I have had enough.

Of drunk texting complete randoms, that is. And exes.

While some of my messages were ridiculously humorous (and naughty), others, well, were just ridiculous.

So, after my return to civilization (blah), I deleted about 20 numbers from my cell phone contact list.

Were you one of the lucky ones to stay?

Probably not, douchebag.

But you can text me to find out.

The gang is embarking on another camping adventure in Boondock, PA today for the remainder of the weekend. While I’m reminded of several camping memories from when I was younger, there is one particular incident from a camping trip two summers ago that still affects me as though it happened yesterday: The SSD Voice Mail.

It happened after our first break up. And it was the first time I had heard his voice in a couple months. His message was a ten-minute drunk rambling after his friend’s wedding that insisted that I was “his true love” (in agreement with his friends in the background) and that he would do whatever-it-is to make things up to me.

Being in the middle of nowhere, with limited cell coverage (where I couldn’t listen to the message in its entirety for two more days) turned my world completely upside-down. I had to mentally prepare myself in the car with friends to listen to it. Then, of course, I started to cry because it was everything I had wanted to hear… albeit months too late.

You know the story, if you have paid any attention to my blog. We did eventually get back together — although the long distance was still a factor — he met someone else, and they moved in together. End of story.

Thankfully, I have been able to detach myself from the sad emotions tied to that message. When I see SSD’s name come up now in the new message list, it doesn’t wreck havoc or induce panic, as we have some odd friendship bond again.

But I for whatever reason, while I’m packing up for another weekend in the wilderness, I think about him.

In a relationship I had this past year, there was an (un)expected death in my family. Shock at the tragedy fueled my need to be strong for both myself and my family. Needless to say, I was beyond the shock level when upon relying on a bit more strength from my then-boyfriend, he balked. He completely withdrew from me — and all involvement in the situation. I so deeeply needed him by my side, and he left me to wallow in misery alone for days. Not once asking how I was doing, or offering to help out at my grandparent’s house (like other boyfriends/husbands were).

After frequently blending dating and family activities, and majority of my “things” moved into his house, I was devastated to hear his words:

I’m not there yet.

Meaning, even though I blended him in “good times” with my family, he wanted no part in all the “bad times” that would and did happen. Essentially wanting “no times” with me. Hindsight shows this was just the first step in him chucking me from his life.

Thankfully, I had a great friend that listened over a long tearful phone conversation, otherwise, I probably would have gone murder-suicide on his ass.

Days went by before he even bothered to even talk to me. Until he overheard said conversation with my friend, then did he come down to “bother” with me. I already felt horrible — he made me feel worse. As though because I needed him, I was somewhat less of a person. Almost as if he were blaming me for being upset.

Look, funerals suck… but so do non-affectionate boyfriends.

I didn’t talk to him the day before or day of the funeral. He somehow remembered in passing where the service was held, and showed up. But only in body. While I choked tears back, watching grown men lose themselves emotionally and hold their wives/girlfriends tighter and closer… I only got a pat on the back. Like, “Good job, Mel! You made it through.”

I have never hated someone so much in my life. That death put me in a funk for weeks, opening my eyes to my own life choices that I struggled with — skeletons and decisions, if you will. I was battling my own, which made me a miserable, miserable person to be around. And I essentially was battling with the fact that I was living with someone who I could not stand to look at (which he called “walking on eggshells”). But not once, did he attempt to talk to me to see even “what my fucking problem was.” Then, as you know, once the initial trauma cloud cleared, he dumped me.

This provoked thinking about other men I had dated, and if they would have reacted in the same manner. I realized reminded myself that I have never dated somebody so unaffectionate in my entire life. Every single other person I have chosen to be a part of my life would have been there. At least for something like this.

It reminds me how often you can really only rely on yourself, even if in a committed relationship. But then, I guess, this also makes me somewhat jaded.

But sometimes there is a great friend there when you need them. And that makes all the difference.

I was sad to read this story today.

