Don't need nothin', but a good time

I haven't told you guys this yet, but Mom bought tickets for Brian and I to see Poison this summer! I wonder how many of you knew that I was a huge big-hair band fan in the 80s, and Poison was one of my favorites? Well, my mommy remembered, and was all, "Hey, I've got Poison as one of my options here. Are you interested?" I was like, "Uh, hell yeah!" Of course, the real roll of the dice was going to be whether Brian would be interested. To my husband's incredible credit, he was quick to agree!
I'm really quite excited. I'm eager to see the band, but I'm also intrigued as to what the people there will be like. Will there be guys with big, huge hair and lots of makeup? Will there be groupie girls that will intimidate me with their boobs and thighs on display? Will everyone be snorting lines of coke and downing huge swallows of Jack Daniels? ... Or, will the entire audience be composed of people like Brian and I: thirty-somethings who still have a Poison CD in the car and know all the words to "Talk Dirty to Me"?
Check it! This summer, I've already got one of the best dates ever planned! Nice night, babysitter that I trust, yummy dinner and a drink or two, and my favorite boyfriend! And Poison!

He was never really a poodle

* I've ordered some taffy on the internet. Yep, two pounds of key lime taffy, and it's all for me. Brian isn't a fan of the key lime, so I ordered him a couple pounds of gummy bears, that way he won't get all pouty about me getting some candy and him not. I also ordered Mom a couple pounds of the peppermint taffy. Since Taffy Town doesn't sell their taffy directly to consumers, I had to find an online store for it. Seriously, it's the best taffy ever, and it should arrive via UPS on Tuesday. I'm so excited!!
* I made a small change to the avatar (I think you'll notice; it's right there by my feet). I've changed the Oliver portion from a "fluffy poodle" to a bulldog. The bulldog look is a bit more comparable to his personality: the short hair, the under bite, the stubbornness, the stocky build.
* I've never been one for April Fool's Day jokes. I'm no good at them, and they've never been a thing in our family. So I don't have one for you.
* My niece, Ashlee, turns 16 today. I remember the day she was born: Connie in labor, everyone filing in and out of the hospital room (This was the top reason why I allowed no one but Brian, Mom and Howie in during my labor. I couldn't imagine everyone cruising through), going to Sizzler for dinner. I was 18 and mere weeks away from graduating high school. What makes me feel older? Ashlee being 16, or it being 16 years since I got out of high school? That's a tough one, really. ... Grr. They both make me feel like the years have been little more than a whisper.

Half of a month's rent

Mom, Auntie Donna, Sydney and I spent the day at the Tempe Festival for the Arts today. I have to tell you: there was so much more worth buying at this fest than there was at the one in December! We got so much good stuff!
I am currently looking at a beautiful purple, hand-painted and blown vase that I got for the bedroom (this image is not the vase I bought, but a picture of a pretty one I found online). What else was worth buying? I got us a purple and green birdhouse in a cool shape; four ceiling fan pulls (a pink and a purple butterfly for Sydney's fan, and a Red Sox and ASU pull for the office); a very cool hanging cow thing for the kitchen; a light switch plate for Sydney's room; and a nifty painting for the guest bathroom that now needs to be framed.
Stuff that I didn't buy but wish I could justify: a very cool painting that I've completely fallen in love with, but can't bring myself to spend the money on; a ladybug bowl for our remote controls on the coffee table; and a handblown side table lamp. Those things I walked away from relatively easily. The painting is the only item I still really wish I could buy.

Stove-top mac and cheese

I've come up with a number of ways to start off this post.
"How to tell your apartment is way too old."
"Apparently, radiation does kill."
"Really, how did they cook back then?"
"The 'ding' tolls for thee."
"And then it just stopped."
So many ideas ... and none of them good. How to begin a blog post about the microwave oven that died right in the middle of heating up cheese dip? I guess my question runs along the line of, did you know that microwaves could just die? I didn't. It's never happened to me before.
Seriously, there were 45 seconds left in the heating of the queso dip, and the microwave stopped. It just stopped. We heard a low and vague, "Wurrrr," and then the whole appliance went black. Thank goodness it didn't smoke. How do you get a smoking microwave out of its place above the oven? I'm glad I didn't have to find out.
At any rate, I'll be calling maintenance to come by tomorrow (I hope), and replace the thing. Because really, how does one prepare meals in this day and age without a microwave?

