Random memory: Mixtape for a fearful ex-boyfriend

I once had a boyfriend who was horrified by my father. I mean, horrified. I can’t say that his fear was unwarranted–my father was just awful to this guy and totally intimidating. I was 23. In hindsight, this particular boyfriend wasn’t all that terrible, but he wasn’t for me. However, my father felt some primal need to protect me (and my two sisters) from harm, perceived or otherwise.

This boyfriend, however, would not be deterred. In order to deal with his fear, he created a mixtape. This mixtape was *specifically* designed to be listened to on the way to my house to pick me up. It was his “psych up” music to face my father.

Every time I hear the song “Machinehead,” (first song on the mixtape) I think of this person and thank god that my father was one crazy son of a bitch.

Dad, an iron worker in Local #3, taking photos pre-demolition of the Brady Street Bridge. Pittsburgh, PA. May, 1978.

Barely Pinterested: my lukewarm feelings toward Pinterest

I’m a scrap collector. Since I was a little kid, I have always kept a book where I collected and archived ideas, memories, short stories, photos, and anything printed (or sometimes handwritten) that interested me. A mix between a scrapbook, picture album, and diary: a comfort book. All the small and printed things I loved in one place.

Back in 1987 I was a sarcastic 15 year old. I collected silly magazine headlines, photos of comedians I liked, birthday cards, and notes from my friends. Still makes me happy to page through...

Kellie V. over at le zoe musings recently did a beautiful post about her Vision Books. It made me so happy to see someone who collected ideas and thoughts similarly to me. (Albeit, so much more elegantly!) Photos, ideas, clippings, and to-do’s all wrapped cleanly in a book beautiful enough to publish as a quarterly.

My “book” serves the same purpose, but its pages are housed in an old binder from a former employer. It is dark and dingy on the outside and I have filled it to the gills with things I love. I like to use plain pages for small items to be glued onto (as a collage), and then many clear plastic document holders (that have pre-punched three ring binder holes) for stuffing pages into. Sometimes I’ll just hole punch printed pages and file them right into the binder. No rules. Just good stuff.

My dingy old idea book.

So when Pinterest  hit the scene, with blinding speed and popularity, I thought I would love it. In addition to my collection of physical scraps, I am notorious for keeping hundreds and hundreds of “bookmarks” for web pages that I like. Perhaps I would use Pinterest to my advantage, rather than have bookmarked links so long that a. I no longer reference them, b. I no longer remember why I saved them or c. the links are now broken due to their old, old age? But Pinterest was exclusive! By invite only! Wow, it sounded so intriguing–it must be special. So, I begged for an invite from friends and family, and finally, I was in.

First off, after all the hype, I found Pinterest cumbersome to use. Perhaps I didn’t research the usability of the application very well, I don’t know. It just wasn’t very intuitive to me, so it ended up frustrating me a bit. I didn’t like that I had to categorize the pins. I wasn’t sure how to create new boards. I didn’t like that I had to write some sort of verbiage on each pin. But I suffered along through those first pins…and began my journey. I pinned a total of 6 things. I had been thinking about winter a lot (I love winter) so I had found some cold, yet cozy winter home scenes that I enjoyed. But, then, I just lost interest. I never pinned again. I never referred back to my pinned items. My Pinterest was a cyber graveyard of cool things and “ideas.” It was going the way of my dead end bookmarked links in my browser.

But, oddly enough, despite my lack of activity, I collected 42 followers. And boy, were other people pinning! I see Pinterest updates all day in my facebook feed. I’m intrigued to see what everyone else is interested in, what recipes they are stockpiling, what colors they might paint their new baby’s room, the fun classroom activities they are going to do for Arbor Day. I found it to be a delicious glimpse into other’s personalities. It was such a public way to share. And it was fascinating.

It’s odd, but when I show someone a page of my physical idea book, I often tense up when they start thumbing through the rest of it. These are personal snippets, a glimpse into my very core, my own likes, my stuff. A reflection of me. It feels odd to give others a chance to view something so personal. And this is not necessarily a bad feeling–I would never stop someone from looking through my idea book, I mean there are no state secrets or anything close to being relatively juicy–it just makes me feel a bit vulnerable to share things that were collected so methodically and thoughtfully.