Walter Novak took my pictures for my place in history as Best Barfly of 2006 in Scene magazine (and old Scene’s links don’t work anymore — crappy). He was such a fun guy to work with, and incredibly talented.

I guess I didn’t realize the full effect of the merger of Cleveland’s alt-weeklies.

Goodbye, Walter! I’ll look you up when I visit Czech Republic again.

While I probably talked too much — I think I mentioned “The Hills” (kill me) — and was entirely too nervous (what is that all about?) and couldn’t think of the word “scavenger” (in regard to hunt) during my date…

at least I didn’t twirl my hair.

I love tolerate the MSN Lifestyle random lists and stories produced for single-somethings. Today’s feature is 25 Fascinating Love Facts.

(Oh crap, is freakin Sweetest Day coming up? Puke).

OK, this one kind of resonates:

17. People who are newly in love produce decreased levels of the hormone serotonin — as low as levels seen in people with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy to feel obsessed when you’re smitten.

Makes total sense now. Duh. See? I am not a crazy person.

I did it.

I waited too long to prepare for a first date.

Somehow, I thought placing my ass in front of the television for a week surrounded by lots of Mexican with extra sour cream would help me over my rough week of “feelings.”

Then I silly-slapped myself two days ago because although I love to hibernate in the winter months, I would rather not have the 20 extra pounds leaving a dent in the sofa. So I started a nightly regimen of yoga-esque stretching (hey, single people need to be limber and show off their talents!), ab crunches (where it seems most of the spicy and sugar foods tend to clutter) and (re)started my healthier diet. Baked potato with extra cheese, butter and sour cream apparently does not count for a healthy vegetable. Damn.

Although I cannot promise that I won’t gorge myself with Pommes Frites and twelve different shades of mayo every time I hit the Bier Markt.

OK, so I was already nervous like eight days ago (you know, when I first should have thought about pulling my exercise ball out of the closet). Driving to work on a one-laned Beltway certainly didn’t lower my stress levels. Although I found a new band/song on my iPod — Electric President. Awesome.

And while much to his chagrin, I won’t be streaking through his kitchen at 5 a.m., but I still have these stupid anxieties. You know, like, I wonder if he likes an asshole. With an extra ten pounds. Dragging around some excess baggage. No, I’m kidding — it’s just a briefcase.

Ah, shit. Of course he will.

But really, I was completely neurotic in putting myself together this morning: hair perfect, make-up sucks, shirt — meh, jeans (are these dirty?), shit I need to shave, that better not be a zit and then deciding between sexy but uncomfortable underwear or the comfy all-covered butt ones. I mean, he’s not going to see them (unless I bend or fall over improperly), but really though, it’s all about the attitude! Am I going for sex kitten or relaxed “cool” chick?

At least I painted my toe nails. Maybe he’ll have a foot fetish.

I was so happy that I had plans with my other M on Saturday to take my mind off otherwise awful events.

My afternoon was all about Cleveland! First stop was a trip to the West Side Market. I bought some tomato-basil hummus, cheese curds, chorizo, a beautiful eggplant, asparagus, baby tomatoes, fresh green onions, a couple green peppers and a jumbo quart of strawberries. Yes, I also spent less than $20. I love fresh produce, and I am so very excited to cook for myself this week (last week’s Mexican diet plan was good for my soul, but not for my waistline).

Then we had lunch at Nate’s Deli — more hummus! We also shared the fattoosh salad. I almost completely devoured my kafta roll (I was expecting it to be spicier for some reason). Good thing I skipped breakfast!

After dropping out groceries in the car, we stopped into the Glass Bubble Project (behind Garage Bar) and watched one of the artists make the glass flowers that they sell in the shop. We chatted with Eddie a bit about personal glass blowing lessons too — definitely something I need to sign up for! You know, when I get my financial shit in order.