I wonder who dies in this one

Check it out everyone! The big day is getting closer and closer! Here's the just-released image of the cover to the seventh and last Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Am I the only one a little unimpressed by it? It seems kinda ... sunny ... for the final and perhaps scariest of the series. Granted, it's the only cover that's image is a wraparound, and on the back there is a freaky black hand reaching out for Harry, but I really liked the black pre-cover art that they had released weeks ago. It was all black and no-nonsense. There's a place for a cover like that, and I thought that it was on the final H.P. tome. Oh well, it's not like the cover will keep me from tearing into it the second the pages are in my hands!

Give it two hours to dry

* My carpet looks so good! It's so nice and clean! I said to the guy, "Can you see all the dirt that is coming out?" He said, "Sure. You want to see?" Um, no. Thanks anyway, but I'd rather be ignorant of how gross my floor has been ... you know, the place where we sit, lay down and rest, and play with our baby and dog. The guy said that he doesn't think the apartment management cleaned my carpet before we moved in. I've suspected that since that first day. He said, "There's no way that these carpets could get that dirty in just the months that you've been here." Lovely.
* I bought a new comforter for our bed today. I had picked up some new sheets a couple weeks ago, and have spent the ensuing days searching for a complementary comforter/duvet cover. I am happy to say that my bed looks special now, and my hubby likes it! And yay! Bonus points to me for getting purple in my bedroom!
* Are you keeping track of that random list of home projects that I wrote about a couple months ago? If so, you'll notice that since then, I have managed to knock off a good portion of the things enumerated there. Thankfully, for every one thing crossed off, one or two things are added. Life might lose all meaning once there's nothing on "The List"!

I like that he sang "Infatuation"

Last night, I was witness to one of the weirdest melting pots of people ever.
I saw older women wearing tank tops, sequins and mini skirts. I saw young women hussied up in short-short skirts, tie-dyed tank tops, fishnet stockings and knee-high boots. I saw an impersonator that posed for pictures with fans. I saw couples, groups and partiers rocking out and getting kinda drunk. I saw that more than half of the audience didn't stand up and dance or sing along.
Where was I?
I was at the Rod Stewart concert with Auntie Donna. (I will not let her off the hook just because she was dressed better than most anyone else there; she audibly moaned every time he shook his butt on stage.) I was up for attending the show simply because I knew it would be fun. And it was. Of course, given the fact that I was never much of a fan, nor was Mom (who shaped my early musical life via her radio choices), I only recognized about half the songs. Of those, I only knew the choruses of about two thirds. So, while I couldn't sing along all that much, I still enjoyed the dancing and all that.
Things I learned last night: Rod Stewart is Scottish; he wanted to play football; he's dated and married blond models almost exclusively; older women make the worst-looking hoochies; there really is a market for the Bedazzler; small venues are the only way to go when attending a concert; it's a pleasurable surprise to see female horn players, violinists and piano players alongside the back-up singers; and there is such a thing as a one-song encore (Really! Only one song! Ridiculous!).

Just clean the carpets, please

ITEM!: The Picture People, the place where we got Sydney's four-month portraits, seems to have gone out of business in their Scottsdale location. Um, that makes me really mad. It is totally my luck that the store is there for years and years, and right when I start making the place a normal stop, it closes. Frickin' frick. Now what? I gotta find some place else to take the little girl to get her snaps. (I have ordered more photos to send out to everyone, but their online store is taking forever to get them done. I'm going to call tomorrow and see what the hell is going on with these people.)
ITEM!: I'm having my carpets cleaned on Wednesday morning. Brian seems to think that the guys are going to muscle me into getting something done that we don't want to pay for. All I want, really, is for them to get all the dirt out of my carpets. They do that, don't they? I know they'll be all, "You've got a dog. You should have us do the pet urine cleaning, too." Little do they know that Oliver is a rock star, and finds pee and poop inside the house as dirty as B and I do.
ITEM!: I had six of the eight teams going into the Elite Eight, and none, count them, none, of the Final Four. That's got to be some kind of record, right? I've tossed the bracket already. Brian's holding on to his, since he's got Florida winning the tournament.
ITEM!: I'm having sleep issues lately. I've been waking up in the early mornings, say at 3 a.m. or 4 a.m. (with or without baby's help), and have not been able to get back to sleep for about 90 minutes. It's really weird. It's happened three nights in a row now, and I'm about ready to think something may be terribly wrong. I've tried several different tactics to get back to sleep, but they have all failed. Let's hope that tonight is better and that I'll get a decent night's rest.
ITEM!: I'm off on a fun adventure with Auntie Donna tomorrow night. You all will have to wait until Wednesday to hear about it.

