*sigh* Our first apartment is empty.
Pursued by Mel on September 3rd, 2010
Yes. He said that.
I love accidental perverted slips from news anchors. The best about this clip? It was said in all seriousness.
I do not drink the juice. Unless it is whipped cream vodka. Holy crap, that stuff is good. Too bad it’s a shitty brand because I would have loved more than one drink.
Where to begin. Weekend weirdness.
To say I was accosted by bible thumpers in Public Square between the bar and home on a Friday night is a gross overstatement, but for serious… This guy — thinking he was an everyday panhandler — handed me something, which I grabbed kindly without paying much attention, but he may as well shoved it down the front of my dress. I took a step or two, recognized “those words” on the front cover and put it back on top of his pile of books.
A holy bible? Is this the tactic to get kids to church these days?
I might have said “ew” when I gave it back. And then some skater punks called me disrespectful, but whatever — at least I gave his paraphernalia back. I could have trashed it or thrown it in front of a Healthline bus. Or shredded it for cat litter.
Finding Chi. And the source of that delicious smell.
We balanced out the holy bible with Hell’s sins of drinking, food and boobies to round out our last full weekend in the Cleve: YUMM! at Mercury, cucumber margaritas and guacamole sampler at Momocho, Five on It at Touch, beers at Bier Markt and dancing with the blondes at Hustler Club and Diamond’s Mens Club. Thank. You.
And how incredibly rude of me, I never asked our girl’s name. For shame.
Best line of the night: “Is this the Applebee’s of strip clubs?” in regards to the Hustler Club. Dead on. That place is stranger than ED’s downtown. Too much fun. And without all the unnecessary glitter. Yes, my life is debaucherous. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Working on my derby ass.
I also participated in the Blood & Thunder training camp, where I developed another 18 or so bruises and scratches and new derby pals. Ten-to-twelve hours of roller derby kicked my ASS. It was a super-fun Cleveland weekend — including the two-day hangover (not). Oooof.
Nearing the end.
Five days left.
Most days I need a little help with my wardrobe. I have so many pieces in my closet, that it can be overwhelming to remember how to match those items together. So, I look to snazzy bloggers, fashion catalogs and an amazing iPhone app to shop my own closet for brilliant match-ups. I have to select my outfits in advance, otherwise I am a lost mess. Especially without coffee. This is why it is awesome that I can hang out in PJs on most days.
Be that as it may, I have a soft spot in my groin for handbags and shoes. Good thing there’s a purse for that.
How do normal people move to a new state having regular jobs? I’m exceptionally lucky that I can make my own hours around all the mundane crap I need to do while AB is, well, already living in Pittsburgh because all-holy-hell would break loose worse than it is, as I would have no time to do any of this shit otherwise. Let alone stress out about aforementioned shit.
I haven’t had to take any Xanax yet. So, there’s that. But it doesn’t mean that I have handled this transition in the most non-bitchiest manner possible. Just ask the boyfriend.
Our movers are finally scheduled (on now the right date… don’t even get me started on that process), our going away party under contract (lame as I find this), hotel (with cat) booked, addresses changed (aside from the USPS mail forwarding, given that they cannot yet verify the billing addresses of EITHER of zip codes and corresponding debit/credit cards… awesome) and my condo is completely packed and ready for transport.
Meanwhile, our apartment hangs its head in shame as it is still WAY too livable for two people who are moving to Pittsburgh in eleven days (and merely a week away from actual keys) and gosh-darn-it, the boxes want to be PACKED AND MOVED already. At least those boxes exist — many of them still folded against the wall, the others a makeshift kitty condo — and stand ready for destruction by Rudy and his massacre claws at 4 am. Every. Single. Morning.
But I am certainly enjoying my final weeks in the Cleve, including a handful of work projects to complete before I take an entire week off from business responsibilities (I mean, my server and internet will be down for at minimum 3 days, so… seems like a good call). Dinners with family and friends. Day drinking. Taco Tuesdays. Roller derby bruising (and training camp this weekend). Networking online with new ‘Burgher peeps and organizations (and soon-to-be IRL). Hide n’ Seek with the cat (man, I hope he likes the view from Pennsylvania windows).
