Let's be real here. Cleveland wasn't all just serious and running and blood and stuff. From time to time we left the house and put on our fun faces. And here is just a small peak. Go ahead, you can look.
Ah, Progressive Field, home of the Cleveland Indians. It's a pretty neato field, having come from Land of the Brewers, where our stadium has a roof. Being out in the wide open has a certain charm. Also the Indians totally beat the Mariners that night in a walk-off homerun. Yeah. I paid attention. In between TOTALLY checking out the people of Cleveland, what with their wild hair and wicked fashion.
This photo, despite its poor quality, is one of my favorites. I don't know why. We were proving we were at Hard Rock Cafe. A valet man snapped the shot. It makes me happy. Just two ladies, out on the town. Being awesome. Behaving like tourists. A random snapshot on the corner that makes me smile.
Me. Giant guitar. Colors. HOORAY! If I was ginormous, and I knew how to play guitar, this is what I'd play. If all of those things happened.
Heavenly Father, please forgive my infidelity. Yes, that is an Ohio State sweatshirt. I know. I promise I still bleed red and that it's a DIFFERENT red. You know, like whatever color the Badgers bleed and stuff. BUT I WAS COLD. I was wet. Sara sacrificed her beloved, dry sweatshirt to save a poor, vulnerable friend. A true act of courage and friendship. Also, gross, check out the blood on the outside of my right shoe. Awwwwwesome. Also note that the blood is red. I told you so.
Before I departed on my Cleveland journey, someone told me that the house from "A Christmas Story" is there. IN Cleveland. Tucked away in a random, dilapidated neighborhood. Just chillin'. All, "Heeeey. I'm famous. There's a leg lamp in my window." I demanded Sara take me there. She did. And here I am, sitting on the porch of that very house. I was highly starstruck. There it stood. In its original glory. Across the street there was a gift shop where you could buy Easter bunny footy pajamas and leg lamps. It was amazing. You're jealous. It's OK. I understand.