So, while Pinterest is a pretty novel idea, I just can’t love it. I can’t. Maybe I am just being a curmudgeon about technology versus print: the joy I have towards reading and looking at things on paper, the feel of paging through a book, or the act of clipping and placing something special enough for keeping into a record that I can hold. Maybe I feel that Pinterest is not that different than the hundreds of bookmarked links that I have, slowly atrophying in my toolbar. Maybe I know in my heart that the things I really love, are the ones that I need to work harder to keep. Maybe I feel that all of these pins are collected so easily, they will stagnate on Pinterest forever, with nary another view.

Whatever the reason, I’ll just continue collecting the way that feels right for me. And when I feel sick, or tired, or a little bummed, nothing picks me up like paging through that idea book. Lovingly pieced together by my own hands.

The Great Circle: 4 years, 9 months, and 2 days

My dad died unexpectedly on the coldest day I can ever remember, in January of 2007. After my mother called to tell me late that night, I dropped the phone. I then ran through the deep snow and into my back yard–barefooted–and lay there, looking up at the clear winter sky and wailing, making a snow angel. It was all I could do, just to feel something. Lying in that snow.

My father often joked that after he died, he was going to haunt us, scare the crap out of us, and generally just mess with us. He *really* would’ve liked this shirt. It was his nature, he loved to antagonize. And, really, haunting is about as good of a gig as you can get if you are a jokester. To this day, no one can make me laugh like he could.

Before he died, he was able to enjoy his three grandsons: my sister’s son, and my twin boys. Mine, conceived after many years of trying, finally born to my husband and me out of a successful IVF treatment. He loved them all, especially since he had no boys of his own, blessed with three daughters instead. My boys still have “Pap Pap” stories, and for that, I am happy. I am happy that they remember him and all of his antics, no matter how horrifying they might seem to someone who didn’t know him. But really, his complete disregard for any rules or social mores he didn’t like were part of what made him who he was, a true original. And–perhaps–a little insane to an outsider.

Several years ago, my mom gave me some of my dad’s books. The twins were looking to bring something in for show-and-tell and really wanted to take some of Pap Pap’s books, so they found the box and began their search. Below is the selection of my father’s books they were going to bring in for show-and-tell one day back in 1st grade. Thank God I checked their backpacks that morning.

My father was a prolific smoker. Lucky Strikes, unfiltered, 2-3 packs a day. As my mother later told me, one day the twins were at my parent’s house without me and they were very curious about my dad’s cigarettes. My mom said that one of them came running into the kitchen yelling “Pap Pap let me smoke, Nunni!! Pap Pap let me smoke!” My mom, not believing what this 3-year-old was saying, went to find out the real story.

“Bill, you didn’t *really* let the kids smoke?”

“Ann, it was one puff and they’ll never ask me to do it again.”

*********************************************************

So after he died, things were dark. Even more so, boring. Soulless.

And quiet.

So when I took that pregnancy test in March, two months after he died, I wasn’t expecting anything. I’d invested in about 20 pregnancy tests through the years and had never seen a positive. But, it was my birthday, and I wanted to go out and drink. Heavily. But, I felt funny. I couldn’t button my shirt because my chest was bigger than normal, and I just felt odd. Might as well take a test, not that I really thought that it would be positive, but just so I could go out and get drunk with a clear conscience.

There it was, two lines. I was pregnant. I cried. I cried out of fear, I didn’t really want another baby. I cried because I was such a horrible mess after my dad died that I didn’t think I could handle it. I cried because I was sad. Sad that my dad would never get to see this child. I cried because I was happy. A new life. I cried and cried and cried.

My sister, Sara, was also pregnant. She had found out about a month before me. We went to get our ultrasounds on the same day. There were our due dates, written on the back of the pictures, exactly the same: 9 months and 2 days to the day after my dad died.

What a gift to have to look forward to. What a way to make the pain a little easier. I was nearing two weeks late with the delivery, and the doctor told me that I could only go as far as November 10th. Holy crap, November 10th was the Marine Corps birthday. That was the most important day of my dad’s year. He was a proud Marine through and through, and served two tours of duty in Vietnam. If this baby could wait, that would’ve been the ultimate kismet. But, alas, Anthony Fabrizio was born in the late hours of November 7, 2007. Sorry Dad, I almost made it to the 10th, still wish I could’ve hung in there longer for you…

Today is Anthony’s birthday and he is four. If he were a Muppet, he would be Animal. He is energetic, funny, totally disruptive, loud, and frequently escapes our home to play outside. He would stay outside all day and night if I let him. He loves the woods and animals and he has a sparkle in his eye like my dad’s…a sparkle saying, “what can I get into next.” He hasn’t smoked yet, though.