Have I detailed my excitement about STAIRS(!) in my new place? And I mean, IN the actual apartment, not the ten or so floors to climb in the short chance both elevators suck ass simultaneously (thankfully, I’ve already got a bartender tip to use the one on the left as the other is shaky). And I may share residence with a couple local celebs.
Just saying.
That in itself might be enough to propel me into as much excitement as those boxes to get the hell out of here already.
When this is all said and done, I’ll likely need a mulligan on the entire month of August.
And yesterday just plain sucked the life out of me. Again. What you may call “relaxed,” I consider a waste of space. Even for my boyfriend’s tiny, clammy leather bachelor sofa. Nothing accomplished. No drive. No motivation. I even lost two games of Words With Friends. And only a day after spending eight hours packing up my condo. Which I need to do again. Tomorrow.
I packed five of the last years of my life into small, medium and large sized boxes. Many of which will just go to storage. And I’ll move them again in a couple years, wondering when (or if) I’ll ever have an office to display my Spiderman collection.
But, OMG I cannot wait for my couch. In our main living room.
For as much excitement that I build up over the move, I cannot believe how stressed I am. OK, perhaps I can because the minutest of unknown situations stress me beyond belief, but it has taken on new forms aside from mere panic attacks and insomnia. Where is that damn hot tub time machine? I want to skip ahead three weeks. I want to be back to some normalcy — with AB to come home to every night, with healthy home-cooked dinners… without having to annoy all of you in the process with my whining and emotional breakdowns.
I went into practice last night with a bad attitude too, which just perpetuated into that “why I am doing this?” that I have felt nearly every day this last month with my writing career. As much as I pushed myself, I felt even more defeated. I felt like I can’t do it. And that fucks with me more than anything. I imagine the stress just completely detaches you from all that you love — sucks the heart right out of you. The highlight of my day was pulling into my parking garage, catching two chicks completely entangled in a passionate make-out session.
That’s all it takes — lesbians — to cheer me up.
I received an interesting lead to my blog from Google: excuse me, your cock is in my peanut butter. Of COURSE, I had to do the search to find its intended source.
Aside from my own blog coming up on Page 2 (uh, awesome… I think) in the results, I came up with nothing of any value or merit (but a lot of porn quotes and disgusting things about dogs).
Anyone have a clue? Is this a joke or a movie line? A euphemism? Or worse… a pick up line.
And more importantly, why is your cock in my peanut butter?
UPDATE!: Potential source of query — Penis Butter, the documentary
(h/t Craft Pittsburgh Magazine — coming soon!)
It’s been a while since I’ve required the services of an online dating service (thank GAWD). I had no personal success in their use, save for seeing several of my ex-boyfriends and reveling in their loser-dom, then crumpling in a sobbing ball of emotional breakdown, realizing that the same fate had been bestowed upon me. It was a sad, sad period of an extra 30 pounds, too many boxes of Butterscotch Krimpets and a couple fifths of Jack Daniels. One that I hope NEVER to repeat. I’m not naive to the positive points of these dating sites — having a set of really good friends who met this way; it just never worked for ME.
As my memory serves, I am reminded of the two time periods in which I signed up to use Match.com (before and after the Fiance, ironically). The same douchy matches were trolling the site in both of those eras, in hopes of, well, not dating at all. I mean, the SAME exact guys, with the same exact profiles — not even an updated photo. And yes, the ex-boyfriends are still there. In all, I consider online match-making a completely insane (not to mention time-consuming) experience.
Especially that other lame ass site that shall not be named and wouldn’t even approve me as a member. Hah. Like there’s something wrong with me.
Be that as it may, I’m curious as to the best online dating sites out there today. No, I’m not single. I have been asked for “help” by a somewhat social introvert, regardless of my instructions to consider another outlet. So, consider this a little experiment and a personal favor for a “friend.”
Unless there is a specialized site for sexy ladies looking for hot couples, then I’m all over that.
