You Gotta Love Yourself

I gave up.

I simply stopped trying and it was easier than I thought it would be. One day turned into two then three. One week passed by then one month turned into three. 

I have been exercising regularly since probably 2015. At first, I tried running. Then I joined my local gym. Then I got a bike. I was trying to find the perfect fit for me and, no matter the activity, I was able to get at least three days a week in.  It wasn’t until I started with the bike that I felt like I found my “it”. I love riding my bike. I like the connection to nature when I am on a trail. I like the nostalgic feeling of being on a bike. 

My bike came about during the lockdown in 2020 and it became a family affair. I got all the kids' bikes repaired and we went out a couple times a week together. We took advantage of the former Eastland Mall site before construction began on the future Amazon warehouse. On the weekends we would go to either the Boston Trail or Great Allegheny Passage in McKeesport. 

Eventually, life got back to hectic and the only one still on the bike was me. But recently, little road blocks started popping up. First, I lost Eastland as a place to ride. This was a huge set back since it was so close and within minutes I could be out pedaling. A few weeks later, when I went back to work after summer break, my job became more demanding than I was accustomed to. Then I had some health issues to deal with. 

I kept thinking, “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” Then it became, “I’ll start back next week.” It transitioned to, “I just don’t have time anymore.” 

I gave up.

Exercising for me was always first and foremost about mental health and stress relief. Maintaining a healthy weight was a nice side effect but the clarity and tension reduction, that was the real benefit for me. It kind of surprised me that I didn’t put forth more of an effort to keep my routine. 

It was New Year’s Eve when I really started reflecting on changes I wanted to make in 2022. I wanted to feel better. I knew things had to change but I didn’t know just how to do it. Going to the gym at 5 a.m. doesn’t work for me anymore. I cannot get to the bike trail after work since we have less daylight.

I did some research and I purchased something called a stationary bike stand. It seemed like the perfect solution. I could attach it to my bike and the stand keeps it still so you can ride inside. Yes! Problem solved. 

It came in three days and my husband put the new contraption together. My idea was to ride in the morning when everyone was still asleep. Unfortunately, the bike ended up sounding like a buzzsaw when it was on the stand. It was so loud. I tried to make it work but I couldn’t justify waking everyone in the house up just so I could get some exercise. 

Back to the drawing board. 

A few years ago, my mom bought me a Fitbit. If you saw my Fitbit you would think it was from the 80s. There is no digital face to reveal step count, heart rate or time of day. It’s a black thin band with a series of five dots that light up as you move closer to reaching your step goal. 

My husband made fun of me because he has one of the newer versions and he advised me to just buy a less 'fossil like' activity tracker. Although I would like a new one, my old one works just fine and I can download all the information to my phone. Resurrecting this Fitbit has been a life changer.

I try to get to work early in the morning to give me some time to ease into the day before the students arrive. Since I bring my son to school, he normally sits in my classroom while I read emails or drink a cup of tea. Every now and then he would ask me to take a walk with him around the building before the bell would ring. 

The new year prompted me to prioritize “self-care” time and now he and I take a daily 15-minute brisk walk around the school. This walk has turned into my new exercise, until the weather changes, and I can get back on my bike. This will be week three for the brisk walks and I can tell they are making a difference. Paired with the number of steps I take around the school during the work day, reaching my daily step goal has not been a problem.

When you are constantly caring for others, you must take care of yourself. I lost sight of that and I kind of lost myself. Don't let this happen to you. Find something that you like to do and make it a priority to do it. Get creative and make it work. You will not be sorry.

A Conversation Starter

 

Here name is Michelle. 

Just like the Beatles song. A fun fact she pointed out during our conversation. 

I had been walking through the men’s department of a nearby store looking for items my son needed for an upcoming trip when she caught me off guard. 

“Have you been to Scotland?” she asked. 

I had to pause for a minute because I thought, “What a random question for two people who had never spoken before.” She was on the clock and had been busy tidying up clothes that were messily put back on a display table. I guess she looked up for a moment and that’s when she noticed my shirt which said - Scotland's for me.

