Brrr.

A Detroit weatherman just said, "It's cold here. Stupid cold!"

Yes. A high of 12 degrees this weekend would constitute stupid cold. Thank goodness I bought some stupendous new wedge-heeled suede boots before I left Zinzinnati.

Oh, and my mom sewed two buttons on my leather...with a thimble. Who knew people still had thimbles?!!

Gadzooks. No, Datsyuk!

I saw my first Red Wings game Sunday and, surprisingly, loved every minute. The Wings dominated the Colorado Avalanche, taking three times as many shots. It paid off. The Wings won 3-1. Despite my new allergy to cold, I did just fine at Joe Louis Arena.

The Joe was actually pretty cozy even though the seats were so small that I could barely fit in them. And as usual, I regretted taking three days' worth of newspapers along with me in case I got bored. After all, it was hard to take my eyes off no. 13, the Wings' star forward, streaking along the ice and doing utterly fancy things with the puck.

Ordinarily, I like sporting events just for the hot dogs (which I never eat otherwise), but I couldn't stop watching. The Wings won again tonight in OT-- 4-3 -- with a three-goal rally in the third period, as Pmurph described it.

Hmm. Could I actually be a closet sports fan? A hockey fan, no less? Well this is Hockeytown.

Okay, okay...

Look, I admit it. I love Jerry Maguire. There, I've said it.

Score!

Okay, so my second week of work on the new job is over.

Let's see ... I figured out how to do a photo assignment (and assigned three), had two front page stories (co-bylined), already had to come in for breaking news on a Sunday, put my lovely bamboo plant on my desk (it's the tallest desk decor in the newsroom) and survived my first school forum where about 400 angry parents were demanding answers about school closures.

Pretty awesome, right? Well, not as awesome as this:

Blog, meet Slows, the best beer joint I have ever met.

Slows Bar BQ on Michigan Ave. in Detroit (along our path to work) has 20 (yes, I said 20) beers on tap. After work Friday, Patrick and I paid a second visit to Slows.

Along with some fried catfish and spicy remoulade dip, I had a Lindemans Framboise, a Lambic beer from Belgium described on the menu as, "Sweet and flowery with a pronounced tart raspberry finish."

All true!

Pmurph had a Lion Stout from Sri Lanka, a smooth dark beer that almost tasted like it was flavored with a touch of Bourbon. I told Patrick he should attempt to eventually taste all 20 beers on tap... then I realized that they change the taps and we may never try every beer.

You know, I worried it would be hard to find new hangouts in Detroit, of all places, but my worry was in vain. From the sweet mashed potatoes to the baby back ribs to the multitude of brews, Slows does not disappoint.

Indeed, Slows is reason #223 to move to Detroit. Don't knock it 'til you try it.

Reason #222 to move to Detroit

Me: "Oh damn. I just popped the button off my shirt. Hmmm."

Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. Creaking basement door opens to upstairs.

Me: "Mom, I just popped the button off my shirt. Do you mend? And um, a button on my coat is loose, too."

Mom: "Gimme my thread."

Ten minutes later.

Creaking basement door opens to upstairs. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop.

Mom: "Can I come down? Here, I just sewed all the buttons back on your shirt and your coat because I didn't have the same color thread as you had."

Me: "Awwwwww. Thanks, Mom."

I may be 32, but it's still nice to have my mom fix my buttons.

More reasons to move to Detroit...

AP says...

"The cheapest gas in the country was found in Detroit, where the price of self-serve regular was $1.86. The highest average price for that grade was $2.81 a gallon in Honolulu."

Confucius said to me...

"Let your hook be always cast. In the pool where you least expect it, will be fish."

Cool.

Back in the D

When I moved back here, it seemed like a novelty. I thought, "Yeah, sure. I'll move back home, see some of the old stomping grounds, enjoy living near the folks, work at the local paper, blah blah." I didn't realize the impact it would have on me. I now understand why Scarlett was so worked up about Tara. There's something special about being near the place where you grew up.

All of that hit me after just a few days on the new job.

A colleague and I were talking about where we grew up in Detroit. First, we learned we were baptized at the same church -- St. Francis d'Assisi (pictured above) on Wesson. He and his brothers attended the school there. So did my brother and I, as did my dad and his siblings. And my grandpa was the janitor.

Then my colleague said he was born on 31st, where I spent my first months as a baby. His busia ("grandma" in Polish) lived on 31st. So did my grandparents. In fact, we learned that we (although 20 years apart) spent many of our childhood weekends (him visiting his grandma and me visiting my grandparents) on the same block in Detroit.

Crazy.

On assignment one day, I drove past my old school (which doesn't exist as a school anymore, but the church does). The block doesn't look the same (many surrounding houses and buildings have been knocked down or are standing but burned out), but a flood of memories washed over me. I couldn't help but smile.

So it's real. I'm back in my old hometown, covering issues that impact neighborhoods and blocks where I used to live, where my mom went to school, where my dad hung out. I pass the grocery store where I sometimes shopped with my grandpa (where I was frickin' amazed by the pig ears --whole -- you could buy in the meat section). Everyday on my way into work, I ride past 31st. I can't believe it.

I used to say I'd never move back here, but I did. I had to.

And something just feels right.

Stolen blog item

I stole this from Gina's witty blog -- with my own variations and an assist from Patrick. You got Fifth Third? You know what we're talking about.

Nowhere to go but up

Okay, so this is not me. And I wasn't exactly happy about the flat tire we got driving back from Detroit on the day before we started our new jobs -- a flat tire that had to be taken care of at 8 a.m. on the morning of our first day at our new jobs.