Last Friday, we went down to Akron for a brown bag wine party. I normally stray away from weekend updates these days (because nearly everyone is blogging like this, and who am I to be JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE?), but this was a really fun party idea for, well, someone my age.
Even if that “someone my age” pukes in her boyfriend’s car on the ride home.
One of those brown bags would have come in quite handy.
THIS IS LOVE, PEOPLE! Even if I blamed it on his driving.
Anyway, here was the premise:
Everyone brought a wine — your choice: cheap, expensive, unique, fruity, white, red, ice… whatever. You place your bottle inside a pre-numbered bag and receive a log sheet (ours ranged from taste, color, linger, and guessing of the varietal and location of the vineyard). Open the bottle with the attached rogar corkscrews, and place the masked bottle into an ice bucket (if white) or on the table (if red). Drink. Rate. Drunk.
The party was a good size, so we had 20 different bottles included in our blind tasting. I tried, maybe, ten (amidst my incessant talking about cats, moving, furniture and new residences with a cousin’s girlfriend) and found a few fantastic reds that I would definitely look to purchase or drink again.
And I still dislike whites.
Hangover. BAM. OMG, my hangover lasted forever the next day (and I was still barely 60% by the time Sunday morning practice rolled around). While the headache was dull, the heaving twisted my stomach much like the champion wine opener used in opening our bottles. Did I mention that we came home, played Dominos and sipped on some yummy rum(s) from St. Martin?
Mel likes. A lot.
This is what happens, grown-ups, when you decide to mix liquors!
Keeping with our anti-smoking theme this week, I present you an awesome PSA from the UK:
Smoking shortens your penis, boys. By as MUCH AS A CENTIMETER. Something to do with erections and blood flow, both of which you WILL NOT HAVE in your man parts due to the calcification of blood vessels. Smoking chokes *snicker* the penis by preventing circulation necessary for arousal. This also, leads to impotence. And somehow, this is measured.
Remember: size matters.
DISCLAIMER: *imagine me in a sexy nurse outfit, pretending to be qualified* I Googled this, and I approve this message. So, that’s that.
*removing pesky stethoscope*
It’s no secret that I’m moving to Pittsburgh. I’ve already visited a couple times this past year (dammit, missed out on the suite with the telescope though!) with AB, so I’m not completely ignorant of the area and its attractions. I mean, I already know that you all LOVE some fireworks. But I am a loser in that I want to fit in as much as I can as soon as possible without anyone guessing that I’m from that rival city in which you despise and on which you spit.
What I need from the y’inzers (is that even polite to say, being that I’m not officially a 15222 yet?):
1. Nicknames or acronyms of ‘hoods, buildings, professional teams, general areas. Like, I get the whole ‘Mon-iker *snort*, so stuff like that. What? You don’t get the joke? OMG, this is going to take a while…
2. Where NOT to bother with/go. I’m a food and beer snob, so I’ve definitely kept my eye out for new and interesting restaurants, local chefs with flair, the BEST PANCAKES IN THE UNIVERSE (ahem, Pamela’s) and unique locales. Also, I do my groceries at markets, local-owned family shops — discuss and recommend freely from whom you buy your sausage and the like. I don’t want to hear you start fighting over cupcakes. Unless they are filled with bourbon.
3. Outdoor organizations, bike club/shops, running clubs, derby girls… anything of interest in the athletic lifestyle column. Of extreme interest: a fitness center (not a big box pick-up shop) that has TRX or group insanity-like classes.
4. Which bloggers to follow? I already stalk Pitt Girl of That’s Church, so besides her. Please no early 20-something drinking bloggers with a penchant for partying on Tuesdays. I am 33 for chrissakes.
5. Interesting, entertaining, news-worthy publications. I’m a writer — and a snarky one at that. Give me something that will keep my attention, or to which I could potentially submit articles. Also, local-owned bookstores (new or used)? How’s your library system?
6. OMG HOCKEY!!! So excited. I’ll trade lame-ass basketball and its egos for some high-intensity skate action (I’m a roller derby chick, what would you expect?).