This shirt is from an indie/rock band I listen to who are based in that area of the United Kingdom. I spent $50 on this shirt, a lot of money for a person who never buys clothes for herself.  Due to overseas shipping, the price was more than I would normally justify for a handful of cotton, with a cute rainbow and travel slogan, but I had wanted this shirt for years.

“No,” I said. “But I am planning on going someday.”

That’s when I noticed the twinkle in her eyes.

“I’ve been there,” she recalled with an excitement which managed to escape from her mask-covered face. 

I was in a hurry and still had a list worth of stuff to get but I couldn’t help but get caught up in Michelle’s magical mystery tour. As a reporter, I had lots of questions. When did you go? What did you see? Did you go to all the Beatles landmarks? I just started asking away. 

Her trip involved three of the UK countries - England, Scotland and Wales. If memory serves me correctly, her trip was back in the early 80s. Her mission: to buy as much vinyl as possible. I got excited thinking about the popular new wave music at that time and the treasure trove she probably collected while walking the streets of London. 

I tried to imagine a younger Michelle. I wondered what she wore and who she travelled with. Was she old enough to hit a pub? Did she catch anyone’s eye while checking out Buckingham Palace. Did she bring home a souvenir red phone booth?

The part of the story she remembers most vividly is when the airline lost her luggage on her way home. She retold the tale of calling her father from the airport to let him know. He anxiously asked her, “What about the records?”

“I had packed them in my carry-on,” she told me as a hidden smile crept across her face. Even back then, she wasn’t taking the chance her precious cargo would get lost. The satisfaction of knowing they were safe and sound filled me with happiness as well. The mission of her trip was accomplished.

Every time I wear my Scotland shirt now, I think of Michelle. I had noticed her in the store prior to our conversation and never would have thought she had such an interesting story to tell. I think that is the case for many people we come in contact with in our day-to-day activities. I fall into the trap of writing people off, judging a book by its cover. 

I have seen Michelle a few times since our meeting and I’m not really sure what to do. Part of me wants to find out if she has any more interesting stories to share. Part of me wonders if she remembers me and our conversation. Another part of me just wants to get my errands done and be on my way. 

The other day I was out at a restaurant having breakfast with my family. I noticed Michelle come in and get seated at a booth. I wanted to go over and say hello but I thought that might be awkward. 

“Hi there. Remember me? Miss Scotland?”

So instead, I excused myself from our table and secretly got her bill from the waitress. The least I could do was offer some subliminal hospitality from one anglophile to another. 

I am sure our paths will cross again, and hopefully when they do, I’ll be wearing my Scotland tee shirt to get the ball rolling. Who knows if either of us will go out of our way to jump start a conversation. That part of the story remains to be written. Will she tell me the same story again? Will she tell me about other interesting travels she has had? 

But one fact unites us in solidarity. 

Scotland is for us.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in a column called On My Mind. The Valley Mirror serves the Woodland Hills and Steel Valley communities.

It's A Marshmallow World For Some

It's hard to be a type A personality in a holiday world. 

Type A’s like planning, perfection, and precision. These characteristics seem perfect for making a gingerbread house, right?

Well, not necessarily. 

My youngest and I had the opportunity to help represent our school and build a gingerbread house that is now on display at Kennywood. This is the first time my family has participated in an activity like this and now I know why. But we’ll get into that later. 

Over the years, we have marveled at the gingerbread houses on display at the PPG Wintergarden at Christmastime. It really is something to behold and now that we have made one of our own, I can truly appreciate the time and effort that goes into making these holiday specialties. I have seen some amazing houses with themes ranging from The Wizard of Oz to Harry Potter. You can let your imagination go wild with a gingerbread house if….you have the time, patience and proper supplies. 

As has been the case for the majority of my parental years, things tend to get done at the very last minute. But this method of operation is not something that is new to me. I remember doing an elementary school science fair project the day before it was due. I remember college papers that were printed minutes before a class. This has been my style and I’m pretty sure having kids made it worse. I work best under pressure.

When I was approached to make a gingerbread house, I responded positively and with enthusiasm. “Sure we can do that!” I actually was excited to participate in something we hadn’t tried before. I had so many ideas for a sweet little cottage for a young cookie couple. The ideas were grand yet our time was limited. I played out the building process in my mind. It was divine.

