I grew up in Pittsburgh where rollerblading never went out of style.

In most parts of the world, by the 2000s, inline skates had faded into nostalgic obscurity. Relegated to yard sales and Play It Again Sports. Only non-ironically used by street hockey players, on beach boardwalks, and in midsize cities of Romania.

But Pittsburgh never got this memo, and rollerblading has remained a common and joyous form of recreation.

In high school, we would regularly strap on our ‘blades and do a few loops around "Virginia Manor," the rich, flat, well-paved neighborhood. Then we’d drive a parent’s SUV to a strip mall for some Italian Ice. Blasting 50 Cent and Michelle Branch with equal enthusiasm. It was an indisputably cool way to spend a summer afternoon.

When I did college tours, I brought my skates, because what better way to see a campus than by zooming around it in my K2’s? I assumed people were staring because I looked so hot. I didn’t realize that at elite institutions of New England, people do not blade around in sports bras, Soffe shorts, and blond high ponytails.

People not-from-Pittsburgh think it’s weird that Pittsburghers still rollerblade. People from Pittsburgh think it’s weird that people not-from-Pittsburgh don’t still rollerblade.

But I could not, would not, walk to the river, carrying my skates, and put my shoes in a backpack when I got there. The backpack would weigh me down and inhibit my ability to skate fast enough to elevate my heart rate to the exercise zone. I chose certain spills on the sidewalk and possible death on the streets over a mediocre workout!

My roommates were dubious of my rollerblades until they saw me zipping around the apartment—from my bedroom to the kitchen in 2 seconds, WHOOSH—and returning from rollerblade workouts, radiating joy and endorphins. Then they were jealous.

So jealous that one roommate, Caroline the Uncompromising, got her mom to dig up some rollerblades from their basement in Connecticut.

Caroline: “Guess what. My mom brought the rollerblades last night! Can we go today?”

It was 9 am, Sunday.

Me: “Ehhhh, it’s going to be pretty crowded, but if we go immediately it could be okay.”

Caroline was not one for spontaneity.

Caroline: “Well I just had breakfast and want to review three lectures this morning before having a light lunch to finish up my Greek yogurt before I buy a new container because there’s really not enough space in the refrigerator for two. I also have to go over to Eric’s parent’s house around 5 pm, which means I’ll want to shower around 3:40 pm to give my hair time to air dry before I blow dry it. So I was thinking, ideally, we could go sometime between, say, 2:10 and 2:15 pm?”

2:10 pm on a Sunday!? Did she want to skate like 2 mph, dodging renegade children and tourists taking selfies? Could she pick a worse time in the entire week to go rollerblading-for-fitness along the Charles? We might as well just ride an escalator for exercise.

Me: [sigh, grumble] “Fine.”

At 2:10 we realized that the rollerblades her mom dug up were hockey skates, which meant they lacked  brakes (recreational inline skates have a rubber stopper behind one wheel). Caroline-the-Uncompromising-from-Connecticut, who had not skated since grade school, surely could not stop abruptly without breaks.

Caroline: “It’s fine. Let’s just walk to the river and bring backpacks to put our shoes in. Once we get there it’s flat, so I can just gradually roll to a stop whenever I need to.”

And so we headed out at 2:15 pm on a Sunday with backpacks. I resigned to the fact that this would not be a high-intensity ‘blade session.

Caroline’s plan to stop via graceful deceleration did not pan out. Yes, the trail is flat, but it crosses several major roads, requiring instantaneous stops.

We approached our first intersection and Caroline was speeding along (as fast as one can speed with a cumbersome backpack, I mean). We’re 20 meters from the crossing and what approaches, but the most deadly and preposterous vehicle you can imagine: a Duck Tour.

Duck Tours are amphibious vehicles that float on water and drive on land. As they tour Boston, the ConDUCKtors® theatrically narrate sightseeing facts and the passengers quack their approval with souvenir kazoos, included in the ticket price.

We’re 10 meters from the intersection. Caroline and the Duck Tour are on a collision course. At the edge of the curb, she reaches for a lamppost, transferring her forward motion into a centripetal swivel and full body embrace of the pole.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by the Duck Tour.

“Look at that rollerblader hugging a pole! She almost DUCKED into us!” announces the ConDUCKtor®. “Let’s give her a quack!”