7. Choose your own adventure. Seriously. Tell me something about your Pittsburgh: the life, the people, the government, the non-profit organizations, where I can get the best grilled cheese, which bridge to jump from when one is contemplating suicide. Your turn.
8. Is just my favorite number, so I couldn’t end on 7.
Reading, writing, arithmetic and booze. I think we covered all that. I cannot promise I will return to Cleveland with a freaky accent, but perhaps have some new colloquialisms in my arsenal.
As for burgers in the ‘Burgh, I already know that Tessaro’s is the bee’s knees. And OMG, I have creamy dreams about that potato salad.
I’m one week into Fresh Meat August, and I am so thrilled — no, seriously. I’ve been gushing like a mad person about roller derby. I’ve been pushing myself out of my comfort zones pretty fierce, so I’m aching like an old lady over here. But everything is getting better — including my speed and a total comfortability on my skates. I think I’ve finally mastered a plow stop, and I make crossovers my bitch.
And my pads smell something rank.
Boyfriends think this is sexy. *snort*
We’ve been working on a lot of endurance building, general skating and stopping skills and falls. We even worked on jumps and leaps on Sunday. And I’m plum pooped out by the end of practice.
I cannot wait until we start with hitting drills. I am a sincere masochist in that I cannot wait to be hit by one of the BRRG.
But maybe at 50% to start.
Celebrate. Celebrate. Dance to the muuuuu-sic.
Today marks the TWO YEAR anniversary of my quitting smoking. TWO FREAKING YEARS. While it’s been well over a year that I’ve experienced any cravings, I thought for certain I would end up cheating on drunk nights. Nope. That is two full years of no social smoking, no stress smoking — no patches, gum or the like either. I am a quitter.
And I’m darn proud of it.
Of course, I am the WORST quitter, in that any sort of cigarette smoke around me makes me want to gag. So, I’m fairly certain that I’ve quit for good.
Let’s celebrate the anniversary with some of my best smoking-mentioned posts in the archive. There will certainly be a lot of fun, drunken reads in this bunch.
In 2004, I got dumped. Got drunk. And redeveloped a smoking habit. Then, gained a sexy telephone operator voice in the process. Oh, how I wish I could go back and bitch slap myself.
In 2006, I was happy when cabbies let me smoke in the car. The best part of this story is that I am STILL friends a guys from that party bus. JB will love this. And another smoke-friendly cabbie here. Also… Sinergy? Remember that place on West 6th? Heh.
Also that year, I was apparently so drunk that I couldn’t pronounce “Marlboros.” So, yeah, Kools. Great decision, Mel.
I get really pissed when bars and restaurants didn’t allow smoking. Like, obnoxiously pissed. What’s funny in this post is that I have become everything I despised then. Interesting. Also, this post could have been the REAL start of Penis Tuesday; however, that picture is missing in my archives.
Quitting is HARD. I know, I tried it like, 8,347 times in 15 years. And declared it nearly every weekend on this here blog.
The impending doom of the smoking ban. And how being the only smoker in our group was kind of lonely.
Cigarettes get you through moments like when a vacation doesn’t exactly go as planned. I probably would have been murdered by this random dude who I met at an airport on a previous vacation (and who randomly paid for my entire trip to Wyoming). Wow, I was incredibly dumb, fyi. In this case (and only this case), cigarettes win.
30 was the age goal to quit — and in this post I was 4 months smoke-free (which means I started up again in the interim; likely, because of finals). It took another, what… year?
Remember when you could chain smoke in airports? Yeah, you can’t do that anymore. How I lasted an entire international flight without a cigarette back then is beyond my comprehension.
In 2007, guess what? I was smoking again. Road trips used to kill me.
Heh. Another penis post (this was seriously just WAITING to become a regular column). When you first quit smoking, sometimes you wake up feeling as though you did anyway. It takes a LONG WHILE for that sensation to go away. Push through it, people!
Nobody EVER smoked menthols. Which infuriated me and made me kind of an asshole.