I had picked up a gingerbread kit a few days prior to construction so I felt kind of good that at least that aspect was secure. But having a kit does not ensure success. The day before my youngest and I got working on ours, a friend posted a photo of her house and a collapsed roof. I was disheartened. What did I get us into? Did I set us up for failure?

At 7 p.m., the night before the house was due to be turned in, it was go time. At this point in the workday, you can imagine I’m at the height of creativity and energy. I told my son we’ve got one hour to get this done. (I’m sure these were the same parameters Frank Lloyd Wright worked with.)

On our dining room table, filled with weeks' worth of junk mail and clutter, we prepared to build our house. We carefully took out all of the pieces of our kit and laid them out to inspect and ponder. The gingerbread kits don’t leave a lot to the imagination which actually worked very well for us. The other thing I bought to help us in our endeavor was another container of icing. In my brief online gingerbread house research, I noticed that was a common complaint of the kits - not enough icing. 

Little did I know, a hot glue gun is the most needed tool we would need. The icing that came with the kit didn’t seem very efficient in holding things together. The bling we tried to add on, you know sprinkles, gumdrops and candy corn, thinking it would stick to the white goo, had another agenda. 

As we took a pause to regroup, I had to put on some Christmas music, a thing I only do after Thanksgiving, because my husband decided to watch the movie Goodfellas during our arts and crafts period and I had to drown out the colorful dialogue.

Once the sounds of an Irish Christmas began pouring from my phone, our house began caving in on all sides, and I was ready to give up. This is when my son remembered the special roof holder that came with our kit. We employed it immediately as Ray Liotta emerged from the living room to lend a hand. 

With all hands-on deck, we were able to stabilize the house. The hot glue gun was ready and I was a gluing fool. My son worked on his adorable final addition of a Santa looking gingerbread man who was coming down the chimney. He dyed the icing red to make the Santa suit and we used a glob of icing as glue to permanently affix him to the house.

When it was all over it looked like Christmas threw up. There was icing everywhere. Sprinkles were everywhere but my marbles were lost. Our house looked well...ok. Just ok but good enough for a first try.

The next morning, when the icing was dry, our gingerbread house looked a lot better. Everything had set and it reminded me of our real house after a fresh snow and none of the powder had been touched yet. I asked my son if he had fun working on our project and he said, “Yes!” Then we loaded it up in the car and took it to the drop off location. Deadline met. Yes, this girl still got it.

*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week in a column called On My Mind. The Valley Mirror serves the Woodland Hills and Steel Valley communities.

Chrissy, Give Me The Big Knife!

Surgery.

A word people most don’t like to hear unless you are a surgeon and that is what you do for a living but when you are the one going to be on the table, I would say that’s a hard pass. 

But tomorrow that’ll be me. The one who is going to be on the table. 

It has happened kind of fast. I had some tests done at the end of September and here we are mid-November and it’s almost go time. I have been having some minor female issues and it appears surgery is the appropriate course of action. 

For a planner like me, this development has put a wrench in my schedule. I don’t like the fact that I will be off work for a few days. I don’t like that this is happening a few days before Thanksgiving. I don’t like that a part of me I came into the world with will no longer be a part of me tomorrow. Yes, there is so much not to like. 

I am no stranger to surgery. I’ve had close to five in my lifetime. My very first surgery happened when I was seven years old. I was a child who had lots of ear infections. I am not sure if things are the same way now, but back then the answer was tympanostomy tubes - small plastic tubes that are inserted into the ears to help with fluid drainage. 

I found out about my very first surgery days after my mother’s father had passed away. It was a crisp, cold November day, much like it is now, and I recall my mom and I sitting in a booth at Stan’s Restaurant in White Oak. We were trying to process the news just delivered to us at the doctor’s office and I had a few questions. 

Having experienced a funeral just a few days prior, I was wondering about my own mortality. It’s funny how much I remember about this experience. I remember asking my mother if I was going to die and how she tried to console me. I was staring at the squiggly lined tabletop waiting for my French toast as she spoke. I was just wishing I could make it all go away. 