QUACK!!! QUACK!!! QUACK!!!  A cacophony of quacking kazoos.

We continue on. At every crossing, Caroline clings to a lamppost or crashes into a wall. Not graceful, but better than zooming into traffic. Strangers offer help and reassurance, assuming the crashes are accidental.

Caroline: “No, no, I’m fine. Thank you. I just don’t have breaks.”

Intersection after intersection, Caroline causes a scene. Intersection after intersection, her patience and enthusiasm for rollerblading dwindles.

At one crossing, Caroline slams into a wall.

A man jogging says, “Are you okay miss?”

Without looking up she snaps, “I’M FINE. I just don’t have breaks!”

He’s startled by her hostility and I toss a look that communicates, “Sorry man. It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s her... and this Duck Tour incident about a mile back.”

He appears familiar enough to trigger a how-do-I-know-that-guy pondering. He’s handsome in a boring way and notably short. Middle aged, with bouncy dark hair that could be in a shampoo commercial.

He’s running with a svelte, peppy woman who must be a personal trainer. They’re trailed by a beefy man on a bike. Bodyguard, I'm guessing.

I think he’s Tom Cruise.

Written circa 2014 when I was in my mid-20s

I have a history of public vomits. It began in childhood because of severe and frequent motion sickness. I had to bring a ziplock or Big Gulp (vomit receivers) on any car ride over 10 minutes. During my 20s, the cause-of-vomit changed from motion to hangovers, but the result is the same: many incidents of hilarious public vomiting. 

Vanquishing nausea is a formidable task. Well-behaved bouts recede over brunch with gabby friends. Others are more obstinate, requiring cunning and sensitivity to suppress.

My body makes very particular, often obscure demands. I need a croque monsieur and vanilla milkshake (sipped, not sucked by straw!). I need cheesy biscuits from Red Lobster. I need exactly four melon cubes, and oh god, not five. That would make me puke.

If I satisfy my needs precisely, the car-sickness or hangover dissolves, releasing me from wretched nauseous malaise. I have renewed appreciation for the vigor of normalcy, or physiochemical equilibrium. But if I mis-shoot or overshoot my body’s finicky demands, I puke and spend the day huddled in uselessness. 

So here are my Top Five Public Vomits.

5) I was so excited to visit New York City for the first time at age 8. This was in the wake of Home Alone 2 so I insisted that we stay at the Plaza and was elated that we were actually staying at the Plaza! Maybe I would get left there and have to outwit loveable bad guys with booby traps!

But, uh-oh. The cab ride from the airport was over 10 minutes. I staggered out of the taxi and immediately puked from motion sickness on the red carpet of the Plaza.

My dad: “Jesus Bridget!  You’re killing me!” as he tipped the bellhop all his race-track money.

“Sorry dad.”

4) Another case of motion sickness: on the bus, during my 6th grade field trip to Gettysburg, in Trevor Levine’s baseball hat.  But it was Gill Helwig’s fault for eating Sour Cream and Onion Pringles.

3) I took a bar tending class my freshman year of college. I was hung over on the first day. We weren’t using real alcohol to practice mixing, but I was tettering enough that the mention of alcohol could tip me. And you know where they mention alcohol a lot? Bar tending class.

The instructor: “Bla bla bla rum.”

I ran out of the room, down the hall, and vomited in the bathroom. I returned to class.

Ten minutes later, the instructor: “Bla vodka, bla bla gin.”

I ran out of the room, down the hall, and vomited in the bathroom. I returned to class.

Ten minutes later, “Bla wine.”

I ran out of the room. This went on from 9 am until the lunch break, when a bag of greasy chips saved my life.

2) Skiing is a bad thing to do hung over (especially after drinking Goldschläger).

1) But that lesson was not cemented, so two years later I repeated the mistake. It was a surprising drunk night and a surprising morning. In particular, I was surprised to see multiple bread slices missing one bite each scattered in my bathroom. I must have tried to eat something before bed. I’m responsible like that.

It was 7 am. I was going skiing at 9 am and needed to suppress my queasy harbinger of a hangover. I needed Eggs Las Migas from Lou’s Diner, which at the time was my infallible hangover prophylactic.  I needed it before the hangover descended and enveloped me in misery and incapacity.

