Life, Liberty & Pursuit Of Your Boyfriend

I’m marking a virtual map of “places I’ve been” or “intend to travel,” and not having ever visited New York is a vacation crime. My closest encounter was an extended layover in Newark, with a sunny day view of the massive skyline. I suppose it’s never been top of my list of travel destinations (those are usually Boston and Seattle, again both to which I haven’t been).

Having a few friends now living in the city (or a train ride away), I need to fit this trip into my travel calendar. I used to have extended family in Brooklyn too — but for whatever reason, we were never invited to reunions and such. I know, some people tell me it’s expensive and overrated, but I don’t hear that from my friends who live there (only that wearing heels in New York, a ‘la Sex in the City is wholly insensible).

Regularly, I see cheap flights (usually on a last-minute basis) so it is not like the trip would be a complete New York City breaks my bank account sort of adventure.

Do you have a travel bucket list too? While I know there is much to do in NYC, I truly want to see the Statue of Liberty. She fascinates me. Perhaps that is just my statue fetish.

Internet friends, I have a confession: I have lived downtown — East 4th, the premier entertainment and food district — for six months. I have visited all the newest restaurants, including several during opening nights. Yet, I still had never eaten at Lola.

I know. It hurts me too. Could I in good conscience move from 4th Street without eating at THE most popular joint in town? (At least I still have another six months)

Now, I previously had dinner at the old Lola (which is now Lolita), so I suppose technically I still need to eat at Lolita (again). Which was interesting in that a car ran into the front of the restaurant that night, and Symon gave our table seriously one of every dessert on the menu as an “apology” that we needed to enter through the kitchen. Uh, awesome! But I digress…

I finally had some food at the East 4th Lola last Friday. Not a full meal, mind you, just a couple apps to start our night of nosh, but it was SO worth it. With drinks, we had the Hawaiian Crudo “Teriyaki” and beef cheek pierogi. The tuna was gone in six seconds — it was incredible. I’m fairly certain AB licked the remaining sauce from the plate of the pierogi too. Wow. I’ve never had any pierogi prepared quite that way, and all the ingredients together was delicious.

We were careful not to get TOO full because we also had the “Best Thing I Ever Ate” viewing party at The Greenhouse Tavern. What a cute show, by the way. We don’t have cable (and not having the Food Network and maybe the Travel Channel is really the only complaint), so I’m not well-versed on all the “new” non-network shows. But, the interviews with the “top” food stars are interesting, and the show has some extremely fun editing done to make it all over entertaining.

Once at Greenhouse, we were presented with a couple bourbon (martini) drinks — I asked the name of it 20 times, but I still do not remember. Jonathan also shared a bottle of 2008 Rogue Old Crustacean — what a great beer! For how many times we visit The Greenhouse, there always seems to be something new on the menu — which keeps the restaurant relevant and our desire to keep returning. We can never try everything on the menu (although we came incredibly close once)!

While we knew Gravy Frites were DEFINITELY part of our meal (free frites to support their debut in the show), we also shared a couple firsts: pork pate and the foie gras torchon; and a second: the lamb shank ravioli. AB got it right when he commented that the bread crumbs complete that (ravioli) dish. I swear, The Greenhouse (and Chef Sawyer) can do no wrong.

Suzanne from Slightly Bitter in Cleveland joined us after dinner to imbibe in a few delicious cocktails. Which were more of that bourbon (martini) thingy…

Saturday was our east side adventure. I despise the east side (where I grew up, lived and worked for majority of my life), and having already been to that part of town three times in the last week, I was grumpy. BUT we had big plans. Mostly for food.

To give a little more love to Symon and his Cleveland ventures, we had lunch (ahem, breakfast at 11pm) at B Spot.  I had the Yo! burger and, of course, a Vanilla Bean Apple Pie Bacon Milkshake. Wow. Not only did I order it with all the words, but I finished the damn thing. *slurp*

AB ordered the “Smasher Surprise” - which was a loaded baked potato skin on top the burger. Chives, sour cream and all. It looked delicious. We definitely need to return on a day we don’t already have dinner plans.

As we were finishing up our lunch, what was so obviously a “Band” that showed up across the bar from us. You know the type — good hair, fitted jeans, cool hats, tatts. Definitely a band. There’s a good chance it was the guys from Flogging Molly, since I know they were in town last weekend. Moving on…

We needed Jeni’s ice cream. Actually, I think our east side adventure was concocted over the Bourbon Butter Pecan (Jeni’s) ice cream at our Greenhouse meal the night prior (oops, forgot to write that in there!).  We came home with two pints (I wanted five) — the goat cheese, cognac and figs; and the Thai Chili; and randomly, two boxes of Girl Scouts cookies. I have a new friend too in The Miles Farmer’s Market Cheese Lady who kept feeding me samples (and we brought home three block of cheese and an Israeli Feta!!!).