Does he even know me at all?

So I'm all, "Hey, I bought some frosting to go on the angel food cake mix you bought a couple weeks ago. I thought I'd make the cake tomorrow."
He looks at me kinda funky. "What for? Can't we just eat the cake?"
My eyes, I'm sure, bulge out a little. "What do you mean 'just the cake'? You want to eat cake with no frosting on it?"
His face takes on a somewhat pitiful expression. "It never occurs to you to ever eat cake without frosting, does it?"
I become more confused. "Why would you ever want to eat cake without frosting? What fun is that?"

Really. Does anyone know the enjoyment in cake without frosting? I can't come up with a single instance where cake without frosting is appropriate. Without frosting, it's just a slab of moist, squishiness. The frosting holds it all together. Eating cake without frosting ... that's just wrong.

Flashback: 1970-something

Check it out, people.
Daddy's going through Grandma's stuff, which includes a small ton of pictures. Every once in a while he'll send over one that I don't remember ever seeing before. This one is taken on Christmas Eve at Grandma and Grandpa's house. I know that because I recognize the Christmas scene that she used to put on top of her television.
Welcome to the 70s, my friends. Enjoy the flip of Mom's hair and the belted majesty of her dress. Appreciate the snugness of my dad's polyester pants and shirt, and that insane moustache. Envy my ponytails and curly bangs ... and that ROCKING dress.
You're all so jealous that you weren't there that night, aren't you?

They read our e-mail, too

Do you remember when I said that, when all is said and done and this presidency is in the rearview mirror, it would be discovered to have been the most shady, dishonest, power-hungry and scandalous of the bunch? I said that the Bush Administration will go down as one of the dirtiest presidencies in history. Years ago, more of you would have argued.
How do you argue that the Administration has, behind the people's backs (screw that, behind the law's back), fired federal prosecutors in several states because they were not as loyal to the president and Republicanism as the Administration feels they should be?
Where is this not an act of dictatorialism? Or communism? Or some other kind of "ism"? How is this within the realm of what can happen in a country that is supposed to celebrate different points of view, as well as separate church and state? How is it that there is still another year before the yahoo sitting in the big chair gets kicked out of office?
Some people may be blind to all the president's faults. So many see what they want to see, and refuse to believe that this guy is on a serious power trip that has cost American lives, as well as trillions of dollars. (I would totally vote for Bill Clinton again.)
"Hey," you may say, "he didn't fire those guys." True. The hammer has fallen on Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' head. Gonzales handed out the pink slips. But do we really believe that he acted on his own? Would an Attorney General so egregiously ignore the whole Constitution and its declaration of our right to think what we want in order to fire some prosecutors? Doubtful. People like that don't act like that unless they've been prevailed upon to do so. Bush's Administration is full of the people that would demand such action (*cough, cough* Karl Rove and Dick Cheney *cough, cough*).
My question is this: Has this president and his administration so damaged our national self esteem and international reputation that it can not be fixed? I'm thinking that, perhaps not indefinitely, but the Bush scars will be with us for a long time.

He killed in that disco suit

I've developed another secret shame. I DVR'd Dancing with the Stars last night, and watched it tonight. Brian would not indulge me by sitting next to me throughout the two-hour premiere, so I went on alone -- against my better judgment. And I enjoyed it.
I watched a show that could be classified as reality television. I feel a little bit dirty.
But alas, I have talked my way through this, and have reasoned that Dancing is not really reality TV so much as it is a competition played out on television. It lacks the emotional "drama" of, say, The Real World or Survivor (people and their issues played out for the world to watch train-wreck style), but the show still can keep me hooked on the characters involved.
As you can tell by the picture I've chosen to accompany this post, Joey Fatone (of the former boy band *NSync) and his partner, Kym Johnson, are the dancers I consider to be the front runners right now.