The streets were layered with fresh, downy snow.  I tromped determinedly, but wobblily, the 1-mile stretch between my front door and Lou’s.

I sat at the counter and placed my order with urgency. It was 8 am, an unthinkable hour for students, when Lou’s is only populated by local residents. I expected to eat my eggs huddled in anonymity. Except the man to my right swiveled toward me.

“Hi there.”

I worked at the front desk of the Dartmouth tennis courts and this man was one of the chatty community members who played there.

“How are you?” he said with overt gravity and awareness.

“Fine.  I’m fine.”  He seemed oddly sympathetic towards my impending hangover.

“You know, it’s none of my business…”

“I’m fine.”  Did I look that disheveled?

“I just wanted to say that it happened to me too when I was your age.”

“Okay.”  Was I supposed to apologize or high five?  Was he admonishing or commiserating?

“If you ever want to talk about it…”

“No, I think I’m okay.”  No, I just want to consume my eggs in sunken silence.

“Well not to pry, how did it happen?  Was it sudden?”

“What?”  As sudden as two games of beer pong and countless blurry blue mixed drinks.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if the death was sudden or from something chronic because my father was just out of the blue. Healthy and laughing one day, gone the next.”

It dawned on me that he mistook me for another front desk worker whose father had recently died. I thought we were talking about my hangover and he thought we were talking about my father’s death.

I could not rectify the conversation. I was too weakened and apathetic from murky-headedness.

“It was a surprise.”

Some Eggs Las Migas and an hour later I was atop the mountain, slumping on my ski-poles like a lean-to.  I still felt blah, but was certain that the crisp mountain air would nip that away. I edged over the crest of the slope.

Swish, swish, swish.

The switch-back motion of skiing was too much.

At the bottom of the slope, I popped off my skies and scuttled as swiftly as one can in ski boots to the edge of the trail. I feel to my knees, dug a little hole, and vomited into it. I filled in the hole with snow and felt relieved, recovered.

I rode the lift back up, rejoicing that my hangover had lifted. I could live again! Fresh, sharp. I forged down the next slope.

Swish, swish, swish.

My hangover returned.

I got to the bottom of the slope, re-excavated my little hole, and vomited, again. I felt relieved, recovered, again.

I rode the lift up. I skied down. I scuttled to the hole.

I spent the rest of the day in the lodge, nursing some red Gatorade, bemoaning my state of being.

Written 6 December 1996 when I was 10 years old

I want to be an actress when I grow up. But sometimes I start writing and want to be a writer. And sometimes I want to be a teacher, lawer [lawyer], doctor, dentace [dentist], waitress, and many others.

I would love to be all of them but I can't. Luckily, if I'm an actress I might be able to play all of them. Unluckily, acting is a very hard job and maybe by the time I'm old enough they'll have robots instead.

So maybe I shouldn't want and dream about a job. Or maybe if I don't it won't happen. Who knows?

Written 7 December 1996 when I was 10 years old

Today I went over to Clara's house. I had fun. We went to Markham [my elementary school] and just hung out. Then we played a stupid game.

When you invite someone over, they invite you over. This just keeps on happening until you're not friends. If you're best friends it doesn't seem to matter.

Written circa 2012 when I was mid-20s

My father’s side of the family is a gaggle of suburban American women—lip-balm crazed cousins and meddling, megalomaniac Aunts. 
 
A few summers ago, I was in Paris with them.  This was a mistake, but I knew it was a mistake before I arrived.  I was trapped by circumstance.
 
I am an archaeology PhD student.  I was weeks into excavations in a Slavic village when I emerged to the city to buy fresh socks and check email.  My inbox was overrun by a 27-email long exchange between The Aunts about an expedition to Paris in celebration of Aunt Jackie’s 50th birthday.  All The Aunts, female cousins, and one unfortunate uncle were going!  The trip coincided with the exact days that I would be in Paris between digging in the village and returning to America.  I could not be in Paris without joining them.
 
I was trapped by circumstance.
 
I arrived in the evening of the third day of their trip.  Three days in Paris!  What had they done?  What had they seen? 
 