Then, it was on to the Rock Hall to use my free museum passes courtesy of Free Museum Day (from Smithsonian Magazine). Being that the Rock Hall is normally $22 a person, this was an awesome opportunity to take advantage of the free entry. I forgot how overwhelming the museum is though; there is way too much to read and look at in just a couple hours and then with music going in every direction — it almost gave me seizures or panic attacks. Next time, maybe, split up the exhibits with lunch. I was also happy to see the Baseball Rocks exhibit in its last weekend.

And look at that — my picture in front of the Free Stamp:

A few more items crossed off my Cleveland+ List. I’m doing fairly well completing this. I’m almost half way.

Saturday night was the impromptu bash at the Kenilworth Tavern in Lakewood for my friend’s moving party. Seen: Miss Lady Liberty. Wait? Is it Halloween yet?

Drinking, apparently — or maybe the Jell-O shots — takes my mind off things for a bit.

Oh, I think my head will explode.

Not just a clever euphemism.

I hear if you jack it too much that you can actually make your penis explode. This is no laughing matter, as I actually almost lost my breakfast thinking about a penis rupture. Seems to happen more often than not when getting a bit too overzealous with the penis pump. But certain instances also occur while having intercourse.

When thinking with the right “head” makes all the difference. Warning: Contents under pressure!

This category of post is never easy.

If you pay attention to local news, you may have heard the tragic story of the four Willoughby college students involved in a head-on collision near Athens County. One of those young men is my cousin, Rodney Hynd. His friend and driver was killed, as well as the driver of the other car. My cousin, with severe brain injuries, has once again been downgraded to critical condition. He is in a coma, on a ventilator, and has bleeding in his brain. Unfortunately, our family is on a “wait-and-see” schedule, as it could be 7 hours, 7 days, 7 months, until we know his outcome.

Most tragic of all is that my family is no stranger to this sort of trauma. Eerily similar, my aunt (my mom’s sister) was also victim in a fatal head-on collision at a young age (23). This happened many years ago — when I was in fourth grade — but I wish I could tell you those wounds ever healed in my family.

My mother is having nightmarish flashbacks. My brother in California wants to be home so badly by my cousin’s side — thinking he can “talk him back.” And well, our family is just a wreck.

I found myself praying already more in the last couple weeks than I have in years. Then tragedy strikes, which prompts my faith to take on a new direction. I am not an overly religious person, but in times such as these, I seem to find a calm.

Please pray for my family. And for my cousin, in hopes that he will have the strength to get through this. Also, thank you for everyone that has already reached out. It means more than you can imagine.

I randomly thought today about another guy that I briefly dated in high school. And believe it, Internets — HE WAS A NICE GUY. I was only in my sophomore year, and I remember him coming to pick me up at my grandmother’s house (he was a year or two above me).

I was in awe when Piano Man sat down at my grandmother’s piano and started playing by heart something so intensely beautiful. I almost want to say it was something he composed himself. Grandmother? Impressed. Me? Beyond words.

We went on a few dates, and then I moved to a new high school — but we kept in touch, albeit through LETTERS… damn life before internet and cell phone communication. I remember another date just sitting with him outside on his front step, talking, watching the stars… and then he brought his guitar out and started singing to me. Why did I not think this was incredibly cheesy back then? Well, because he wasn’t cheesy in the slightest. He went on to become a college professor because he also had a brain to go along with all his other talents. (I Googled him a few years ago — psycho web-stalker — I think I may have e-mailed him too).

Ultra-romantic guys like that would freak me out today.

The relationship obviously did not advance to “serious” mostly as result of the distance. I gleefully ran into him though in one of my “in between” phases with HSS while pop-and-locking over at the Mentor Have a Nice Day Cafe (totally aging myself here). We went back to his parents house to post-party after the bar (he had already relocated elsewhere after college), and then he apparently got sick. Well, he was in the bathroom for a really, really long time. We had to let ourselves out of his house without saying goodbye. I never saw him again. I imagine he never healed from the embarrassment, since I never heard from him again either.