Our Saturday dinner plans were with AB’s parents at Chinato. I was anticipating my return to Zack Bruell’s newest Italian restaurant, especially after our opening night adventure was, well, less than spectacular. I understand how kinks need to be worked out upon a restaurant new open — I get it, and I’ll always give a second (or third) chance. Our first visit, EVERYTHING was wrong. The food was great — what they brought us — but there was everything from a missing appetizer, an incorrect salad, missing ingredients from entrees and horrible gaps in service (we were at the restaurant for three-and-a-half hours the first night, and too much time was spent without food or the tableware  to eat it with). I see though that nothing has been done in the way of hiring non-ditzy hostesses. OMG. A coat check and an OpenTable reservation is NOT that difficult to grasp.

We started by splitting few appetizers: the beef tongue (which I’ve never had), chicken livers and the tuna crudo risotto (which we orderd at our first visit to Chinato, and they never brought us…). I was impressed how tender and delicious the beef tongue was, especially after I wince on seeing one EVERY time I’m at the market. I hope that tuna risotto is on the lunch menu because I want to have that again. Now, please. It was NOTHING like the risotto presented to us on opening night (totally unlike the warm, hammy risotto mess from our prior visit).

For dinner I ordered the “Deconstructed” Ribolitta which was so flavorful (and was enough for two meals for me). The Pork (two way) entree that AB’s dad ordered was incredible. I’ll likely order that heart attack on a plate on our return (oh yes, we will be back). Too bad I couldn’t sample the boillobaise sauce that everyone was raving about because of my shellfish allergy — the words “best I ever had” were exchanged.

Now, I’m hungry. Time to pull some leftovers out of my fridge. Or could I get away with eating just ice cream and Girl Scouts cookies for lunch?

I love charity events. And typically the ones where I do not have to wear black tie (you know, a comfort thing). Last week, we attended the Jordan’s Family Foundation benefit at Rozi’s in Lakewood. There was such a great turnout — featuring Argyle Wines from Oregon and Stone Brewing Company beers, even Matt Harlan from Bar Symon was making meatballs and mussels. Mmmm, meatballs.

Nearly every event, I win a raffle prize — friends used to HATE me at candle/cooking/sex toy parties. I always go home with something extra. I made a random comment on this Betty Crocker gift set on the table. Guess who won it. I now have enough jars of frosting to last me through at LEAST eight more bouts of PMS. Cookies? Psssh. You just need a big spoon and a container of cream cheese yumminess.

Meanwhile, I cannot catch a break on these silent auctions! There was a fantastic basket full of Aveda beauty schwag and gift certificates out the wazoo for massages, hair colors, pedicures (and I mean the PLURAL). The “prize” was valued at nearly $900. I bid $200, then some lady sniped me just as the auction ended with $205. For serious. More than anything, I need a massage. Especially that we don’t have a true desk in the apartment, and I typically work from the dining room table. Neck? Sucks. The boyfriend promised me a massage regardless of winning. So, I guess I still win.

I volunteered for this Sunday’s Road to the Red Carpet gala at Pickwick & Frolic. It is too bad that we couldn’t bring a purse and/or camera because East 4th looked gorgeous! Ahem, and I guess I did too…

Crooky smile & all.

The night, benefitting the Greater Cleveland Film Commission was a great time. I met some of the most interesting people — movers & shakers of Cleveland, if you will — all in some capacity wanting to help our city be its best. I admit, it was disheartening to find I wasn’t selected to be an ambassador with DCA, but I keep making connections with amazing locals who equally desire to make Cleveland home, bring & keep jobs within the city and generally promote all its awesomeness from within. So, Cleveland will still get all the love I have to give.

You know, whatever is left over after lovin’ AB.

Clevelanders, what are you doing to keep this city being awesome?

Do you have a Healthy Penis? The San Francisco Department of Health would like to know. And, well, it would be nice to share it with the rest of the class. At first glance, I thought it was a generic site about STDs and testing, but it is focused mostly on Syphilis. OK. Enough info. I won’t be sleeping with any San Franciscans any time soon.

Each Penis character has his own social media page too. So, what generalizations are made based on whether your penis is on MySpace or Facebook? The comics within are all kinds of awesome (click through for more of the funny).

In any case, I give them credit for the pierced penis. *hot*

(h/t Jason)

I haven’t been interested much in your life. Right. So, why should you care about what I’m writing about? With the little free time I have, I’ve been learning how to sharpen my copywriting skills. How to run my own little business. Learning how to sprint with control using the front of my skates. Filing taxes. Chasing this damn cat away from chewing holes in the brick walls:

How fucking pretty is he?

Meanwhile, AB & I decided to extend our lease on East 4th for another six months, so we’ll be around through October. Which is kind of cool because Check Me Out - I technically have a corner office. Sweet. It’s all how you look at things, friends.

Regardless of domestic partnership bliss, here are a few gems in my Reader this week:

All huge favorites of The Frisky columns - mostly because of its typical ridiculous fluff. Let’s discuss together Humans & Monogamy (impossible), The Cheater Registry (yikes… or yes! depending on your glass) and my favorite, Blogging About Dating (because we would never dare *snerk*). I mean, it’s a bit redundant because you can just blog about the cheating bastards, right?

There’s also the sultry readings of The Lesbian Experience. Or, you know, you could just come back here for more information. Oh, I just talk about penises. Carry on, then…

To any of my Pittsburgh lovelies, I’m heading to the Steel City for St. Patrick’s Day. While the day after will be booked with some cultural to-dos, I need a friend or two for some Irish Good Times on the holiday itself.  Somebody MUST befriend me, so I’m not left to fall off bridges all on my own. And so that I do not blog bad things about our epically-hated neighbor to our East. There are tentative plans to stalk PittGirl from That’s Church. It has nothing to do with Mexican food. At all.