 

My recollection of the surgery is fuzzy of course but I don’t remember anything bad. (And believe me, I would have remembered anything bad.) I was thirsty when I woke up wearing a fashionable blue hospital gown and wishing I could just be in my bed. The hospital staff made such a fuss over me and how well I had done. I even got a brand-new coloring book;  a special gold McKeesport Hospital coloring book with a bunny on the cover that I am positive can be found somewhere in my parents’ home.

I had two to three tubes surgeries throughout the course of my childhood, plus a few other procedures as an adult. None of the experiences were bad although I would have preferred not to have them at all but as they say life happens. This upcoming experience is one I have tried to resolve in my mind and I think I am getting there. A recent visit to a health professional helped considerably. 

We talked about all of the positives surrounding having the surgery; having a good support system, having the sick days to use, having the new Beatles documentary to watch during my recuperation period. (Ok, we didn’t talk about that but you know I’ve been thinking about it.) And oh, I almost forgot to mention the Thanksgiving leftovers that will only be a room away. 

 

I can see it now. 

Me: “I’m feeling a little sore. Maybe I need some extra whipped cream on that piece of pie?”

I recently re-watched the movie Castaway with Tom Hanks and he performed tooth surgery on himself without anesthesia or the proper instruments. I don’t need to worry about any of that either thank goodness. 

As I mentioned earlier, I am a planner and I never would have planned any of this but it is nice to know the timing, while not great, isn’t that bad. I can have a prepared holiday honey-do list that may or may not get done and I need to allow myself to be ok with that. I have a book to read and a few shows to watch but the only thing I have to do is get well.

So, in the meantime, send some good vibes my way and maybe some extra stuffing and oh yes, lots of whipped cream.

Till Death Do Us Part

  

Death and life.

Life and death. 

This past weekend, my husband and I attended our first wedding in four years. The ceremony was held at the amazing gothic Sacred Heart cathedral in Shadyside. 

It is a treasure you take for granted if you live around here. When you step inside, you are transported to Paris, Cologne or Florence and are immediately lost in the architecture and little nuances embedded in every inch of the impressive structure from the tile floor to the wooden ceiling. 

It is the perfect setting for a Cinderella-like bride to walk down the aisle, accompanied by a man in uniform, to join with her forever love. It was very romantic. But when you take away all the visuals and listen to the words, it becomes a good exercise in marriage evaluation; especially for couples who have been on a journey for decades. 

I get emotional at weddings for many reasons but I guess it is mainly because my husband and I are so far removed from that new love stage. For couples hearing the ‘to have and to hold’ and ‘to cherish’ it sounds absolutely lovely. But when you add the  ‘in sickness and in health’, ‘richer and poorer’, ‘til death do us part’ things get a little less dreamy. 

When you’ve been married 22 years, and you’ve got multiple teenagers in the house, you are in the thick of the less dreamy part. Lately, when my husband and I wake up in the morning, I whisper, “Let’s run away.” He whispers, “Ok.” and then closes his eyes for a few more winks of sleep. 

For us, there is nowhere to run but we also know there is nowhere else we would rather be. We are in it together and no matter how hard it gets, we understand what we vowed to do decades ago. And with that he gets up and makes our coffee and oftentimes he’ll bring me my first cup. It’s no diamond ring or view of a Tuscan village but, at this point, caffeine is our love language.

As luck would have it, the DJ played our first dance song during the wedding reception. It was an exciting moment for us to hear the Beatles “Something” as we danced near the new bride and groom. Old love and new love may look different but deep down inside they are the same. Comfort, trust and affection - yep, we’ve still got it. 

Just a few days after the wedding, I found myself standing in a hospital room. I stood there holding my aunt’s hand and she attempted to comfort her husband of 56 years. My uncle was hooked up to a ventilator to help him breathe. He had been sick for a few months and he took a turn for the worst. A priest came to give him his last rights. 

My aunt said something that was both beautiful and heartbreaking in the same breath. 

“I don’t want you to go but this is how it has to be.”

To love someone enough to not want to see them suffer. To love someone enough to put their needs in front of your own. To recognize the gift of 5 decades of marriage, thankful for each day you’ve shared, both good and bad, and knowing your time together is nearing its end. At that moment, I saw those marriage vows, the ones I heard just a few days prior, come to life before my very eyes and only then did I truly understand what they are all about.

