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.