Since the Winter games have ended, I’ve been considering travel holidays to Canada. Yes, now I’m British. I haven’t been to Toronto since a class trip in junior high. I thought I remembered it as a band vacation, but I just roomed with fellow band geeks. I got all the tourist destinations out of the way. Even if we were subjected to Bus Only upon reaching Niagara Falls because a few of us “heavens” were hanging out of our hotel room windows.

Damn, I bet it feels almost God-like to be a chaperone.

I remember a snowy-highways-closed road trip to Niagara upon turning 19 (you know, the drinking under 21 legality thing) with HSS. I’m certain we went there for sex without supervision too. And a little gambling.

But not on the birth control.

That leaves almost a decade of not traveling to our Neighbor of the North. And if I went again, I can’t remember. Shocker, Mel.

The idea that actually PARTYING in Toronto is a mere six hours away is ridiculous. Actual techno clubs. Dance music. Happy and equal gay people. OK, so maybe I want to try my luck at a real Canadian lesbian.

Vancouver (and British Columbia in general) reads like an amazing adventure-filled wonderland of camping/kayaking/something outdoorsy. I’m thinking a week of Oregon/Washington/BC could work with my new freelance availability. Boyfriend?

Hopefully it’s also gay-friendly on the West coast. I get confused between time zones.

And no, I am not interested in those sipid vampire-y tourist traps.

If this post gives you any indication how behind I’ve been… yep, FINALLY a (brief) vacation post. FROM JANUARY’S The Rock Boat X. Rock on, MF-ers.

Thursday, January 7 (Day #1) - We boarded the boat around noon (beside Ken Block of Sister Hazel - premier host of the boat). Chelsea Williams (hottie) was already playing in the Atrium. Heard some rumor she plays on the streets in LA. She’s amazingly talented. Started the day with a Wideawake Gin & Tonic. And a few shots from new friends.

We wandered around a bit, discovering all the spots my boyfriend had sex before he met me listening to music from all parts of the boat. Eventually as vacationers boarded and rooms were opened, the essential lifeboat drill was given. (Which is always hilarious — and we didn’t even need to bring out life jackets… odd). We were late. Late, like, everyone looked at us being late to class, late.

It got a little chilly during the Sail Away party. Sister Hazel played outside on Lido Deck. Party hats were passed around, and there was birthday cake…

Can you see my hickey?

Dammit. I didn’t get any ten-year TRB birthday cake.

Day #2 - We spent most of the morning in/around the hot tub. Until I developed a freakin rash. Not knowing if it was from bromine or the hurricane I had for breakfast, I got out quickly and rehydrated. Music throughout the day on deck — it was still a little breezy — hoodie-type weather. Not as bad as back home, but definitely not made for bikinis.

Yes, I'm in this picture!

It was COVERS DAY on deck, with every other band playing a set from a popular album and artist.

B-liminal kicked off the afternoon on the Lido Deck, with their brand of reggae-ish pot music? *blink* I guess, think Sublime as an influence. I’m not sure how exactly to describe the music, but it was fun party stuff — wholly different than other bands on the boat.

Round up of the remainder of Day #2 shows: Sun Domingo covered The Police. Oval Opus (OHIO!!!) did their own set. Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers played Tom Petty’s  ”Full Moon Fever.” Mostly unknown hits, which I appreciated (even if everyone around wanted all his music of the Wildflowers era). Blackberry Smoke, a Southern Rock band totally kicked the party into high gear. I couldn’t listen to the music while checking out the promo CD — just difficult to get into the mood for genre of music — but live, it’s a completely different experience. Kudos to these guys. Good, good times.

(brief dinner, change for St. Patrick’s celebration)

Perverts. Don’t watch me undress.

Back to St. Patrick’s Day/Covers Day. “Fleetwood Hazel” played the entire Rumours album from Fleetwood Mac (I wrote a bit about that over at Addicted to Vinyl — Matt is also pissed that it’s taking me eight years to write music posts about my trip). Sister Hazel also gave a shout out to… The Cleveland Browns?! I think one of the guys from the group is hometown bred, but I didn’t catch who. Matt?

At some point during the day — could have been a bathroom break, since our room was nearby the Atrium. But I digress… Ken (Block) and Drew (Copeland) sang “Happy” acoustic and changed the words to dedicate to THE MAN of the Sixthman crew — the one-and-only, Cappy. It was an epic moment.

Shortly after Sister Hazel’s Rumours performance, we booked inside to see Tyrone Wells again, before heading BACK outside for Gaelic Storm — who are my new faves. (And coming to Cleveland’s House of Blues next Thursday!!!). Oh, and they sing my and AB’s song. I mean, our anniversary is ON St. Patrick’s Day, so is there anything more appropriate?

There are two ways to watch a Gaelic Storm show.

Exhibit A: dressing the part.

Wear green: get lucky!

Exhibit B: drinking the part.