In 2008 (shortly before I quit smoking for good), I drove past the old east-side club where I had my first cigarette. At age 14! That place is now a funeral home. Incredibly telling…
Slow songs were painful to endure at weddings. So, I took smoke breaks. And get hit on by my younger brother’s high school friends.
I also enjoy being a hypocrite.
SEE? I became one of “those” ex-smokers almost immediately. But seriously, I did NOT like the smell in my living quarters — bars, fine.
At 14 days without cigarettes in 2008. I have NO clue about the added penis comment.
And, at my one-year anniversary of quitting. I think I was finally in a good place.
This year? It’s only better. Remember, you can DO THIS.
My mood swings are out of control. One minute I am on top of the world in happiness, then I snap with any minute form of stress with frustration. The next, I am a weepy mess. I am so freaking sensitive. I’m naggingly asking my boyfriend is he’s “OK,” when in reality, it’s ME that is NOT OK.
And this time, I cannot blame it on my birth control.
I think I am in the midst of a grieving process.
Denial and Isolation. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
Psychology classes come in handy.
But can you feel those all at once?
And the intensity of these emotions (stages) brings about a LOT of stress. So much so, that you almost cannot grasp at anything seemingly normal; hence, the frustration.
I’m totally excited to move, don’t get me wrong, but I’m feeling tiny pangs of sadness for what I am leaving behind. The truth is, we likely won’t be back in Cleveland (at least on a full-time residential status) any time soon. There are no children in our future, so we won’t return to have our kids here. And frankly, the job market — outside of manufacturing, so the news tells me — is pure shit, so that certainly won’t bring us back either. My family is so dispersed now, that I think even my dad should fulfill his ever-growing want to move to South Carolina. You know, he HATES the snow. I’ll eventually have to transfer to a new roller derby team (and in its growing awesomeness, there are leagues in most cities across the country now).
These are the reasons Clevelanders move away and typically return home.
I moved away once to Phoenix. I came back. Mostly because I longed for the boyfriend that I left behind. Secondly, because I didn’t like living in Phoenix all that much, aside from being close to my sister, of course.
But this time, I’m moving WITH my boyfriend (and subsequently driving him crazy with my “communication problems”). And Pittsburgh is kind of awesome.
And I want a kayak.
Anyway, I’m here for one more month in all my sappy, sobbing glory. Let’s at least plan a final Taco Tour.
Online retailers are notorious for photoshopping models into alien-like proportions. Mostly, females end up with the waists of small school children and are seemingly missing six of their lower ribs. It’s a world of no thighs and interestingly-long necks.
It’s more devious to the self image of women than Barbie.
I thought that men got the short end of the shaft in catalog work.
And then, I saw this:
Is that a Banana in your pants, or… oh, never mind.
Yes, I crossed off a Kick the Bucket list item with this vacation. Proudly… after 15 years.
And no, we did NOT do the Duck Tour. I can do that shit in Pittsburgh.
I really want to upload pictures, but you know, the whole sideways iPhone glitch annoys me to no end. I’ll won’t let that pesky problem delay the publishing of this post any longer.
The first two nights, we stayed at the Parker House Omni downtown (Financial District, if there is such a thing) and the second two nights, were spent at the Copley Square Fairmont. Both are gorgeous old hotels, but having an amazing suite at the Fairmont made it decidedly the “winner” of our stay (hoo-ray, points!). Plus, the latter location seemed better — especially in proximity to subway stations (but then again, perhaps it just appeared more convenient).
On that note, public transportation was extremely easy to figure out in Boston. We started out with cabs, then gradually migrated to using the T system. We even rented a female pedicab driver for an hour to grab beers from a local Shaw’s and see the city in a different manner. All with the view of a fantastic ass.
Moving on…
Also? Vacation headaches suck balls. I had a MAJOR on our first day, which likely is contributed to my drinking at 6 am to fly, sobering up, then trying to drink again all within an 8 hour time span.
Boston is definitely a tourist city, that’s for sure. It never felt over-crowded or annoying, save for someone always finding a way to step on my right big toe that’s already bruised. And we participated in many of those sort of activities — enough so that it rendered any future trips to Boston unnecessary. I was disappointed in that I didn’t hear a lot of the typical Boston accents. I’m making this generalization based on my dating two guys from Boston who had a distinct east coast thing.