They had spent the past three days trying to find the Louvre.  Each day, by the time they got there, it was awfully late and not worth entering.
 
I was in disbelief that five adults and seven young-adults could fail to visit the Louvre on three consecutive days.  Until the feat was repeated for me on day four.
 
7:00 am: The getting ready brigade begins.
 
7:17 am: I am ready.
 
The rest of the gang is amidst a frenzy of showers, hair-drying, -straightening, -curling, and outfit indecision. (Why do they straighten their hair just to curl their hair? Female beauty routines mystify me. I have 3 hairdos: ponytail, half-ponytail, or down hair)
 
“We MUST look fashionable in Paris!” proclaims Aunt Gloria.
 
7:32 am: Aunt Maxine extols a platter of croissants: “Everyone MUST have a FRENCH croissant.”
 
I prod the rubbery pastry with my index finger and it resumes shape like memory foam.  This is NOT a flaky, airy French croissant from the corner boulangerie.  It is an industrially produced croissant from Monoprix.  I inquire why they purchased them from Monoprix and they explain that it was cheapest. 
 
Aunt Nancy bites in theatrically.  “Mmmmmm.  It’s magnificent!”
 
8:42 am: The first argument over shoes.  29-year-old April wants to wear heels, but Aunt Gloria insists that everyone wear sneakers because “we’re going to be doing a lot of walking.”
 
10:23 am: Aunt Nancy busies herself packing lunch—sandwiches of prepackaged Monoprix bread and cheese.  Much grumbling and bewilderment over why peanut butter was in the International Foods aisle and so pricey.
 
10:45 am: I am still ready.
 
11:12 am: Uncle Bud sighs.  His eyes, hopeless.
 
11:47 am: We eat the sandwiches Aunt Nancy packed for lunch because it is lunchtime.
 
12:14 pm: We exit the apartment.  The Metro is two blocks away, but The Aunts know a short cut through… Monoprix.  The women begin shopping, frothing.  They are frenzied by the idea having “clothes from Paris, clothes from Paris!” even though we are in the Walmart of Paris and the clothes are mass-produced in China.
 
12:47 pm: 16-year-old Cousin Kaley finds an unremarkable sweater and needs it now.
 
1:12 pm: We leave Monoprix.  I see the Metro sign—but wait!—Cousin April is going to buy a soda.  As she scurries into a shop, Aunt Gloria explains why the soda is contentious.
 
The Cousins have been forbidden from ordering sodas because The Aunts deemed them too expensive.  The Cousins have no money of their own because The Aunts believe that one can only get Euro by cashing Travel’s Checks at a certified exchange office.  Devastated by the soda prohibition, Cousin April withdrew cash from an ATM.  The Aunts know this will cost you unthinkable fees and targeted for conspiracy kidnapping.
 
Aunt Gloria continues, “And after she got cash FROM THE ATM she has been flaunting it and buying as many sodas as possible.”
 
Animosity is stewing.  April is missing.  Aunt Nancy’s cell phone rings. 
 
Aunt Nancy listens and then announces, “April is lost and sitting on some church steps.”
 
I start to understand how they failed to reach the Louvre on three consecutive days.
 
1:55 pm: After locating April, I convince the group to stop by the Natural History Museum, which is in a nearby park where I have to meet Gilbert at 3:00 pm. Gilbert is my best friend in graduate school and worst exasperation.  He is obnoxiously charming and flamboyantly French. 
 
Gilbert had sent me a brief email, which set our meeting and explained his current state of shambles.  He had just returned from fieldwork in Armenia and while he was away his parents had moved.  His major possessions were in the new house, but he didn’t know where that was, and his parents were out of contact, on holiday in Turkey.  His credit card had been frozen, so he could not buy a ticket to the USA for school in 5 days.  Oh, he didn’t have a phone, or a place to stay, but would find some ex-girlfriend in the city.
 
Such is the norm for Gilbert’s life characterized by brass nonchalance and melodrama.  He is far too French and alive(!) to do things like rent apartments and not loose his wallet.  I call it the “Pfft [scarf]!” mentality (imagine someone saying “pfft!” and then tossing their scarf behind the shoulder with a disdainful wrist flick).  “Travel alert on my credit card?”  “Pfft [scarf]!”  “Lock my bicycle?”  “Pfft [scarf]!”  “Register for classes?”  “Pfft [scarf]!”
 