Mel + Jameson = Best Friends 4Ever

I know, you’re thinking… “WHA? Another costume change?” Well, no, this was the next night (Mardi Gras), at another Gaelic Storm concert on the boat. But let’s get to the part where I’m swigging from a community bottle of Jameson. Good thing alcohol kills all what ills. There was little evidence of my drinking the night prior. Pseh. Right.
Both exhibits lend little to the true Irish tradition of St. Patrick’s Day, but certainly enhance the greatest of yearly holidays on the calendar. Especially when it’s JANUARY. Oooh, that means I get to celebrate it AGAIN this month (you know, since it took me until March to finish this post)! Sweet.

Gaelic Storm is great fun live — encouraging everyone to drink and get on stage. Almost everyone was in some sort of St. Patrick’s Day appropriate attire (or just wearing green, as it were). Hilariously, someone dressed as the ACTUAL St. Patrick (he was called up on stage too). Storm also referenced “the only black guy on the boat” cheering along in the audience. It was kind of funny, as Patrick (from Gaelic Storm) exchanged jokes with the crowd.

“Be quiet, St. Patrick - Shut up, black man.” was by far their funniest live moment. Seriously, the demographic point was spot on — this cruise was filled with 1,998 white 20-30-40-somethings. And (I saw two) a black men. Also in the audience were three guys dressed in all green — like “Green Screen Men” in head-to-toe bodysuits. Patrick laughed at them on stage, “Where are your penises?”

Oh, and again, back to Mardi Gras night (which I’ll get to, dammit!), on the left is Patrick from Gaelic Storm:

We hung out into the wee-wee hours.

One of the best things about a cruise is being able to eat whenever you want. If you don’t feel like 24-hour pizza, order something from room service. On our first night of the cruise, here was my late-night order (apparently for breakfast the next morning?): Cheerios AND Cinnamon Toast Crunch (no milk), a giant carafe of coffee, wheat toast, some bran-ish muffin, honey & strawberry jam (that looked eerily like chocolate). And a banana. Right. Decisions are made famously at 4am.

Day #3 and #4 are coming soon. This time, I promise not in another two months.

I had the name “Pat McCrotch” printed on a sticker for my second car - a silver, nothing-power-operated Honda Civic, who was a total bitch when it came time to having an accidental spin out on I-71N. Yeah, my dad didn’t like that so much. The sticker or the accident, I digress. He also didn’t like the “Fuck” patch sewed into my college backpack. It was a misprint, I said. It should have said “Ford.” Totally unintentional. Snerk.

Misprints or misnomers aside, I’ve had the task of developing a brand for myself — for my new business, that is. Instead of unemployment, I’m going the route of self-employment. With that, a company name is in order, and by some seriously-appreciated suggestions, I think I got that finally pinned down. And I have clients already, so that totally works. A great friend who is a graphic designer will be taking on the role of creating my logo and business “look.” She’s awesome, and only wants my cookies. It’s totally a fair trade. This professional progress takes about 1/4 of the stress out of my week.

Since I was already in the midst of transitions and apparently not giving myself enough things to do, after TALKING about starting roller derby for a year or two, I’m actually DOING it. I  acquired all my protective gear — new skates and such — and start practices in the rec league tonight. I’ll be participating in the Burning River Roller Girls Boot Camp and hopefully be ready for tryouts in three weeks. Yeah, less than three weeks now that I see the calendar. So, hopefully this is the perfect way to expunge all that pent up energy and bombs of stress.

For whatever unexplained reason of mental sciences and/or brain function, I’m more stressed about my derby name than my business name. Where is the sense in that?

All these naming rights need to be equally family-friendly, which is totally not my thing. I have one or more double entendres in my arsenal that need to be morphed from a blog post into at LEAST a PG-13 namesake. Obviously, anything with “penis” will just not work, which makes me sad. Horny still, but sad.

I should have gone into porn.

Further into my chatting babble today, have you ever called one of those chat lines that air late night in between extremely corny infomercials? We used to call the local ones in our early 20s — mostly because we just got home from drinking and it’s Silly Time, but I think there is a general curiosity to what actually happens. Sure, I spent most of the “free” chats on mute because really who wants to hear my excitably annoying voice.

So, dialing in and talking with a handful of likewise (horny) Clevelanders can make for an interesting blog post such as this because OMG I’m so excited I just exchanged chats with a totally hot brunette who was just randomly in her hot tub. THEY EXIST!

But with the advent of the Internets, have these telephone party lines become obsolete? If anything, calling the national party line from our cell phones, we no longer have to worry of our parents finding those long-distance charges.

By now, most of you have likely heard of Chatroulette (I found out through some fantastic screenshots by ways of Failblog). Basically, it’s a chat room, but when you “play” the program shuffles between current users, hence, never knowing who (or what) will show up on the other half of the video chat. If you have the least bit of voyeuristic curiosity, you MUST engage with this hilarious time waster. And yes, if you’re shy, you can aim the camera at a stuffed mouse. In his own raincoat. With a bottle of Vaseline in the background. Heh.

This weekend, a group of us decided to check it out — at 3 in the morning. For every boring person there was a fair share of SURPRISE! PENIS! (or Hello, Boobies, for what it’s worth). Some users were hilarious, mouthing “What the Fucks?!” and streaming maniacal laughing or chair dancing and the like. Even one cat dancing to Missy Elliot.