So Dad, you weren’t lying, you have done some of your best work. Really, A+ stuff, here. I miss you every day, Bill Cubbage. And now I see that haunting isn’t necessarily a bad thing, nor is it just throwing around pots and pans or banging on the rafters late at night. Haunting is really just leaving a piece of your soul. So, Anthony is part of you, part of your soul, and that was a gift.

Left: Dad wearing a vintage Harley Davidson coat with Allison inside (c. 1973) Right: Allison wearing that same coat with Anthony inside (c. 2009)

And…he is driving me f**king crazy. Thanks you jagoff, you got me…

Finally, Happy Birthday to my sweet little Anthony. Don’t ever smoke. Oh, and Stay Gold.

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If Pittsburgh had a train line, my town would be the last stop

Horse tied outside of The Halfway House Tavern, West Deer, PA

I love Pittsburgh. My town. The town I learned to love after finally figuring out, wherever you go, there you are. So, why not Pittsburgh? It’s what I know. It’s where my family is. These nudges are my peeps. I love everything about it. I have adopted a radical acceptance of my hometown.

I work in Lawrenceville, an urban neighborhood right outside of the city proper along the Allegheny River. I eat at Pho Minh Vietnamese restaurant where the friendly owners know my order off by heart and the food is consistently wonderful. I walk down the street in Bloomfield, where I lived for 8 years, and say hello to at least ten people within a two block walk. My former mailman greets me with a kiss every time I see him. I can drive to the strip district on my lunch hour to pick up terrible towels during the respective sports season. I can go across the 40th Street bridge to Yetter’s candy around Easter and buy goodies for the kids. I can visit Jean-Marc Chatellier’s French Bakery in Millvale in the morning and supply world-class french pastries to my work friends. I don’t want for anything in Pittsburgh.

A walking tour of Lawrenceville, PA:

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Now if you ask anyone for directions in Pittsburgh, and your follow up is “about how long will that take?” I guarantee you that the answer will be “about 20 minutes.” Go ahead and try it sometime, it’s hilarious. I am seriously 20 minutes away from acquiring mostly anything in the city.

However, I live 30 minutes north from where I work. Thirty minutes. Pittsburgh time is exponential, so thirty minutes is like an hour and a half in Pittsburgh minutes. My mother lives two suburbs over, TWO, and I might as well live in Toronto. If there were a bridge or a tunnel involved, I might never see her again. But alas, I do not live in Toronto, I live in West Deer, PA. I live on a street that has a higher alpaca to human ratio. And I love it. I am a five minute drive to my fishing lakes. I have chickens. My kids play in the creek in our back property. (That’s “crick” for the uninitiated.) My neighbors get around on golf carts and quads and dirtbikes. Our neighbor rode his tractor over to say hello the other day. Usually these visits involve a beer or two. Sometimes, they involve a neighbor taking apart your heat pump and re-routing some wiring. Most Pittsburgh neighbors are similar regardless of their town: they look out for you, they help you when you need it, and they let you live your life.

This is the Pittsburgh that I love. The beautiful dichotomy. Where I can go to a Penguins hockey game and then come home to a neighbor’s backyard skating rink.  Sometimes, I drive past The Halfway House bar a few miles from my house and there is a horse tied to a hitching post. It’s not a Canadian Mountie’s, but it’s as close as I’m gonna get…

Pocket Guide: Dickhead or Douchebag?

It comes up a lot in our day to day lives. You’re dealing with a seemingly nice person and then, hmmm, you start feeling funny about they way they begin to treat you. A passive-aggressive comment here, a chuckle when you ask a benign question there, a look (complete with a brow that is either furrowed or dramatically raised only on one side). Listen, if you’re beginning to feel odd from your dealings with this person (usually a dude), then you’re probably dealing with a Dickhead or a Douchebag. We use these terms so often these days, that they have lost their true meanings. Is there a difference? Are these terms still relevant? Should we care? Yes.