Despite his multifaceted, pressing predicament, Gilbert absolutely had time to meet for a tea.  I just had to shepherd The Aunts and Cousins to the park by 3 pm (I wasn’t allowed to go alone because they saw Taken and knew I would be violently abducted if I traveled alone in Paris).
 
3:00 pm: Of course Gilbert is not at the rhino statue, our designated meeting spot.
 
3:17 pm: I search for Gilbert as my relatives occupy themselves in the museum. 
 
3:29 pm: They are bored and head to the McDonald's across the street.  It begins to rain, but phew—they brought plastic ponchos.
 
3:37 pm: I come across Gilbert.  He is looking overly French, wearing wee red shorts, a scarf (in August), and loafers.  His accessories are a cigarette and a posh, unamused woman with fire engine lipstick that I could never pull off.  She’s just an ex-girlfriend in the city.
 
We embrace and he asks, “Where are ze cousins?  I want to meet ze American cousins!”
 
We cross the street and find my American relatives: in a McDonald's, wearing ponchos, with multiple maps open, trying to find the Louvre.
 
They are so impressed that Gilbert is really from France.  They ask him if he likes wine.  They gush that it must be so neat being French.  They tell him how delicious the croissants were at breakfast.
 
4:00 pm: We’re not making it to the Louvre today.
 
4:10 pm: Aunt Jackie asks if I can find a nice Italian restaurant with chicken fingers on the children’s menu for dinner.

Written 28 July 2014 when I was age 28.

Circa 1992 my family took a vacation to the American Southwest, an awe-inspiring landscape of geologic majesty. Unfortunately, to behold this majesty, you have to do a lot of driving, which meant countless hours sandwiched between my brothers in the back middle seat of a rental sedan.

I always got the back middle seat, while my brothers enjoyed the windows. Rationally it made sense because I was by far the smallest; my brothers are 5 and 7 years older. However in the ethical calculus of a first grader, me always having the middle seat was a grand injustice. It didn’t seem fair to make someone sit in a particular place in a vehicle because of that person’s physical attributes. Had I known about the civil rights movement, I would have drawn the analogy. But, my elementary school didn’t teach civil rights until 2nd grade or analogies until 3rd.

My parents let us sort out backseat affairs ourselves, and I always sorted into the middle seat. Upon entering the car we would perform a Looney Tunes-like scene of locking doors, unlocking doors, switching seats, and running around the car. Invariably, I would be trapped in the middle by the time the car was rolling.

So I began every car ride fuming, indignant. On this particular day, I was fuming, indignant as we drove through Monument Valley, a Navajo park along the Utah-Arizona border known for colossal sandstone buttes. It’s a vista of red stone, blue sky, and vastness. It’s what you picture when you picture the Southwest because countless iconic Westerns and commercials have been filmed there.

The Monument Valley tour loop is 17 miles and takes 2-3 hours to drive. In my memory, the drive was an immeasurable span of tedium and needless suffering.

Four minutes into the drive I asked, “how many more hours?” being sure to draw out hours with the breadth of my anguish.

My parents ignored me.

“Mom.”

“Mommm.”

“MOM!”

Finally, acknowledgement: “What is it?”

“I said, how many more hours?”

“We’ll get there when we get there. Look at the rocks.”

As an adult with an appreciation for and education in geology, I would enjoy Monument Valley. As a child, stuck in the middle, I was rancorous with “are we there yet” delirium. It occurred to me that we would be driving on a dirt road for hours to see some tall rocks, or whatever tall rocks I could barely glimpse from the back, middle seat.

My ideal vacation comprised a swimming pool, mini-golf, and 24/7 popsicle availability. A place, like my grandparents’ condo on Hilton Head Island, SC, where we parked the car and thereafter only used bicycles and boogey boards for transportation. Driving for hours on a dirt road to see giant rock towers was no vacation. It was child abuse.

A Genesis cassette tape was playing.

“I can feel it coming in the air tonight, hold on…”

Even at age seven I had in inkling that being subjected to this kind of music could compromise our sanity. Had I been aware of current events at that time, I would have likened it to the psychological warfare used in the U.S. invasion of Panama.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life, hold on…”

“Mom”

“Mommm.”