See? The Google search assured me that I didn’t leave him there to die in his own vomit.

His family would eventually move out of Mentor, therefore never inducing the chance of running into him or his family again. I’m randomly thinking about him because I met someone that reminded me of him. Totally weird, brain. Totally weird.

Wow. I was a bit hypocritical yesterday. I say a few days ago that I will welcome and embrace my “single-ness,” then I go and be melodramatic about wanting to be in a relationship.

There Mel goes again: The Walking Contradiction.

What do you want to talk about today? I initially declared September to be National Talk About Your Ex-Boyfriends Month, so I guess I’ll drop a couple more tidbits.

Recently, while flipping through songs on my iPod, “fka: New Guy” (I don’t have a nickname yet) stopped to play Coldplay’s “Vida la Vida.” Great song, right? Inside I was cringing because I downloaded that song right about the time when 10SB broke up with me. And for whatever reason, it signified something independent and sad (while the lyrics, I don’t know what they mean) and it really, really affected me — both past and present(-ish) tense. In fact, how ironic, that days later, that song would reflect another abrupt end to a blossoming relationship.

Pardon me while I ramble a bit.

There are so many freaking songs that remind me of my HSS. It’s weird. I suppose because it was that end of adolescence period, moving into adult-hood, and the changes or adaptations occurred throughout a lot of emo-rock. And punk. But whatever… By the way, did I ever mention his punk band named their album after me? We broke up (well, we did that a lot) and during one of those “breaks” he recorded an album. It was called “Four-Year Tramp” because, well, I cheated on him when I found out he cheated on me. Which, never is the best revenge, for the record. But I looked like the bad guy. Honestly, it was genius and the situation provoked a lot of emotional, original lyrics into their music.

More music trivia: the Dido song “My Life” came up on my shuffle this morning while I was getting ready for work. I loved, loved, LOVED the Dido “No Angel” album. All the lyrics and songs — still to this day — resonate in a strange way for me. But then “Thank You” had to go and be my and my ex-fiance’s “song.” And I couldn’t listen to the album after we broke up.

But anyways, the lyrics are below to “My Life.” Perfection, no?

What I choose to do is no concern to you and your friends
Where I lay my hat may not be my home
But I will survive on my own
Cause it’s me
And my life
Fuck what you say
Fuck what you hear
It’s my life
Oh the world has sat in the palm of my hand not that you’d see
And I’m tired and bored of waiting for you and all those things you never do
Cause it’s me
And my life
Fuck what you say
Fuck what you hear
It’s my life
It’s my life

(totally edited version, which sucks ass)

I have to start listening to some of my favorites again, and stop thinking about horrible references to the past.

OK, so the Google Reader people will miss this update, but whatever, I felt like writing more. I just listened to another Dido song (”Here With Me”) and ohmigod-wow, the memories! I went back to a time where I was so incredibly in love. Which is then what prompted a “level of love” conversation… with myself. That moment. That song — when it came out, what eight or nine years ago — I have never felt the depth of that power and passion since.

Wow, this puts *everything* into perspective. And kind of gives me a “what the fuck was he then?” attitude toward the shitbags of this decade. Oh, that’s positive and reassuring for me.

Maybe that’s my problem. I’m not getting laid. And to be honest, I really have no desire to lay or be laid right now. The thought of getting into something emotionally sweaty again just churns my insides.

My surroundings have made me feel very meh as of late. Although I feel as though I’m on the brink of being interested in a Mr. Potential. Two actually. I have made happy face at two people in the last couple weeks, but I can’t muster up the energy to get off my ass and be proactive about the dating thing again. Getting passed over twice in one year has really done a number on my ego. And the number is not Number One. I feel very last place. And you know what else? I never do well with the multiple-suitors dating scene. I have never been able to juggle time or emotional schedules with trying to figure out “Which one?” in reference to being “better” to date. I meet one person, I date them. I either continue to date them, or move on. Then I date someone else.