The funniest camera shot by FAR was the display of what we labeled Pterodactyl Porn. Yeah, I have no clue either — it was one of those moments you had to stare longingly to grasp what was happening on the monitor, but you feared there would suddenly be a penis in your face (or three, in this case). Let’s say we have two frantically flapping pterodactyls (I imagine much like the furry fetish) with a naked lady in the middle on top of another pterodactyl. Bam. Pterodactyl Porn. And with that, I made the mistake of actually Googling it. It’s incredibly easy to find, if you’re the least bit intrigued.

Oh, Chatroulette is addicting.

Our apartment is fairly close to street level downtown (that elevator ride enough gives me heart palpitations), and I’ve never worked in a highrise office building.  Last week, I met a friend for lunch at Key Tower, who works on the 46th floor. Seriously, we were higher than Tower City!

Through my visits to Chicago and Toronto, I know I have been on higher floor levels, but this is the highest view I’ve ever had of Cleveland. It felt so different from up at that height.

Because of my slight vertigo from the elevator ride and general nervousness of OMG the building sways six feet in either direction from the wind, I didn’t think of snapping a picture.

Is there any update to the observation deck re-opening at the Terminal Tower?  Because I would really like to stick around and enjoy the view again.

It goes without saying, I’m sure, but I love Cleveland. While I have certain issues with living downtown (as many of you recollect from my stream of tweets), I wouldn’t give up the experience for anything. Moving out of the ‘burbs was is the best decision in housing I have ever made.

Bonus: it came with a long-term boyfriend, of course.

I grew up on the east side, then I moved FAR west to Strongsville after finishing junior college, then moved the other side of the South to Solon, then to Lakewood (back to Solon again), more Lakewood… and ended up buying a condo in Rocky River where I spent four years. I knew a year after purchasing that thing I may have made a mistake, but certainly didn’t anticipate how the housing market crash would impact my living arrangements… Wow, I’m getting off topic.

Cleveland, I love thee.

I love that I can walk out the door of my apartment, into an eclectic and lively entertainment neighborhood (East 4th, for those unaware).

This is where I live.

I am mere blocks away from a newly-discovered, amazing (and FREE!) public library. My post office is in the historically-beautiful Arcade. I shop every week and have developed lifetime relationships with local vendors and farmers at the West Side Market — a market that is not replicated ANYWHERE in the country (most people think of the market as a tourist destination but I get to do nearly ALL of my grocery shopping here. How awesome is that?).

If I need a “bodyguard” to walk with me anywhere downtown, I can contact the DCA. I can run in the mornings and view such a gorgeous sunrise coming up over Lake Erie — and feel safe doing so alone and in downtown. The panhandlers know me (and most are kind)! My cab rides to anywhere I need to be cost me around $5. In the warmer months, I can ride my bike there. (Yet, I still pay $165 to park my car monthly — I KNOW! But seriously, it’s cheaper than any other city!).

Our exclusive collection within the Cleveland Museum of Art is FREE! Every. Single. Day. There are events at any given night of the week, in all of the Cleveland neighborhoods, that are inexpensive or FREE. There’s even a free trolley that will take you from one side of downtown to the other.

Meeting people, making connections and doing business is incredibly easy, with surprisingly, many willing to network, inform and support. We adopted our cat, Rudy, from the Cleveland APL.

Adding to the Cleveland Family..

I love Presto’s spicy tomato soup. I love cheap breakfast at PJ’s Luncheonette. The best sushi place downtown is one block away! Theresa’s Pizza delivers (I know, how lazy is that)! Greenhouse Tavern will let us in to grab some beers even when they appear to be closing down. There are so many fun local beer & wine charity events, and we end up with a case of Christmas Ale… and it’s almost March! (OK, that was the boyfriend, but he’s nice when he shares… ahem, LOVE YOU!). Erie Island Coffee Co. —  just downstairs.

But Mitchell’s ice cream? GET THEE COLD-YUMMY-MAKING BUTTS in a downtown location. That is all.

Like anyone backing the Positively Cleveland campaign to “stick it” to Forbes, there are endless reasons why I love Cleveland, why I stay in Cleveland — why I moved once for a couple months and came back. One blog post cannot justify, which is why I spread the love here always.

You know, until the Sax Guy learns another new song…

There is plenty of beer to go around! This past Sunday, with thanks to Blogging Jason for the event heads-up, we spent the afternoon at the Winter Warmer Festival at Rock Bottom. Winter Warmer was a happy surprise, as my expectations were just of joyfully drinking local winter brews. Ahem, no Christmas Ale at this party! Glad to see Cellar Rats (Madison) making another festival appearance, and was pleasantly surprised with the deliciousness of Rust Belt Brewing Co. (Youngstown).

Then the sickness returned. I canceled my Saturday night plans because I felt “it” all in my throat. This stupid cold/throat thing killed me this week. I don’t get sick a lot — well, because I am rarely around other people, even less so since working from home. And last week I was around TOO many people. And children. TOO many children. I have meetings and calls and the like, which is very, very good. And I can’t taste my hot chocolate!