Use of the word "manhood" is mandatory

For years, I've loved reading cheesy romance novels. They were always a nice escape into a world of ridiculously good-looking people that had money, attitude, manners, sensuality and the opportunity to set out on adventures. Sure, the sex in the books was always written about in incredible detail, to the point where some exploits would have me blushing ... at a book. But more than that, they were just fun to read.
But I think the unthinkable has happened. This is twice now, in as many books, that I've set them aside, put them under the bookshelf, or sighed in exasperation at the hero and heroine's antics. Tonight, I put a book that I was approximately 120 pages into under my bookshelf, with nary a thought as to what was going to happen next or how it would end.
To understand these books is to see the predictable outline that each one follows: boy and girl meet either in a cute way, or in a mysteriously dangerous way; both have physical attraction to each other, but immediately sense the intelligence lurking behind each other's eyes; both concede to their attraction, but are too stubborn to admit that they like each other, because of some ridiculous misunderstanding or plot sabotage; they decide to seduce each other to get what they want, and unwittingly, fall in love; life-threatening incident occurs, and they realize how much they feel for each other; now working together, the couple foils the crime or solves the mystery; finally, they fess up to their feelings. (Prologue: Still so much in love, they are happy and expecting their first child.)
Tonight's moment of disinterest comes courtesy of the hero, Dillon Caxton, who decides that the best way to gain the trust of the heroine, Priscilla Dalling, is to seduce her. He actually goes through that thought process, and thinks to himself (and I paraphrase here), "If I want her to trust me, I have to get her into bed." Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. The simplicity of his plan is amazing. This was the exasperated sigh that I mentioned earlier.
Anyway, I've put the book away, and can say with a measure of anticipation and delight that no more of the books in my to-be-read pile are romances. At this moment, I don't feel like I have the patience for them. I foresee it staying like that for some time.

Beware the fans of March

The maintenance guy came by this morning to install the ceiling fans. He started in Sydney's room, and then went on to do the office fan, before the living room. Since he started in the other portions of the house, I watched television while he was working. When he asked to work in the living room, I got up to check out the other two fans. Upon seeing them: "Oh," I said. I returned to the living room to ask the guy, "Those seem kinda low, don't they?" He replied, "Yeah, I thought so, but I didn't know how much you loved them, so didn't want to say anything."
Seriously, it's hard to believe how low these fans are. I really worry about Brian bumping his forehead on the lamp portion of them. I don't like the look of them. Anyway, I asked Joe, the maintenance guy, to not install the third one in the living room. "Will you hate me if I call the office in two days and ask you to take them down?" He was very kind when he smiled, lied, and said, "No. Not at all."
I'm so pissy that these damn fans didn't work out as well as I would have liked. Of course, every time I enter the rooms I get a little more used to them, but I still have a weird, "there's something heavy hanging over my shoulder that may crash on my head at any time" kind of feeling. Grr.

"May the wind be always at your back..."

A belated Happy St. Patrick's Day to you all!
Gone are the days when we would go out and celebrate at Maloney's, but still the joy of the day lives on. Actually, we didn't really do anything Ireland-specific. I didn't eat any corned beef and cabbage (yuck!); we didn't go hunting for any leprechauns (it's kinda unnecessary when I've got an angel and leprechaun in one sitting on my shoulder every day anyway); there were no shamrock fields to skip through (Sydney wore a very cute little shamrock-covered dress for her first St. Pat's, though! Too cute!); the only green I sported was a shamrock-shaped lapel pin; and I don't know all the words to "When Irish Eyes are Smiling."
Does that make me a bad Irish descendant? I don't think so, and I'm pretty sure that my Gramps wouldn't think so, either. (He would have loved Sydney in her dress.) I am, I believe, one of the few who claim Irish ancestry that has actually been to Ireland. Some fun Ireland facts: The people there don't eat corned beef and cabbage all the time; in fact, it's a lot of meat and potatoes, fish, and soup. They don't say, "Top o' the mornin' to ya," either. Oh yeah, and very few men wear bowler hats, and none of those hats are green.
That information kinda takes the fun away from the American version of the holiday, but not entirely. I still wish I had remembered to put on my shamrock suspenders and matching socks.