“MOM!”

“What is it?”

“I’m really, really bored.” My words seethed through gritted teeth.

“Play one of your road games.”

We tried to play that game where you go through the alphabet and spot something that begins with each letter.

A… A…

Automobile!

B… B… B…

Bush!

C…

Cactus!

D… D… D…

We gave up. There’s not a lot of alphabetic variety in shrubby desert.

Phil Collins belted, “Oh I can’t dance, I can’t talk… Only thing about me is the way I walk…” To this day his songs trigger instant car sickness for me, even if I just hear them in Trader Joe's.

Anticipating revolt, my parents resorted to the only effective appeasement: stuffing our faces with snacks. They had one bag of Doritos.

“Okay kids you can only have one Dorito every 10 minutes. Start your timers!”

My mother distributed our first Dorito rations and we diligently set our watches. My brothers ate them immediately, but I decided to make mine last. I slowly licked the neon powder from one side, then the other side. I nibbled a bit and sucked on it. I nibbled a little more. It was repulsive.

My brother objected. “Mom it's disgusting how she's eating her Dorito!”

My other brother agreed. “It’s making me sick! Tell her she can’t eat it like that!”

Mom: “Bridget, eat the Doritos like a civilized person.”

I would have pointed out that regulating and criticizing my food consumption could lead to eating disorders, but I didn’t know about those until the next year, when I watched a Lifetime Original movie with my mom about bulimia.

Me: “That’s not fair!”

Mom: “Eat them like a civilized person or don’t eat them at all.”

I would have pointed that "civilized" is an imperialist, racist concept - that the "civilized world" is destroying the planet and driving most species, including our own, to extinction. But I didn't have my Anthropology PhD yet.

Me: “Fine. I don’t want any.”

I crossed my arms and commenced my first (and only) hunger strike.

Now Phil was singing, “Cos tonight, tonight, tonight– ohhhhhhhh.”

The Dorito tiff and never ending battle over the middle seat may give you a false impression of our sibling dynamics. It was not always my brothers against me. We had shifting alliances based on individual goals. Most of the time my oldest brother and I allied against the middle brother. And most of the time my oldest brother was my buddy, looking after my happiness and well-being.

He had ways to entertain me, one of which was a character known as Mr. Finger. This was his right pointer finger, used as a puppet. Mr. Finger would act out adventures and keep me from doing bratty younger sister things, like licking Doritos.

There was an elaborate backstory to Mr. Finger, the details of which are forgotten. I’m pretty sure his parents died—because orphans were so popular in kids’ stories at the time—and he definitely had a little brother, Mr. Pinky.

Mr. Finger popped up to entertain me.

“Hi Bridget! How are you doing today?”

“BAD.”

“Well how about I tell you a story?”

“NO.”

“Well how about we go on an adventure?”

“Tonight, tonight, tonight– ohhhhhh.”

I was not in the mood. I made my pointer finger into a gun and shot Mr. Finger point blank.

A few minutes later I wanted him back.

“No, you shot him. He’s dead.”

I pleaded. “It was an accident! Make him come back!”

“I can’t. He’s dead.”

Days, months, years later, it was the same. Mr. Finger was dead. He never came back. And that is how I learned some actions have irrevocable consequences.

Written 4 March 1994 when I was age 8.

I woke up and watched Garfield. I got ready for school. For breakfast I had a smores poptart. I went to school. Our spelling words are ' words [apostrophe words]. By the end of the day it was raining. I got dranst [drenched]. I went to gymnastics. I had a head eck [ache]. No body is paying attention to me.

Written 26 December 2012 when I was age 26.

My parents have been alive for 60-some years and married for nearly 40.  They exasperate each other as much as they love each other and are my model for marriage.  Their squabbles are frequent, but insignificant—usually prompted by something like…

Dad: “Peg!”

Mom has settled into her evening burrow: on the basement couch, under a blanket, with the dog by her feet and a glass of Chardonnay by her hand.  She is watching Dancing with the Stars and ignoring the squawks from upstairs.

Dad: “Peg!”
…

Dad: “Peg!  Can you come up here?”

She doesn’t move, but finally yells, “What is it?”