Dickheads and Douchebags are EVERYWHERE. Oftentimes, they don’t elicit ire until hours or even days after contact with them. This guide will help you to 1. determine which of the species you are dealing with and 2. offer helpful tips to make it through your interactions with them.

Examples:

a.)  You’re getting a new cell phone. You are dealing with an overly aggressive sales guy. He uses terminology you really don’t understand (nor does he, you get the feeling). He checks his hair in the glare from the terminal when he’s typing your order in at checkout. He mentions that he planned “his entire trip to Europe” on *his* super awesome new tablet to which he was pointing (which has a store asset tag on it).

He is a: Douchebag.

b.) You broke down in March at one end of a bridge in Pittsburgh. It is minus 7 degrees. It’s the one year anniversary of your grandma’s death. The tow truck driver comes but refuses to drive you back across the bridge to your town’s main street. This is during the time in your life when you were at your most attractive and at your ideal fighting weight.

He is a: Dickhead.

Download and print a clear version of the PSA here (suitable for framing).

Tips:

• Put a copy of the PSA in your pocket, keep one in your car, take one to the club, and hang one on your wall at home/work.
• Teach other people the differences.
• Knowledge is power!

Making sense of this sense today

Bad

• The smell of a funeral mass
• The smell of musty old tents
• The smell of your Mom making relish
• The smell when you first walk into Whole Foods
• The smell of hospitals
• The smell of a hamster cage

Good

• The smell of exhaust, 3 seconds after your Dad started his Harley
• The smell of the rink when you first step onto the ice
• The smell of old Archie comics at the camp
• The smell of your Mom making bread
• The smell of a barn
• The smell of your hands after you take your trout off its hook

scraps

A series of writing snippets taken from my prodigious archive of materials (journals, letters, notes, etc)–interesting, funny, and otherwise.

Enjoy. I spared you the freaking poetry.

****************************

Primary source: Letter from my Dad to me during my geologic field mapping camp in Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah

Theme: 10% rule

May 31, 1995

(background note: my father served in the Marines during the Vietnam War; I never had crabs)

9:40 PM

Mood – Better

Ser. no – 2421431

Home – Hotel Co.

Dear Allison,

Well how’s the bush treating you? Do you have jungle rot or ‘mersion foot? How are your crabs?

How is the weather? Today was 81 degrees, sunny and breezy. Boogie let me take his bike for a ride last week. Wow. It was just terrific. I need another bike to make me whole. I just can’t explain it to anyone but you.

How many assholes are in your group? Well, if there are thirty you’ll have three assholes. Just let me know, it’s about 10 percent. One out of ten. It’s so true, just check it out and let me know.

Well, I’ll get another letter out in a couple of days. I love you very much and miss you.

I love you,

Dad

XOXOXOXOXO

scraps

A series of writing snippets taken from my prodigious archive of materials (journals, letters, notes, etc)–interesting, funny, and otherwise.

Enjoy. I spared you the freaking poetry.

****************************

Primary source: Allison’s journal

1/27/1994

Listening to that awesome Steven Stills tune “Everybody I Love You” on the bus at 6:30 this morning. Dark. Realized Steve was not on a bus when he wrote it.

2/3/1994

(background note: I pierced my nose in 1994)

Dad has pointed out for the 30th time that he’s seen quite a few lesbians AND black women with nose rings. I told him the truth — I’m a black lesbian.

9/2/1995

(background note: written at camp)

Dad just shot me with a BB gun and I freaked. Left and came back. Now he’s gone and it’s nice. My hammock rules. As does Neil Young.

4/28/1997

(background note: I am deathly afraid of flying)

Sitting my butt down in the airport–pre-flight to Phoenix. A priest is waiting to board the same flight. I’m definitely OK. It’s when there’s a nun you have to worry.

Fish tale

Remembering that fishing trip when my Dad told a full bar in Leeper, PA that I was a photojournalist (which I am not)…thereby proceeding to goad me–his 23 yr old daughter–to go out to the truck, *bring my camera in*, and take impromptu shots of bar patrons to be run “in a national news magazine” along with some HILARIOUS story that he made up….now forgotten. I’m sure it was a doozy, everyone was really hamming it up. I only wish I had film in that camera.