fire broke out above Mancini’s, which would be Las Velas no? I froze. Then I saw that he had sent another text that it must have been a different building and wasn’t Las Velas after all.

I told my husband, laying next to me and he had a mini-stroke and was all, “WHAT? Don’t scare me like that, woman.”

We had a chuckle and went about our morning. Hours later, I was nearly downtown as I had a meeting near the Consol when my phone rang and it was my husband calling me from home informing me that he’d just been told it was our restaurant that had caught fire. His manager was there now. Windows were blown out.

That? Is a weird thing to hear. Can’t really describe it. Numbness. I think I said about seven times, “Our restaurant? Las Velas? OUR RESTAURANT LAS VELAS CAUGHT FIRE?! YOU ARE TELLING ME THAT LAS VELAS CAUGHT FIRE?”

I of course blew past my meeting location and shot down Fifith Avenue, headed straight for Market Square.

Inside the restaurant, contractors were sweeping up the glass after having already boarded up the windows, and I could see up near the air vents black soot lining the walls.

I was told it started in the office, so I wanted to see it.

The manager said, “Ginny. It’s bad, okay? Be careful.”

Perhaps he meant be careful as you step on any glass, or watch out for falling objects, but I think he meant, “It’s bad. Brace yourself.”

It’s bad.

The office is a burnt out box of blackness. There were black blobs of things in the middle of the floor, I couldn’t even tell you what they were before the fire.

The kitchen is partially destroyed and open to the heavens now.

I fell into the arms of the manager and wept.

The thing is, this restaurant was remodeled and rebuilt and opened by the sweat, tears and blood of my husband. He didn’t hire a contractor or a crew. He and his brother and friend went in every morning for three months and worked from dawn until midnight on every single thing. Every tile, they laid. Every wall, they painted, except for the amazing wall murals my cousin did. Every faucet, they installed. Every light fixture, they hung.

To see so much of it damaged, it just felt like his dream literally went up in flames. I kept saying over and over again, “All his hard work. All his hard work. ALL. HIS. HARD. WORK.” That’s all I could think of as I stared at the black chaos before me and above me and crunching under me. Nine years he worked to be able to open his own restaurant. I mourned that in that moment. I continue to mourn it. I imagine Bryan Adams wondered why the curly haired girl in Row B burst into tears halfway through his concert last night.

But.

I’m okay. My husband is okay. My children are okay. That’s what matters and that’s what I’ll cling to while we go through this time of uncertainty and we’ll stay positive no matter what and remind ourselves that things could be worse, which is true. Remember my car accident? LOL. What a tiny little nothing that was.

As it stands, the fire was ruled to likely have started at an outlet in the office and spread angrily from there.

We are insured and we’ll know more in the next week how that insurance will help us get the restaurant back up and running in the near future, hopefully better than ever.  There’s a lot to be done. I can’t even describe to you how stubbornly pervasive smoke is. It seeps into every surface. We took a cell phone charger wire from the restaurant today. Brought it home. Wiped it down. An hour later, it smelled like smoke again. Magic.

I appreciate the offers of support and help that have been pouring in to both me and David and my parents.

I’m going to take it easy through the weekend, but I wanted to let you know that I will still be attending Sewickley Herald photographer Kristina Serafina’s show at Gallery -30- in Sewickley tomorrow, because she is donating proceeds from the show to Make Room for Kids, and I refuse to let a jerk-faced ball of fire keep me from supporting her desire to help SICK KIDS.

See you then perhaps.

And again, thanks for the love. It is an enormous comfort to me to know that should I need it, there’s a waiting net to fall on to.