I have lost a bit of my spunk, I think. OK, not-so-much, but I really wanted to use the word “spunk” in a sentence today.

You know what else about dating? I disagree with the concept of giving yourself too much time and space to heal. I think this either makes me uber-resilient or a total heartless wench, but I really don’t need much time to compose myself and move along. I have my short mourning period, then I am thinking about next. Maybe this is fucked up, but it seems to work. I don’t think it has anything to do with being afraid to be alone or similar negative single person mentalities; I am just a relationship person. Being single is certainly a blast, but I don’t prefer it. So, so be it, if once one loser is gone, I go searching for the next one. I don’t need any extra time to figure out me. I know who I am. I know what I want. I know what I’m looking for. There is a ton of fun in searching for it, but I guess I need a GPS to find it. Or maybe I’m just tired of making the first move.

Updates: I have received ZERO calls/e-mails/etc. on my condo. I’m sure the next call from my Realtor will be a suggestion to lower my asking price. It’s only been a month, but I am gosh-darn impatient.

Work is overwhelming me, at least to the point where I have a shit storm that seemingly never cleans up after itself. And then any trace of energy I have, I waste walking about Target with no make-up and remnants of a clay mask around my hairline. (Oh, I really did that, and let me tell you, I understand the funny looks now). So, I suppose I can keep using this for an excuse to not be overly friendly with people.

My tattoo is starting to get tight and itchy. It has some nice blistery action beginning too. I forgot all about the time length of the healing process. At least I am past my plastic wrap sleeping stage. Which, by the way, my tattoo post was the highest viewed post in history of my blog. Yeah, you guys! AND this past Monday, I broke another unique page view record with my readers. So very, very awesome. I think I should get more tattoos to further increase my readership. Right?

Thinking: You’ve got to believe that God is in control of your life. It may be a tough time but you’ve got to believe that God has a reason for it and he’s going to make everything good. - Joel Osteen

Summer’s done and left me. No more hot dogs in my buns for a while.

Did you know that certain phallic-shaped food items actually have aphrodisiac effects? I figured I would list the foods you eat that pervertedly suggest the dirty, dirty on the penis while eating them:

The obvious selection, hot dog — they don’t call ‘em wieners for nothing!
Banana — comes with its own condom.
Fish sticks — oooh baby, dip it in my tarter sauce!
Corn on the cob — don’t matter, just don’t bite it.
Popsicle — just don’t get your tongue stuck.
Cucumbers/zucchinis — come in all sizes and curvatures.
Laffy Taffy — hey, some guys are small… and limp.
Carrots — and some are skinny.
Eggplant — ripened fatty and purple.
Sausages — hot sausage, preferably.
And the mother of all penis-shaped yumminess, the eclair — you think cream-filled was an accident?

I chatted with my three-year old niece on the phone yesterday. She is remarkable with words and perhaps wise beyond her years some times:

Cutest Niece Ever: My boyfriend Miles is moving to New York. (note: little Miles is her next-door neighbor and they are inseparable)
Mel: I heard. Are you sad?
CNE: Yeah. Do you have a boyfriend?
Mel: No, no boyfriend.
CNE: Why don’t you have a boyfriend?
Mel: Well, he dumped me.
CNE: What a douche.

So, here’s to celebrating National Singles Week and that link will also tell you why you’re still awesome even if you are single.

How will you celebrate? I intend to have Bitch Fest v. 32,980,006 with my girls, eat a lot of Mexican food (err, I guess more Mexican), slam some high-alcoholic beers because I’m cool and really don’t give a shit about impressing anyone right now, and maybe call someone I recently met to join me for a sloppy dinner date at Melt or Crazy Mac’s. Just saying. What I will not do: give two shits that I am not “with” anyone.

Or I will just eat a box of ice cream sandwiches each night. And you know what? I would still be OK with that. Because I don’t need permission.