I thought for a second that it could be a bad sign. But then I remembered that we have had nothing but good luck so far with these new jobs and the move and our good fortune of having the timing align just right.

So I changed my thinking. The next mornings can only get better, right? (It also didn't hurt that mom and dad know a guy who can plug a tire in about ten minutes for ten bucks. Take that, flat!)

Devil cat?

You'd think he's a nice cat, wouldn't you? A big furry, lovable puffball, right?

Well, you'd be wrong.

It's all an act with him. Clarky spends his days relaxin', sprawlin' out, playing the role of a lazy lump.

But at night, he's a terror.

We live in my parents' basement while we transition into becoming Michiganders. Before the Big Move, I worried about how the cats would transition into their new home. Well, I shouldn't have. I should've been worrying about me and whether I'd sleep again.

Clarky has decided it's unacceptable -- unconscionable, in fact -- that he's not allowed to go upstairs, where two other furballs live. While all the other beasts (me, Phoebe, Addy and Patrick) are sleeping, Clarky climbs the stairs and rattles the door to the first floor with all his force. When he's at the end of his wits, he comes downstairs and mews and meows and growls with all his Maine Coon might. Sometimes, he just sits under a doorway, gazing up and meowing at the boundaries. He knows those other cats are up there. The question is merely how to find them.

Most recently, he has discovered that if he jumps from the table to the ledge of the glass block window, there is a hole where he could presumably crawl into the bowels of the Mrozowski lair. (Yes, I'll be spending part of the afternoon on my last day before I start my new job cutting cardboard or paneling to plug up the hole.)

I admit it. I admire him. He's curious about life in Michigan. I am, too. So I guess we'll learn together.

And then we'll nap.

Movin' on up!

I took a picture recently, looking down at my slippered feet standing on the caramel-colored hardwood floors of my Cheviot home. A soft light glows from the kitchen in the background.

Of all the dozens of photos I have taken in the last few weeks to preserve my memories of Cincinnati before we move, it’s my favorite. That picture represents every bit of comfort I feel here for this city, my home of nearly seven years.

Patrick and I got new jobs in Michigan, and we’re moving soon.

It’s funny now to think that I steadfastly did not want to move here and never thought I’d feel like this was home. We were living outside lovely, lake-lined Chicago in 2000, when Pmurph was interested in a job at the Cincinnati Enquirer. My response was something like, “Ohio? Ugh. Ohio is boring and flat.” Boy, was I wrong. The moment we drove to Cincinnati and I saw the rolling hills and winding river, I was hooked.

Is Cincinnati perfect? Ha. Being a reporter, I know too much about the politics and the problems to say that. (And I simply do not understand why there is no lengthy bike trail along the river.) But there is so much to appreciate.

For starters, what will I do without the Cincinnati Art Museum? I have been awed by exhibits like Cat Chow’s clothing display, and I have loved my 10 percent members discount at the light-filled museum café. I have enjoyed jazzy “picnics in the park” and partied there for the museum’s birthday. And thank goodness the recipe for the spicy and spectacular tomato bisque was printed in a recent members magazine, or I really might not be able to move.

I will miss Covington and the super cozy Greenup Café. If you haven’t been there to try the quiche with salmon, you’re missing out. I used to love walking around the tree-lined Licking Riverside Historic district, and I fondly remember the pottery and stained glass classes I took at the Baker Hunt Foundation, an absolute gem for art and dance lessons that is tucked away on Madison Ave. And I already can’t believe I won’t be here for the new Pho Paris

I also will miss the opportunity to drop in to hear the brilliant, inspiring sermons of pastor Sharon at the Unitarian church or be wowed by the energy, selflessness and collective brainpower of that feisty parish.

Then there’s Newport, drawing diverse blends of culture from the uber-cool Southgate House to the absolutely quirky York Street Cafe. (Oh, York Street, how I’ll miss your escargots.) And some of my favorite memories include eating tacos and Jarritos at La Mexicana on Monmouth or drinking hot chocolates at the Levee’s Barnes & Noble, while I pour over cooking magazines in the shadow of the blazing city lights across the river.

I’m sure I’ll long for the scenic drive along Columbia Parkway on my way to a play at the New Edgecliff Theater in Columbia Tusculum or appetizers and dirty martinis at nearby Bella Luna. I can’t believe I won’t be eating again at Honey or Slims in Northside or stopping by the French-inspired shops in Montgomery or eating pancakes at the Echo diner in Hyde Park or picking the perfect cheese at Findlay Market in Over-the-Rhine or sipping wine at the Quarter Bistro in Mariemont.

And I cannot neglect to mention the underrated West Side, where we bought our first home – a character-filled early 20th gem with pocket doors and hardwood floors. (You have to love West Side prices for East-Side caliber homes. Check out 3739 Herbert, if you’re interested. It’s a steal.) Our kitchen reminds me of all the meals my husband and I shared at our first dining room table. Our deck reminds me of all the grilling while friends laughed and drank wine. The backyard reminds me where Phoebe romped for three years and where the cats loved to try to sneak out to munch on grass. I learned to garden here. I learned to love the feel of dirt on my hands here. I learned to love the smell of fresh paint and hold a hammer in my hands here.

Cincinnati, you have inspired me with your devotion to the arts, satiated me with your diverse restaurants, frustrated me with your bickering politics and segregation, challenged me with plentiful opportunities to try dance and cooking lessons, wowed me with your historic architecture and rich history, introduced me to some of my best friends and made me sad to go.

I am moving home to Detroit to make new memories there, but know this:

I only hope it doesn’t take the prospect of leaving for others to appreciate what you have to offer and embrace your potential to be even greater. You are a Queen City to me.