Dad: “I can’t get the T.V. to work and the Pens game is on!”

Mom stomps upstairs, mumbling, “Honest to god.  I’m going to kill him.  Honest to god.”

My dad loves being a grump.  It’s one of his favorite things along with Pittsburgh sports, classic literature, and IPAs.  He is a tax attorney who just wants to make progress on an infinite workload, but his productivity is always thwarted by chitchat and razzmatazz.  He's the Byzantine Catholic, Pittsburgh lawyer version of Larry David, but probably no one beyond my immediate family gets this description.

I call him a few times a week.

Me: “Hi Dad.  How’s it going?”

Dad: “You know, it’s always something.  I have a stack of contracts to finish but one of my biggest clients is in Spain and I can’t move anything ahead without his signature.  And your mother wants me to come home early today for some baptism razzmatazz out in Cranberry.  I just can’t get anything done.  It’s unbelievable.”

Phone calls to Mom are more like:

Me: “Hi Mom.  How’s it going?”

Mom, a little breathless because she’s walking the dog: “Honey!  Hello!  You’ll never guess who I ran into today.”

Me: “I don’t know.”

Mom: “I was at Giant Eagle picking up snacks for your father’s book club and someone taps my shoulder and it’s Karen Okerbaker’s mother.”

Me: “Who’s Karen Okerbaker?”

Mom: “You know, whatsherface who was on your soccer team.  With the blond hair.  Lived on Woodview.”

Me: “You mean Kirsten Ostergaurd from Woodhaven?”

Mom: “Yes, yes.  You I always mix up the K-girls, Kirsten, Kristen, Kylie.  Well anyway, Karen just moved to Minneapolis.  Doesn’t your college roommate live there?  You should hook them up.”

Me: “Well I don’t know.”

Mom: “Just get on the internet and see if you can hook them up on the computer.  Or send a Tex Message… Oh!  Did I tell you the Fenners are getting another addition?”

Mom is a chatty retired art teacher, renowned for malapropisms.  In one incredible sentence she referred to September 11th and Columbine and 7-11 and Concubine.  Mom is busy with luncheons, coffee dates, garden club, book club, and Town Hall meetings.  As she floats from the grocery store to the dry cleaners to the bank, she hums peppy, indistinguishable melodies.  But beneath her la-de-dah disposition lies astute wit.  She is my gossip partner and confidante.

It’s Christmas Eve and we are going to Aunt Gloria’s house.  It’s a 1.2-mile drive, but like everything with my parents, it is an ordeal.

Mom stands in the kitchen, bundled in a coat from an Amish craft fair and hand-knit Steelers scarf.

Mom: “Howie!  Let’s go!”

Dad is in the next room, editing trusts with a number 2 pencil.

Mom: “Howie! We’re leaving!”

This holler penetrates his consciousness.  He slams down the pencil.  Dad: “Alright.  Quit your yapping.  I’m coming!”

Moments later, “Peg!  Have you seen my wallet?”

Mom: “It’s on your dresser.  Come on, already.”

Moments later, “Peg!  I can’t find my mother’s documents.”

Mom: “What documents?  They’re probably on your desk.”

Dad: “My mother’s new will.  I had it on my desk yesterday and now it’s gone.  Mary Francis must have moved it.”

Mary Francis is our cleaning lady and scapegoat for all things missing or awry.

Mom: “Mary Francis didn’t touch it.”

Dad: “She must have.  It’s gone.  I told you to tell her to stay away from my desk!”

Mom returns to the bedroom and locates the will on his desk.  She’s really good at finding things that are in plain sight.

We proceed to the car.  I carry the presents, loaded Tetris-like in a Macy’s shopping bag.  The bows are all smooshed.  Dad carries a Pyrex baking dish of haluski.

On Christmas Eve we eat traditional Slovak peasant food.  Pierogi, haluski, unleavened bread, and Dominoes pizza for the bratty kids and my 34-year-old brother.  Everything on the table is buttery beige, sour, and made from potatoes, cabbage, and noodles (except the Dominoes pizza).

Presently I love this grub.  In 2006 when I was a nutrition nut, I deemed it all inedible and got a psychosomatic stomachache.  And, as a kid I couldn't eat pierogi because they reminded me of the face of the Star Wars Emperor—all beige and shriveled.

