That's Church

1. Tonight is the Treehouse meeting, and I hope that I can count on some of you to be there with me as a show of support for Amy.  I know she’d greatly appreciate it as well, considering that one of the opponents to the treehouse said, “If you’ve got a treehouse, what better place to hide the drugs.”

Amy truly wanted both sides to be heard, and that’s what’s going to happen. The meeting will be facilitated by the Regent Square Civics Association and the Parks Conservancy will present on behalf of Amy.

2. The Freedom post office will be renamed The John Scott Challis Jr. Post Office in tribute to John Challis, the teen who died after a truly courageous cancer battle almost two years ago.

Huge high five to Rep. Jason Altmire for making that happen by having the bill co-sponsored by all the PA delegates before President Obama signed it into law.

3.  Boy, you’d think those Microsoft folks would just go away already, but NOOOO. They gotta keep giving, this time to the tune of an extra XBOX and Guitar Hero III with a wireless guitar, already delivered to the hospital for Make Room for Kids.

Awesomeness.

Mike and I will be getting busy with the other purchases very soon and will keep you updated.

4.  PNC Park was named the 10th best baseball park by Fox Sports stating:

The last game I attended, you know, the one we lost 20-0? I got to high-five the yellow pierogi.

Good to have that crossed off my bucket list.

Next on the list: Kick Steely McBeam in the junk.

(h/t Sue)

5.  On June 10, write your own “giant sucking sound” joke.

(h/t Charles)

6. A local pastor shows off his rap skills for a sermon, no less.

I’m told this is the pastor from Grace church in Cranberry and according to YouTube, it was produced for the final sermon in a series about parenting.

(h/t Erica)

7.  Summer means heading outdoors in the Pittsburgh region, because, yo, Walls Are Bad.

You no longer have an excuse for not knowing what awesome things there are to do outdoors in the Burgh.

8. Up from 20th in 2007 and 4th last year, Pittsburgh has been ranked the country’s top philanthropic city in the United States, according to Charity Navigator.

This is a big deal! Group hug!

9.  Super fantastic giveaway coming up on the blog later today. Hints: Mansion. Mt. Washington. Jeans. Charity. Dancing. Jewels. FUN!

So excited for this giveaway!

10. Lukey sent an email to the college graduates in Pittsburgh asking them to stick around and live and work in the city after graduation, and surprisingly he did not begin the email with, “Dear Graduates, Let’s just pretend that little Tuition Tax thing never happened. Let’s move forward from it, if you will.”

(h/t Brian)

11. I can’t decide which new fake account I like the most on twitter: FakeTomlin or FakeJulie.

That’s like trying to pick a favorite between CryBaby Gumballs and Sour Warheads. NOT POSSIBLE!

12. If you missed it, my post over at Pittsburgh Magazine about my horrible eating habits.  Sneak peak: Count Chocula.

Also, please ignore the part where I get bitchy in the comments. Sometimes, bitchy just wins.

Maybe THAT’S what I’ll have put on my gravestone.

Hey hey hey! Stop punching your monitor! Geez.

The Stanley Cup Finals are kicking off soon and unless a flock of flightless iceberg-dwelling birds shows up, the Penguins will not be there.

Who will be there will be the Philadelphia Flyers and the Chicago Blackhawks.

And this is where I have to make a decision.

Do I cheer for evil in the form of the hated Flyers, a team I hate as much as the Red Wings? A team whose name I spit after I speak it so as to clear my mouth of the bitter taste of pestilence? Ptooie! Ptooie!

Or do I cheer for the Chicago Blackhawks, who I am very meh about but who currently employ one Marian Hossa, a man — my parents always taught me to never hate anyone, so to quote Rashad Evans in speaking of Rampage Jackson, “I strongly dislike that mother[bleeper].” — a man whose name I spit after I speak it, then flip the double bird, then do that hand under the chin thing, then do that wrist in the crook of the arm thing, then even do that fake Friends swear gesture with the sideways double wrist bump? A man whose balls I have repeatedly and emphatically requested on a stick … charred?

Evil versus Evilerererer.

Who do I want holding our Cup up in the air in triumph?

Brace yourselves.

Marian Hossa.

Don’t hate me, Pittsburgh!

I cannot root for the Flyers. I will not root for the Flyers.

And, sigh, I have to admit this. Marian has paid his dues for leaving Pittsburgh because he thought the Red Wings had a better chance at winning the Cup.

First, NEENER NEENER NEENER, ya dumbass.

Second, I don’t know when my heart started softening toward him, but it did very very recently. He watched the Red Wings hoist the Cup as a Penguin. He watched the Penguins hoist the Cup as a Red Wing and my heart exploded with evil joy (there’s such a thing).

I think he was punished more than enough not only by watching his old team win the Cup he thought they were incapable of winning, but also by my continual stabbing of the Marian Hossa Voodoo Doll of Hockey Justice … in the charred balls. That’s gotta smart.

He hasn’t sought it, but I forgive him. I’m ready to see him smile again, even if he’s got to be wearing a Blackhawks jersey to do it.

Please be gentle with me in the comments, Burghers. I’m disappointed in me too.

[bitchslaps self] [tosses Marian Hossa Voodoo Doll of Hockey Justice in the trash]

Go Hawks!

There’s a lot of things I dread happening.

Tax time.

The eventual demise of every Hollywood marriage I think is “awwwww, cute!”

My first speeding ticket. OMG KNOCK ON WOOD. I’m so getting a ticket next week for jinxing it like that. I mean, I could delete it, but I already typed it out and no backsies.

My next gray hair.