On that note, I could totally live there. But that’s another story altogether. With or without the sexy voice.
In five days, we went to: the harbor, “Little Italy,” the Rose Kennedy Rose Garden, Boston Commons / Public Gardens, Fenway, the New England Aquarium, Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market, Paul Revere’s House, a few cemeteries (which were by far my favorite thing), a lot of other historical crap on the Freedom Trail, Emerson College (we didn’t make it to Harvard, but saw the MIT campus while in Cambridge), most of the popular neighborhoods, Samuel Adams Brewery Tour/Tasting… we even caught an awesome vintage/art show a couple of blocks away from our Sunday brunch place that was cute as hell (Boyfriend says, “Boring.”) in the SOWA neighborhood. I’m sure there is a shit-ton of stuff that I forgot already because I was so happy to not be carrying my laptop for notes on vacation. Also, iPhone = worthless, if we haven’t established that through Twitter. I brought home two Boston t-shirts and a bunch of beer glasses because I’m an awesome souvenir gatherer like that.
We couldn’t find the damn Tea Party ship, even if the map kept telling us we were practically ON the boat. So, perhaps it was the site, and there’s no vessel. No clue. Bostonians?
The JFK Library and Museum is sincerely one of the BEST museums in which I have visited. The building was amazing, laid out perfectly with chronological information commingled with film, photographs and relics of his many successes while President. It is brilliantly done (and of course, incredibly humbling when leaving with his assassination and all). Also, thank you for the free shuttle to the far, far away subway station.
I am in total heart with Samuel Adams Brick Red, and there are definitely more brews from Sam Adams locally in Boston than what we can buy back home. We bought a couple sixers for the room: Ipswich Ale was largely unimpressive — a good everyday beer, but nothing special. I enjoyed the Harpoon Leviathan Imperial IPA, even if I felt the pings of headache almost immediately upon drinking it. Perhaps it was excitement.
A lot of restaurants (save for the lame Legal Seafoods chain) downtown weren’t open on Saturday and Sunday, which pissed me off, but I suppose I should be used to that by now. Regardless, I missed a much-wanted lunch trip to Chacarero because of this. We went to the Union Oyster House, so AB could have his oysters. I settled for a soup and salad because, well everything was shellfish and/or fried on the menu. That’s fine.
I love me some Boston cream pies, and my midnight room service special from the Parker House did not disappoint. I was exceptionally pleased with the concern from servers (and their knowledge) of my shellfish allergy — I just wanted to eat well and not have to worry about how lobster and crab seemed to be in EVERYTHING. Regardless, the several meals I had with fish were uber-fresh and almost life-changing. Want: Cobia fish every day, prepared exactly as I had at Craigies on Main (recommended by Ellis of AMP150 — thanks, Chef!). Our entire six-course meal at CoM was freaking fantastic. New love: veal tongue. YES, tongue. Om nom nom nom.
I came home with a few packages of goodness from Hotel chocolat on Newbury. Barking Crab is highly recommended if you want $80 lunches of 2 pounds of crustaceans (AB, not me, obvs). If you have a shellfish allergy, the Mahi Mahi sandwich is a probably-better alternative to the fried Cod variety. Urbanspoon was also helpful in selecting dinner for our first night’s dinner: 747 Tremont (love it — in the “gay-borhood”) was delicious and voted in one of those “best restaurants” surveys. I was just happy not to wait an hour for food in what I thought would be a “big” city.
We were told last call in Boston was at midnight, but didn’t really find that to be true. That said, we didn’t really go and “whoop” it up, which made the trip incredibly relaxing and well-paced (read: sans hangovers). We hit: Miracle of Science (on MIT’s campus) and the Parrish Cafe (which had a super-awesome beer fridge). Samuel Adams took us via Party Bus to Doyle’s, the location of the first Sam Adams sold. I drank a lot of beer on this trip. And a little Sazarec Rye with my dinner at Craigies on Main. Boston Beer Works did good by me with a massive chili burger and sour cream and chives fries — the beer was meh.