While you were all trying to figure out forearm vs. leg (it’s forearm), or believing that only women could be shit-talkers (grown men can act like gossip girls too), I am preparing for the return of “HIMYM” and “Big Bang Theory.” I need myself a brilliant geek, me thinks. And perhaps a Whopper with cheese.

I overkilled on beer and music and dancing and enchiladas this weekend. Somehow I survived with minimal hangover symptoms, and arrived everywhere I planned to be: a Kenilworth/PIB-Lakewood night o’ fun, volunteering early for the Hemophilia walk, tattoo appointment, Blues & Brews Fest at Wendy Park, then homemade enchiladas and Mexi-feast for my mom’s birthday.

All-in-all, a great weekend blended with friends, “potentials” and family. Oh, and my mother rolling her eyes at me about my tattoo. Just the same look I received when I was 16 and inked my first. Some things never change, but some things do…

I have had a rough year emotionally, internets. With family death and my sister leaving for AZ and break-up(s) and fake moving in with boyfriends and then moving out and stressful financial situations, I often wonder how I still have a straight head.

At the forefront of my current sadness, one of my closest friends has made the decision to move to Denver.  In two weeks. She is completely irreplaceable, and even though our friendship will never die, I’m left feeling an extreme emptiness about the whole thing. Like, I can’t lose her too! I’m sure many people feel friendships are an extension of family — and with my own being scattered and mildly detached from my life — it is just very difficult dealing with the separation. Endings and new beginnings — seemingly the recurring cycle. I have made some new friendship connections as of late, which both excites me and fulfills a void.

I suppose as a Taurus, I should resent change. As an earthen sign, I crave stability. I guess it depends on the particulars. Change could be exciting. Change can be overwhelming. Frankly, change can suck and destroy you, or propel a process in affecting your life to a positive direction. I hope to have the latter.

But, excuse me while I research methods of contorting myself into suitcases or moving boxes.

Yesterday after getting my tattoo, I was looking in the bathroom mirror, being all poser– and posing. I actually said out loud, “I’m such a badass!” because, well, I’m a tool.

Then I hit my elbow on the corner of my granite countertop, teared up from the pain, and said a couple mutha-fuckers.

I’m so awesome.

I am not necessarily a vengeful person; however, this morning my ears and face are burning with intense rage because I learned that someone was talking shit about me. Which, let the Karma fall where it may, I obviously do that here, but what-the-fuck-ever.

I swear to Christ I will be your worst fucking nightmare.

That being said, I know that I am a better and stronger person because I have genuine friends around that prefer the true me with none of the bullshit. I have never felt luckier than today to be surrounded by some of the most supportive women. I only wish that non-judgmental acceptance for the ones that truly deserve it. And sadly, only a portion of people do.

And… what do you have? Pseudo-morons that you only think you can trust.

Good luck with that. And seriously, grow the fuck up.

I’ve had the pleasure of being in love a few times. It is wonderful to be in that moment, even for a more realistic-than-romantic person like myself. That whole beginning, sappy, heart-bursting beginning to a newly-formed relationship. Just bliss and foreverness engraved in your heart. I started to think about my past loves — how and when the first “I love you” occurred.

And I call bullshit on the whole “don’t say it first” rule for women. But, whatever.

My first true love was HSS. Fell in love over the end-of-summer season of football, falling leaves… and long drives between Mentor-and-Ashtabula. We were lying on my mom’s porch together, and he did this finger drawing shapes and letters thing on my body. He wanted to say it, but nervously thought that once I realized what he was spelling, then that was when I would know and feel it too (I did). When he left to drive back home, I told him, “I love you, too!”

My ex-fiance told me he loved me a week after we met. No shit. He read a letter to me, and told me at the end. And everything in me felt the exact same way. There was no way to explain how there was just something instantaneous between us. I also moved in with him three weeks after we met. THREE FREAKING WEEKS. Sadly for me though, I still almost expect an immediate “feeling” when dating someone ever since him. Once you have felt and known that, you rarely waste more time than necessary on a potential “somebody.”