Jeff Reed’s next arrest.

Benny’s first game back as a Steeler.

Above all, the thing I’m dreading the most lately? The first negative story about Sidney Crosby’s off-the-ice behavior.

I keep wondering, when am I going to hear he got wasted on the South Side, grabbed some girl’s boobs before smacking her on the ass and making a five-hole joke? When am I going to hear he refused to sign autographs? When am I going to hear he was cited for public urination, intoxication, or indecency? When did I become so cynical of professional athletes’ ability to stay humble, grounded, in a proper perspective, and out of jail?

So I read this and I got a little “ruh roh.”

The team’s highest-profile player also will be making a move on his own. Or, to be more precise, out on his own.

Center and captain Sidney Crosby has bought a home in the Pittsburgh area after a few years of looking for the right place. He has not yet occupied it.

Since he arrived in Pittsburgh as a rookie shortly after his 18th birthday for the start of 2005-06, Crosby, now 22, has lived during the season with the family of Mario Lemieux, the Penguins’ Hall of Fame center and now co-owner. Crosby’s new house is not far from the Lemieux home.

Part of me is all, “Good for you, Sid! Go be an adult in your own house. You’ve earned it because you’re more grown up than some men two decades older than you and because you have a billion dollars and you might as well start spending it. Related: I like diamonds.”

Another part of me is all, “Is this where it starts?”

I don’t share the stories, but I am often emailed fantastic stories about Sidney. Unbelievably fantastic. The yin to Benny’s yang. That sounded dirty. Moving on.

The cynic in me is just sitting here waiting for the other hockey skate to drop.

I’m going to put my cynicism aside and tell myself that despite recent events (Tiger Woods, Benny, LT, Tiki Barber), not all athletes become assholes. Sid’s got too much to lose, too many family members who won’t let him change now that he’ll be on his own, too much fear of Nathalie Lemieux showing up at his house with marching orders from his mother to ground his butt and drag him back to Natalie’s house by his ear, too much love for Mario to ever disappoint him, too much respect for the kids who look up to him to ever tarnish his public image, and probably way too much security for me to stalk him at his new place without getting arrested.

I’m also dreading my first restraining order.

Just … sad!

What a sad game and a sad ending for the Igloo (not that there could be a happy ending, but still. I said happy ending. Heh.)

Marc-Andre Fleury’s performance was sad, especially for a goalie of his caliber, but I’m not about to take the weight of losing this series and throw it on his shoulders like I’m dropping an elephant on a toothpick expecting it to hold the weight.  Lots of blame. Lots of places. Sad sad places.

I yanked three gray hairs out of my head this morning, even though my hair stylist tells me I should just cut them super short with scissors instead of doing what I do, which is see one, freak, yank, weep.  My point is that the game aged me so much I grew three gray hairs overnight. My heart aged in dog years. Sad.

It was as I feared. Cinderella is still the belle of the ball and I’m not sure who the Penguins are in this story. The step sisters? The stepmother? The mice that know how to sew? The pumpkin?

So much sad …

Know what else is sad? I can’t hate the Habs. There’s no Marian Hossa on their team on whom I wish harm. There’s no one I can stab in the voodoo doll crotch. They outplayed us and hell, I’m okay if they win the Cup.

But I’ll be sad that we’re the ones who have to give it to them and I’ll be sad they won it by beating a path through Pittsburgh during the Igloo’s last stand.

I’m not going to judge the entire season by one sad game. I’m not going to let the memory of this game hold more weight than all the other games combined, even though this game ended our season. That’s a disservice to our boys who fought too long and too hard for us to wash away the months and months of joy they gave us simply because of sixty minutes of sad hockey.

I wish I was writing a different post. I wish we won. I wish Fleury had been Fleury.  I wish Mrs. Malkin had superpowers. I wish Max Talbot had been a hero again. I wish the Malkin Beast had been unleashed. I wish we scored four goals in two minutes and then they made a movie about it. I wish we had more time before all we have to watch are the Pirates. I wish Cinderella’s fat ass tripped down the stairs of the castle and landed in a fresh pile of horse poop.

I really wish I’d stop finding gray hairs.

The trouble with games sevens is that they’re equally critical to both teams, meaning both teams come out playing like Chewbacca on meth.

The trouble with game sevens is that they can be immovable objects (Chewbacca on meth) meeting irresistible forces (Chewbacca on meth).

The trouble with game sevens is that Cinderella might realize the clock is striking midnight on her time at the ball and instead of turning back into a defeated housemaid, she turns into a raging bitch on skates, hell bent on destroying our chances at a consecutive Stanley Cup.

The trouble with game sevens is every second counts. Every penalty might mean the series. Every bar hit might mean an early start to golf season. Every missed save, every missed gimme, every bad call, every little thing … might mean everything.

The trouble with game sevens is that they age you.

The trouble with game sevens is that your heart spends it in a constant state of “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD,” regardless of if you’re in the lead or not.

The trouble with game sevens is they don’t leave you much time to recover for Game One.

The trouble with game sevens is there might not BE a Game One.

The trouble with game sevens is you can’t escape the feeling you never should have seen this Game Seven.

The trouble with game sevens is WHO CAN WORK WHEN GAME SEVEN STARTS IN ____ HOURS?!

The trouble with game sevens is they make you want to puke or slit your wrists or listen to emo music or rock in place like the crazy people at the crazy home.

Here’s hoping and praying and aggressively stabbing the Marian Hossa Voodoo Doll of Hockey JuJu that the puking and the aging and the OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD feeling will be worth it at the end of the third period.

Let’s go, Pens!