On our last night, we rented a DVD from the redbox to unwind with room service popcorn and the cheese plate. Yes, our hotel suite had TWO DVD players. Alas, Boston was a great vacation to take (and an opportunity to reconnect) before all the move stress hits (TOO LATE) — and my life (and this blog) is consumed by roller derby.
And Pittsburgh.
Excavations can be fun! Err… don’t Google that anywhere near the words “sex,” “penis,” or “flashlight.” Trust me.
Em & Lo gave me this historical piece of penis today: Ancient Dildo Dug Up
Huh. Imagine that. There was a purpose for small penises… in the years before Christ. Live Science discovers more ancient phallic relics.
This time next Sunday, many of you will be official members of the Burning River Roller Girls!!
For seriously, I am SO excited and SO ready. Nearly six months of training in wRECk and SOZA Fitness and with some of the best Fresh Meat girls — and the moment is finally here.
I’ll be gunning for longest commuter because, well… you know. That Pittsburgh thing.
As some of you have realized over the last couple days, AB & I are moving. Moving away from the annoyances of Cadillac Ranch on college ID night. Moving away from the distraction of the seemingly never-ending, frantic sounds of the Sax Guy. And UGH those damn honking buses on the Healthline. Moving away from our gorgeous, wall-envied many-windowed corner loft on East 4th. And the scary, scar-producing biting bugs contained within it. Moving away from The Greenhouse Tavern just outside our door… *tear*
But to a wonderful 10th floor, two-story loft apartment in the middle of a Cultural District.
In Pittsburgh.
Yes, we are moving away from Cleveland.
In only my second adventure away from Cleveland — the first in 2004, when I moved to and subsequently hated Phoenix, Arizona and returned shortly thereafter (and which seems quite a bit longer than only 6 years ago) — and this time it feels right (especially having visited several times). AB has been traveling back-and-forth each week since February, and we’ve both felt varied stages of loneliness and separation. My freelance job is going amazingly and offers me the opportunity to work from wherever and keep my local clients because the distance is still doable. And with that, Roller derby, well, I’m actually such a nut about this sport that I very well may be driving back to Cleveland for practices and what-not. Until it kills me. Then I’ll drive some more.
My blog will continue, if only to rub in your face how awesome Pittsburgh is. Which, if you don’t want to hear about, is fine. It’s the end of one era and the beginning of the next. And don’t give me any Steelers’ shit because I was raised a 50-50 Browns/Steelers fan. Besides that, PGH is an amazing city, experiencing a steady growth in population and certain industries. It’s a philanthropic city. It even has an even more vibrant downtown than Cleveland (and adding green space, instead of taking it away) with actual PEOPLE who WORK in city limits. Residents don’t fear public transportation or bike commuters. It’s exceptionally outdoor friendly. And we’re still located on some body of water. The biggest plus is the decreased use of my car, whereas most of our places of interest are within walking distance of our apartment, on a bus line or bike-able.
Now, this isn’t to knock on Cleveland at all. Cleveland has many of the characteristics I love about small cities, which is why Pitt was also a great fit for both of our lifestyles. That said, Cleveland still has a long way to go — especially in attracting new residents and keeping young professionals within its limits. While I’m not moving for my job, AB is. Pittsburgh is seemingly on its way up, and being a part of that growth and experience will be, I think, an incredible opportunity.
Of course, I’m sad for leaving certain things behind — mostly friends and family that I won’t be able to see AS regularly. But c’mon, it’s only two hours away, so it’s not as though I’m moving out of touch or reach.
I will definitely not miss that freaking sax player.
Scientists discover that bats have oral sex.
While that headline in itself should be intriguing, the fact that bats have oral sex DURING PENETRATION just blew my fucking mind.
Must. Continue. Yoga.
Apparently this is done to prevent the spread of STDs. Of bats. That’s what you get for being polygamous.
Regardless of your protection of choice, remember the fellatio motto, dear female bats: “Don’t matter, just don’t bite it.”