It’s also Downtown Cleveland Restaurant Week. While Restaurant Weeks in general leave little to be desired, I like the IDEA of focusing on restaurants in one particular area or neighborhood. Collectively, the menus for this DCRW suck. Hangar Steak. Yuck. Salmon. Yawn. One Walnut’s three-course selection was seriously the only creative option, but we took too long to make a decision on whether we would participate this year, and, not surprisingly, the restaurant was booked. Coming in second and third were Ponte Vecchio or Saigon - both restaurants I haven’t been. Being that OMG-It’s-Winter! and we live RIGHT THERE, the latter won out.

Saigon’s big draw was the “fourth course” - a glass of wine included with the meal. Upon seating, their menu reflected TWO glasses of wine with the meal. Super! Vietnamese food is, well, Asian food, so there’s nothing spectacular coming out of the kitchen. I enjoyed the chicken and cabbage cold salad a lot though. At $30 a person — with enough food for two more meals — it was worth it.

There is only ONE restaurant left on East 4th since becoming a downtown restaurant in which I haven’t eaten. It’s too embarrassing to admit, but I will eat there prior to my moving from East 4th. Promise.

Rock on, Cleveland. Oh, and I got a few music posts written about TRBX up at Addicted to Vinyl. I am a full month behind, I know, and I have so many more to go, not to mention everything about the cruise that was NOT music-relative. I’m sure by Rock Boat next year, thy will be done…

The boy and I are huge fans of the show Three Sheets. He has also told me about a music festival in Iceland that WE MUST GO TO (my Web search came up with nothing; he’ll have to tell me again). But what in the world does all this have to do with Penis Tuesday, you ask?

Iceland, of course. And my life’s work.

From what I know, the country is not shaped like a giant phallic fiord, but it is home to the largest mammalian penis museum. Iceland’s Phallological Museum is our mecca for Penis Tuesday activity, housing over 270 specimens from 92 species of animals and penis-shaped art. And hanging above are testicle… lamps. I am unfamiliar with the locations of other mammalian penis museums, but you bet I’ll be adding this to my travel bucket list.

While I have no penis to donate upon my death, I will discover a way to have my life’s work submitted as a permanent exhibit. Your life’s work, you ask (really, enough with the questions)? Like Zane of Three Sheets, who discovers a specific country’s alcoholic culture in each episode, I will embark on a mission of sex — no, not to sleep with someone in every country — but to learn of a country’s identity with it: the museums dedicated to different aspects of the sex industry and history, strange sex laws, and mostly, the fascination with the penis.

I visited the Sex Machines Museum of Prague in 2007, which exhibited a wall of pierced penises (as well as other sexual devices of torture and well, enough displays to keep you giggling for a couple hours after drinking a gallon of beer).

My hope is that there is another opportunity for this:

Next up, I MUST visit Case’s Dittrick contraceptive museum right here in Cleveland.

By now, the entire world over is aware of (and probably exhausted with) the Tiger Woods’ scandal. While most held Tiger in some high regard (as if he were above CHEATING on his wife), is it really all that surprising that an always-traveling, multi-million-dollar-worth professional athlete had marriage problems?

I’ve been wanting to weigh in on this situation for a while.

Tiger’s problems go beyond that of a self-help or relationships problem-solving book. The media swirls and gossips around those who are unfaithful or the spurned spouse of infidelity. Especially with athletes there are frequent bouts of separation and temptation. There is loneliness and anger as a result. There are disagreements. There are fights that cannot be discharged with the swing of a golf club. Ahem.

Whether his wife beat the crap out of him or not, clearly there was more than Tiger’s propensity for varied sex partners and an affliction of dishonorable intentions — this marriage seemingly lacks communication and direction. Any outsider can surmise that an onset of negative emotions creates another, then more drama, and further continues into a descent of hate-filled rage. And, well, if you ask, me cheating is inevitable.

Problem solved: send him to rehab.

Am I the only one who feels this move is more media and sponsor-driven than to actually HELP him and his spouse? More than the surface cheating guise needs fixing, and more than a required stint in rehab for… ahem, those who cannot keep it in his pants is mandatory. Both husband AND wife need a marriage retreat — a boot camp for couples, if you will. It is obvious that there is much more than a sex addiction at work destroying this family.

You know, unless neither has a desire to fix the strained marriage. And why, then, do we need these media events to explain anything?

How do you solve problems in your marriage/relationship? Is “fixing things” only the responsibility of the guilty party? Do you think couples therapy and similar retreats/rehab aid in repairing broken relationships? Or by then, is it too late?

Last week nearly killed me. As result of a busy week of being social - both online and IRL, my germ defenses were compromised, and I am now spending a Monday morning sick with fever and sore throat.

That last line wasn’t for my boss because, well, I don’t have one, so you know now how really sick I am that I feel it necessary to brag to you. Yuck. And I am a big, needy baby who needs hot tea and ice bandages.

I am so elated that I was “selected” to be a part of a monthly, all girl, networking happy hour. Last Monday was our second meeting at Stone Mad Pub in the Detroit Shoreway/Gordon Square neighborhood. Both this location and the girly-girl connections are awesome. The group was tended to by a great pair of bartending chaps, who offer an awesome happy hour price on VODKA. The pub itself is gorgeous! This Spring and Summer, I intend to turn Stone Mad into my perfect west-side spot to ride my bike from downtown.