Death and life.

Life and death. 

In the same breath they give and they take away. But the great uniter is hope. Hope that we will one day be together again with those we love after they depart. The hope that love never dies and goes beyond this life and transcends into the great unknown. 

Seeing love from all sides in the past week has been eye opening. I can only hope that I can carry the lessons I’ve learned and truly celebrate the gift I’ve been given. Yes, my husband and I are in the less dreamy stage of marriage and the days of flirting, rapid fire kisses, and Sunday Fundays have been replaced by quick dinners, grocery shopping and Home Depot runs, there is beauty in those as well.

I wish my newlywed friends the gift of a long, loving, and fulfilling marriage. I wish my aunt and uncle a love that lasts until the end of time.

*My blog is featured in the On My Mind column of The Valley Mirror Newspaper each week. The paper serves the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities.

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

No phrase written by Lennon-McCartney has ever been truer. But in my case, I think we should add: and their friends and their friends and so on. 

Let's go back a little before we get into it. This story is about shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. As a member of the parent board for my daughter's marching band, we were looking for ways to make money - ways that didn't require a lot of effort but yielded a nice profit. You see, many organizations are trying to bounce back after the pandemic forced regular fundraisers to be scaled back or cancelled. We needed to start thinking outside the box. 

What do I do when I need to think outside the box? I go to Google. That is where, after typing in 'outside the box fundraisers', I learned about the shoe drive. 

An organization based in Orlando collects shoes for distribution among 25 countries; countries like Haiti where 60 percent of their population live below the poverty line. The shoes help create jobs by giving people inventory to set up their own micro-business. Selling is a way for people, with limited education, to work, make a living wage and provide affordable footwear to people who need it. 

So, collecting shoes would not only help our organization but also help others far away. Win-win in my book. Our band would get a check based on the number of bags of shoes collected calculating the exact figure per pound. Easy right? Well, wait...just how many shoes did we have to collect? 

2,500

Yes folks, two thousand five hundred pairs of shoes in two months. 

The Orlando company is great and assigns a coach to help each group. They send you marketing materials, bags, rubber bands and boxes to help with the collection of the shoes. They want you to succeed but you need to be willing to put in the time and realize this kind of fundraiser takes a village. Our band needed to go beyond our membership of 40 families and reach out to our entire school district. 

We had collection bins set up at four local churches. We had boxes set up at both our elementary and Jr./Sr. high school. We also had a collection bin at our local municipal building. We used social media heavily to keep the word out about our shoe drive and those posts were shared by friends and their friends and so on. 

To be honest with you, there weren’t many days I didn’t end up with a few bags of shoes in my van. Since I work at our elementary school, co-workers were pretty consistent with giving me shoes. The church and township bins were frequently full. Many of the donations came from people I never met. I had a local Brownie troop contact me to see how they could help out. But many donations came from my Facebook friends, my neighbors, and my family. 

To say there weren’t days when I wondered if we could actually do this would be a lie. We had a bag check off sheet and my fellow board members and I felt like the little engine that could every time we marked off a filled bag. (Each bag needed to contain 25 pairs of shoes.) I think we can, I think we can. 

We held drive thru events where people could pull up to the school and drop shoes off. These were very successful. People shared stories about having a kid in marching band a long time ago and remembering when they were the ones fundraising. Local businesses donated boxes of shoes that were discontinued and they couldn’t sell.

Our fundraising coach told us there would be two weeks when our donations would be the highest - the first week of the drive and the last. Well in our case, our last week was gangbusters. We needed to fill one hundred bags of shoes and we went over that by 11 bags. It seemed like the shoes just kept coming during our final week and we really felt the love. 

I didn’t know what to expect when we first kicked off this fundraiser.  I could not have imagined the way our community would come together to support our marching band. If I was having a bad day, finding one of our collection bins full of shoes was an instant mood booster. Finding a bag of shoes on my porch was like a visit from Santa. 