Mom: “Howie do you have keys?”

Dad: “What keys?”

Mom: “The CAR keys.”

Dad: “WHICH car keys?

Mom: “The electric car.”  They refer to the Prius as the electric car.  “They’re in the change dish.”

Dad: “They’re not in the change dish.  Mary Francis must have moved them.”

Mom: “Mary Francis wouldn’t touch the keys.  They must be in your pocket.”

Dad finds them in his pocket.  We enter the vehicle.

Mom: “Don’t put the food in the back.  Put the food on my lap!  Put the presents in the back.”

Dad drives because he’s too much of a back seat driver to do anything but drive.  Mom sits in the back to relinquish herself of any navigation or climate/audio control responsibilities.  I take shotgun because I have no other choice.

I realize that I drove the car last and left the volume above the permissible level.  I try to slyly turn it down before the car starts, but electronics don't work this way, so Lady Gaga bursts from the speakers at ignition.

Dad, horrified: “That is WAY too loud!”

Mom: “What is that rap?  Boom, boom, boom!”

Dad: “Turn it off!”

Mom: “Turn on Christmas carols!”

I reduce the volume from 12 to 4 and scan the Pittsburgh wavelengths for something with chimes and cheeriness.

Simplyyyy…
haaaave a…
wonderful Christmas time.

Mom sings along in the back.  Dad starts orating.

Dad: “You know they were talking on NPR today about three musicians.”  He’s yelling louder than I am permitted to play the radio.  “One was that boy all the kids like.”

Mom: “Justin Beeboo?”

Dad: “No, no.”

Mom: “Yes, that’s it.  Justin Beeboo.  Bober.”

Me: “Bieber.  Justin Bieber”

Dad: “No, no.  The one all your cousins saw.”

Mom: “That’s a girl.”

Dad: “No, no.  Taylor Something.”

Mom: “Turn left.”

Dad is going the wrong way, despite the fact that he’s lived in this suburb since birth.

Mom: “LEFT Howie!”

We’re butting far into the intersection, stopping traffic as we veer from right to left.

Dad: “The musician that all the kids like.”

Mom: “Taylor Swift.”

Dad: “Yes that’s it.  Apparently he’s very popular.”

Mom: “Taylor Swift a girl.”

A new born King to see
Pa rum pa pa pum.

Dad: “Okay, well I thought her music was terrible, but what impressed me is that she’s her own manager.”

Me: “Can you stop shouting?”

Dad: “I could if this music wasn’t blasting.”  His pointer finger bluntly jabs at the dashboard.

Me: “Stop.  This is her house.”

Mom: “Howie stop.  Park behind that SUV.”

Dad: “Whose car is that?  I don’t want to park near any SUV.”

Mom: “That’s your sister Nancy’s car.  Just pull behind it.”

The car putters on.  We park three houses away so “we don’t get caught in a lot of razzmatazz when we want to leave.”
 
We exit the car.  Dad clutches the Pittsburgh Post Gazette.
 
Mom: "You're bringing the newspaper?!"
 
Dad: "There might be some down time."
 
Mom: "It's YOUR family, honest to god.  Put that back in the car.  Heavens to Betsy."

As long as I could write, I've been writing "for fun." First privately in childhood journals and .doc files saved on a dial-up era desktop. Then publicly during my 20s blogging heyday. Here's a sample of my musings, plucked from different ages and posted in a non-linear timeline.

The blog title, “It’s Always Something,” is one of my father’s favorite sayings. It refers to life’s capacity for infinite setbacks. You're stalked by a mob of cats. You transport bed bugs from Belgrade to Oxford. You inadvertently provoke a social media feud with John Stamos.  It’s always something, and my blog posts are about those somethings.

Everything I write is at least “based on a true story.” Some things happened just like that, some things happened sort of like that, and some things would happen like that, but never really did. I embellish events for comic relief. I turn real individuals into characters. Don’t take this too seriously.

It is my calling to produce an amusing, insignificant memoir that people will read in the bathroom.  I realize that this will get me fired, not hired, and out of favor with those involved.  But with one’s destiny cometh suffering!  I learned that from Frodo and Jesus.