Note: cannot find a Stone Mad Web site. That shit is crazy.

My boyfriend has been working a lot (and late) from home, so Tuesday night was a great time for him to get out of homeboy mode and into AB-who-tweets-somewhat-infrequently with a mere walk outside our apartment door. A few Tweeters scheduled a 2/16 Cleveland tweet-up event (get it? get it?) at Chocolate Bar. Though short and sweet, two martini night out, it is always awesome meeting those in person whom you stalk online. Yes, I stalk too. I’m not sure that I’m sold yet on the Chocolate Bar. It still feels like an extremely out-of-place location, yet it brings a great crowd downtown, so who can complain with that! Even if the service is borderline awful…

Getting completely out of my rabbit hole, Wednesday, I went south and suburban for dinner with my sis at Rosewood Grill in Hudson (Thanks to Jose & Kelly for an awesome recommendation). Man, Hudson is FAR from downtown Cleveland. And if you’re ever looking for a sign for the restaurant, look for a giant building with “Turner Mill” on the side. Yeah, I don’t get it either. After 20 minutes of driving around, I finally called the restaurant. Be that as it may, the meal was just as amazing as the interior. We started with a baked goat cheese (crock-like dipping appetizer combined with marinara-ish sauce) and breadsticks. We also shared the buffalo chicken flatbread for our meal. I ordered the salmon big salad for the main course, and I think she ordered the Chop Chop (which looked incredible). I loved the white vinaigrette on my salad, and the salmon was (huge!) cooked to perfection. For dessert, of course, I cannot resist the apple cobbler - loved the addition of the few blueberries. Delish! The staff was beyond awesome, in that the server left (she left the bill with us early — smart lady!), the hostess left, and I think even the kitchen crew closed down and cleaned everything before we left the restaurant! Never did we feel rushed to get through our hours of conversation. I am eternally thankful to the manager that night for sticking by (and babysitting my coat in the coatroom) and letting us catch up.

As most of you in the Cleveland Social Planet are aware, Thursday was the SMC meet-up at Map Room. I finally got to meet some people whom I connect with on a daily (online) basis. New friendships were definitely formed that night.

AB & I had a friend in town from Chicago as well, so while I was entertaining the SMC crowd, he was at Wonder Bar drinking the remainder of Great Lakes Christmas Ale. I met up with them for that infamous “one more” after I was networked-out.

Continuing on our my quest of “what fucking day is it?”, Friday, after a dinner at home, we picked up friends (with our private driver, ahem) and headed for Tremont’s South Side to see Jackson Rohm (because I apparently didn’t see enough of him on The Rock Boat a month ago — OMG, there were Rock Boaters all over the audience who recognized me. Weird!). Anyways, I was happy because he played (and dedicated) REO Speedwagon for me. AB got to hear his “Beer Goggles” song — with another shout-out to the both of us, you know, with a story attached for prior to his relationship with me.

A half hour of walking (sans heels for me) after Jackson’s set (really, is there no possible quicker walk to Professor?), we close the bar with beers at Edison’s Pub. With pizza (after defending the honor of a pizza from a seriously-drunken dude with his own ‘za) and carry-out cups, we ventured to our neighbor’s apartment below ours — it was almost just like our apartment, but eerie to see wholly different placement of furniture and decorations.

And her bedroom is bigger too. Dammit.

You wonder why my immunity levels are low.

I was talking about this event and generally how cool of an event it was. And I was discussing this with my boyfriend. You know, the one who was my “date” that night.

Um yeah. I didn’t remember it. You know, until he said, “I KNOW! I was there with you…”

Blink. Blink. The silence is deafening, indeed… Yeahhhh.

To be fair, we were mere WEEKS into dating, although I’m fairly certain there was enough of a comfortability in the conversation to talk about blow jobs in reference to those miracle tasting berries, of course. Ahem, as if you expected something different. Shouldn’t a fun date night be universally remarkable?

Reason #4,876,201 I should not have children. WHOSE are these?!

I have to make lists of everything. Absolutely everything. I currently have 12 Stickies open on the desktop of my laptop — three of them are To Do lists for each of its own classification, and I’m certain one contains the words “Delete One Of Your To Do Lists.” Then, there are a couple more saved on a Notes App on my iPhone.

I can’t remember meeting people after a certain amount of time has passed — another outrageous mistake, being that it happened at a networking event with people I SHOULD REMEMBER MEETING. I can’t recall how big (or how small) my ex’s penis was. And yes, I even think back to guys whom I dated in my 20s and cannot recollect if we “did it” or not.

But of COURSE I never let my significant other forget a single thing in our relationship or that HE “forgot” to have sex with me this morning. It’s a hard-wired female trick that I think not even the depth of Alzheimer’s could short-circuit.

Names? Forget it (pun intended), which is why name tags are INCREDIBLY effective and essential. The tricks “they” try to teach attaching names and faces to something completely inanimate (or inappropriate, as it were)? Doesn’t work unless you drew a set of balls on a tag or professed your profession as Woman of Mystery — underneath your name in all lower-case letters (I needed a couple more seconds of looking at your breasts deciphering your handwriting).