What is my take away from all of this? Well, for one, people have a lot of shoes. People appreciated motivation to clean out their closets. But most of all, people are generous. People are good and want to help. So, if you have any challenge facing you always remember to get a little help from your friends.

*My blog is featured in the weekly column On My Mind in The Valley Mirror - a newspaper that serves the Steel Valley and Woodland Hills communities. 

C is For Cookie Table

What are two words that instantly bring a smile to one’s face?

Besides "open bar"?

If you are truly from western PA, you probably guessed it.

COOKIE TABLE. 

Yes, the beloved cookie table that is a sight to behold and one that, for adults, is like being a kid browsing through the Target toy catalogue to get ideas for a Christmas list. “I need one of these. And one of these and maybe even one of those.”

I don’t remember my first cookie table experience. My family didn’t go to tons of weddings when I was younger but I do remember waking up the next morning, after such an event, and finding the small Styrofoam containers on the kitchen table; like an invitation to come to the party one more time. Prying open the lid I was filled with anticipation. Wondering, would there be anything chocolate I could nibble on? Or maybe a thumbprint or peanut butter blossom?

When you grow up in the Pittsburgh area, or I guess even more broadly the tri-state area, you assume this is something everyone does. It is funny for me to think about it now because, in a way, it is on par with other traditions I have experienced like my family’s Easter dinner where we have five kinds of meat and one side. 

The cookie table is a dessert after the dessert. The cake is the centerpiece of a wedding. A gorgeous work of art that is supposed to be the most decadent thing you’ll ever eat but then as if that’s not enough you get to wash it down with some cookies. 

There has been some controversy over how and where the cookie table started. But from a quick Google search, I learned that the tradition started in southwestern Pennsylvania during the Great Depression when families could not afford to have a wedding cake at the reception. The bride’s family make cookies for the guests as a labor of love to represent love on the special day.

It is a tradition that has carried on for close to 100 years. I regret that I don’t really remember the cookie table at my wedding but I do remember the planning that went into it. My mom took the responsibility seriously and contacted family and friends to volunteer their special delicacy to adorn the coveted table. 

Even though off hand I can’t for sure say what kinds of cookies were available to nosh on at my reception, I am sure my mom’s tasty lady locks were there - her pride and joy. As a child, I used to help fill those delicate cookies and make a crumb sundae with the broken pieces and the sweet, whipped icing left over from the decorating bag. 

Fast forward to 2001, my husband and I were living near Virginia Beach and we attended our first wedding south of the Mason-Dixon line. We were excited to see how the other half lives and find out what kinds of cookies we would bring home for later. (My husband and I were often homesick and any reminder of the Burgh was a joy and a comfort.)

Imagine our surprise when we discovered there was NO cookie table! We walked around the reception hall, opening closed doors, looking under tablecloths, like an addict needing their next hit, we needed the cookies and there were none to be had. We went home disappointed but more shocked to find out not everyone in the world engaged in this tradition or even heard of it for that matter. 

Years later, after we moved home, fate made amends for this sad little experience when we attended an Italian wedding. Our neighbors’ daughter was getting married and boy were we in for a treat. At this reception, there wasn’t a cookie table, there was a cookie suite! We walked in a door and made our way through a maze of COOKIES ending up on the other side of the reception hall dazed and amazed. 

There were varieties I had never seen before. My eyes were wide, my heart was palpitating and my box was way too small. Luckily, being the awesome neighbors they are, they brought over some extra treats the very next day to share with our kiddos. We felt like we won the cookie lottery and had been given the best prize ever!

So why am I going on and on about a cookie table? A college friend of mine is getting married in a few weeks and his bride is from south of the Mason-Dixon line. She did not grow up with the cookie table tradition but is having a Pittsburgh wedding. She felt the pressure. She needed to have a cookie table. 

When she was telling me her story, I felt like Arnold Horshack from Welcome Back, Kotter. My hand went up and “Ooooh, ooooh, oooooh, I’ll make some cookies for your table!”

This weekend, I’ll be making a few batches of my tasty snickerdoodles. I am so proud to finally get the chance to be a part of an actual cookie table and have my little babies lined up with other bite sized confections.

But first, the biggest challenge, making sure my family doesn’t eat them first!