You would think I was in love with L. I wasn’t. I was perhaps head-over-heels crazily obsessed -in-like with him — and maybe it could have been on the road to something lovely, but unfortunately, I got the rug pulled out before that happened. And yet, I still hang on to stuff that ties memories to him. He was a fantastic person, and he reminded me how fun it was to find someone with so many commonalities. In fact, he raised the bar for my future dating habits.

SSD and I had a weird and broken relationship, as long-distance things usually work. While for the majority of our time spent together, we remained casual. Once we decided to make an actual “go” of a serious commitment, did my feelings actually turn warmer. That being said, when I fell for him, I fell hard — and it took me a while to move past those feelings after we broke up. You see, I never had the chance to say it to him in person (scared, much? Yes, terrified). But after he (once again) broke my heart, my friend told him… in an e-mail. Which was actually quite nasty in language and form, but she got the gist across.

Then there’s 10-SB (ten-second break-up). I first told him after my sister’s wedding. I was drunk, and he was passed out. Romantic, right? Obviously, he didn’t hear me. I told him again more than a month later after meeting his family for Thanksgiving. When I was drunk. Again. All awkward, like, “I have something to tell you!” He reciprocated, which I suppose in the end, is what matters. Meanwhile, a couple weeks go by and NOBODY SAYS IT AGAIN. Then, we go camping, and he asks me about “that thing I said.” I smart-ass retort that “I don’t have to say it all the time.” (Uh. Yes, you should, Mel. Idiot). I should have known from the start that this relationship would end in blatant disaster.

Do you have your own unique or awkward “I love you” story?

While I’m left to my own devices attempting to figure out where in the world I gained a hangover through a glass of wine and a drink, here’s a brief hit into my whirlwind days of happy hours.

Apparently I needed to make up for being permanently attached to my couch (read: bathroom floor) all day Sunday with a packed schedule for the week. Tuesday, I had the wonderful opportunity to meet some new friends (and bloggers, like me!) at the Velvet Tango Room. Having a cold, I graciously accepted drinks concocted with whiskey and/or bourbon (Granny always said, right?). CB, Jose and Kelly, and Stephanie — just an absolute pleasure to meet them, and pick their brains about arts, Cleveland culture and music. And Paulius, well you know, you’re just the best thing in Cleveland.

Wednesday night my friend’s band MOJO: The Generations Big Band was playing at Brother’s Lounge. Gosh, this was SUCH a fun night out! I have meaning to get to Brothers anyway, since their re-open. I recently watched a PBS/WVIZ special about the place too. There is a front “neighborhood” bar, a music hall and a separate wine bar — all just gorgeous surroundings and atmosphere. So, MOJO is a 17-piece band with extremely talented local jazz musicians as young as 15(!!) — which is why trumpeter and band leader Matt Bott calls it the “generations band.” With a blend of both old and original pieces, what he formed is just an amazing sound.

The owner(?) of Brothers was also picking my brain a bit questioning how to get more of the younger set (I guess, such as myself) into the bar. With musicianship in my genes, a youthful passion for classical music through ballet, and growing up a piano and band geek, I guess is truly where my fondness was formed for instrumental music. I was forever saddened when the Bop Stop closed its doors a couple year ago (yes, I know they still do private-ticketed BYOB stuff, but it’s not the same). But I think that Brothers Lounge can easily fill that void for me.

Staying un-intoxicated obviously did not work in my favor though. I’ll blame the Taco Bell run.

Tonight? More happy hours. So excited. Well, I was excited about my margaritas tonight, until this mighty cold came back with a vengeance this afternoon. WTF? I would like my sinuses, lungs, head and energy back, please. Hell-o? I am trying to be single and social here, and well, you’re totally pissing on my parade.

Also, this Saturday is the Ohio City’s Blues & Brews fest at Wendy Park/Whiskey Island. Blues music and beer all day? Sounds like a nice way for a couple of single gals to start the weekend.