I have a problem with years of date too — not birthdays or anniversaries (typically… but Google Calendar synced to my iPhone has been a life saver!). Unless it was my name in certain print and publication, I cannot retain dates of employment or when I lived in Arizona or when I was engaged. I know I bought my condo four years ago, but mostly all my prior addresses are a blur. Can I tell you how difficult it is to update and/or recreate a resume with this condition?

No matter how many times AB tells me the year of his birth, I guess it wrong. Even if I have to count on my fingers the years that separate us and try to figure it out THAT way. Ironically, I remember our phone number from when I was in elementary school, but can’t figure out how many years ago was I in tenth grade? Perhaps Math is my problem as well.

Cell phone alarm to remind myself to take my birth control everyday? Yep. It’s worked for 15 years, why kill a good thing by sterilization or IUDs.

People, I need my blog to remember what I did last year. Last night’s forgetfulness solely lies in the hands of the Alcohol Gods. That bitch.

I make no apologies that my memory is horrible — there is obviously nothing I can do to rewire that portion of my brain. But I hate to think about how much worse my memory lapses will develop as I age.

On the bright side, at least I remembered that *I* was at that event. I cannot guarantee that if asked next year my response wouldn’t be all “oooh, oooh! We MUST do this!”

I’ve been spending a couple days packing up my condo: a) because I have the “free time” and b) OMG I haven’t lived there in six months! It makes me feel sad.

I do NOT regret leaving the suburbs one bit — especially the insane and worthless condo association. More than anything though, I miss my stuff (especially my couch and my 800 pillows on everything). Our downtown abode just does not have enough space to contain everything I have collected over the course of four years. My belongings will eventually end up in a storage facility or moved to our next place — once we determine where that potential two-bedroom-ish in our price range place will be. Likely, I’ll go all Craigslist Ninja and sell most of my shit again.

I generally do all my own packing — Ugh, I hate packing. Although the months worth of sales fliers (which seems to be the only thing the post office delivers anymore) were greatly helpful at wrapping dishes and like-fragile items. There was a shit ton of stuff to throw out and/or sell from my kitchen, and I think we’re set on EVERY cooking utensil known to chef and man alike.

But let me tell you, movers make everything easier. I wish I could pay them to pack up everything for me. In my last REAL move from my ex’s house to my condo, I tipped extra for the guys to make the move OUT as quickly as possible. So, who cares that they appeared to take an extra hour in their lunch break. Right.

In my online quest for moving assistance, I found CityMove and oh, how much easier things could be! I have my own horror stories with movers, and just a quick tour of Google will tell you how many are dissatisfied with moving services - from personal items being broken or missing or companies holding trucks hostage for additional payments (yes, it HAPPENS people!). So, with this site, you have the moving company bid on your move — it’s like comparing insurance rates online. How awesome for New York movers, right?

Taking residence at my condo was the longest I went without a change of address form. It’s bittersweet, the move and all. And while, I officially moved six months ago, the Packing Of The Things is finally making the change a reality. Can you be sad and happy all in one moment — because this is the only way I can describe it.

Out with the old — in with the boyfriend! *snicker*

Ex-boyfriends. New boyfriends. High school boyfriends. Potential girlfriends. Blog stalkers.

What to do with them.

It doesn’t take a relationship manual to tell me that I prefer they stay at least an arm’s length away from those who I previously held in coitus - you know, like a frenemy. Although I do enjoy scouring the internet for interesting sites dedicated to “advice.” Particularly fascinating are those dishing info on the mannerisms of a modern-day casanova or You Can Win Him Back! (exclamation point. question mark. WTF). Winning? Who is really “winning” when s/he dropped you (not like it’s hot) and you need to manipulate the situation as such, so a) you don’t appear to be a crazy bitch and b) you don’t appear to be a crazy bitch. Yes, men can be crazy bizz-snatches too. While I certainly plate up three courses (and dessert!) of Relationship Do Nots!, we all take this free guidance with a dash of salt. Right?

I mean, when do we ever REALLY listen to anyone’s misdirected advice.

When thinking of an ex, is maintaining a mantra of “ex for a reason!” important to engrain into subconscious memory, or is attempting to “get ‘em back” (and by that, of course, there are two ways: winning back his love and affection or vindictively ruin his life and curse the day he was ever born) the de rigueur of Young Ladyhood 101? And is it important to Google topics on relationships and all its failures or success stories to figure it all out? Do men really read this self-help nonsense, or is the writing geared to make women think all men read go-to guides to continue getting laid? Finding love, keeping love, getting love to give more love… head/desk. Oral sex.

Regardless, I have two pennies, and I’m more than happy to give them away. I HATE rolling those things…

Today I unveil the “5 Hole Latex Backless Brief.” (Ahem, obvs NSFW, but what ever is around here).

Ponder that for a moment. I’ll wait…

I counted four holes. As its description denotes, “leaves nothing to the imagination.” I like my imagination, thank you very much, but PLEASE tell me where is the fifth one?!

Beware: this item is very delicate, and care must be taken when wearing.

So, latex. BDSM. Guess that’s out. I’ll just have to save these man panties for the bris.