It's, oh, wait. I thought it was almost 1245am. Oops it's 145am.
Somebody's mommy (this is how i refer to myself most days) is way overtired and should not be up so late. However, somebody's mommy started looking for Corelle dishes, found them on Amazon.com, and then, naturally, began looking at bags again.
THIS, after finding today(yesterday) what I believe to be an awesome bag. It's an oversize pink terrycloth bowling-type bag with purple piping and accents. It's like a knock-off Juicy Couture bag. It's very girly, and very roomy for all my shmutz.
Will it never cease? Must I always be driven by bag "lust"? Am I doomed and addicted to the thrill of finding the "perfect bag?" This requires further investigation.
***DREAM INTERRUPTION***
Ok sorry, false alarm. Also, my body thinks it's time to go to sleep, as I am typing with one eye open. Now shaking my head like Bugs or Sylvester when an anvil's just landed on a forehead.
Ok, I am too tired to write. Just started thinking about eating fast food.
Ok not making any sense at all now. Every time I type a sentence and stop, I don't have any idea where I started or what I was going to say.
Oh my god this is all nastyness. Good Night little man asleep :)
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Monday, April 04, 2005
Grow Up
I saw the re-formed Duran Duran at the Wachovia Spectrum on Saturday, April 2.
It was to be the moment I'd been anticipating for 20 years: I finally had seats close enough to possibly smell Simon LeBon's sweat. 5th Row, center.
Things couldn't have gone more my way leading in - I lost the rest of my baby weight (thanks to the Norwalk Virus-ha ha) and could now fit into all my "skinny jeans".
I wore a bold, black low-cut tunic with spaghetti straps and a sexy bra underneath to emphasize the remainder of my decolletage. I wore high-heeled boots under my well fitting dark washed boot-cut jeans, my hair was all curly and wild and I'd made sure to try green eyeshadow to really bring out the brown in my eyes.
On this night, Simon LeBon would finally feast his eyes on me. Imagine all the years gone by; I'd become a woman, started a family, grown up and looked great. What a perfect time to attract the gaze of the man I idolized for the better part of my teen years.
Confident and cocky, I waited with my friend to go to our seats when the opening band took the stage. She decided to have a hot dog, I checked out the merchandise. Finally, we sauntered over to the ticket-checker-guy and he pointed us the way to the floor. My heart raced a little as we began the descent. At the bottom of the stairs, the entry to Manna, stood another ticket-fellow with a flashlight. I showed him my ticket. He gazed at it, and began to indicate in the direction I'd just come from.
WHAAAAAAA?
"Go back up up around the stairs. That's section 202. Row 5 is on othe other other side."
Denied.
These were not floor seats. I'd told my friend and friends of hers that they were floor seats. Red-faced, I found our seats and then told my friends I was going to call my husband. By all accounts, they were still pretty darn good seats, but they were NOT near the stage. I had to wear my glasses if I really wanted to see anything. As if it wasn't bad enough not to have good seats: Now I was being reminded of my mortality.
As I went back up the stairs I confronted first ticketman. "Aren't these supposed to be floor seats?" I asked him, confusion and utter disbelief sinking in. He looked at me like I was looney.
Well, I was.
I immediately called my husband and complained. As if he could do something.
Strangely enough, as soon as the shock, humiliation, denial and depression wore off and my near tantrum subsided, it struck me that maybe this was never to happen. I was never meant to be close enough for Simon LeBon to encounter me. On a grand scale I hypothesized that this was a sign of some sort: A message from beyond, telling me it was time to let go of my girlish thoughts and embrace my adult self. It had to mean something, right?
During the encore, Simon introduced the band, then went out into the audience to have someone (a lady, DUH) introduce him. Of course he picked a pretty brunette and got real close and told her what to say because she was basically brain dead standing next to him. Upon completing the task, she was rewarded with a lovely kiss that actually lasted about 15 seconds.
I turned to my friend immediately: "I HATE THAT GIRL. I HATE HER! OH I HATE HER SO MUCH RIGHT NOW."
Great show though.
It was to be the moment I'd been anticipating for 20 years: I finally had seats close enough to possibly smell Simon LeBon's sweat. 5th Row, center.
Things couldn't have gone more my way leading in - I lost the rest of my baby weight (thanks to the Norwalk Virus-ha ha) and could now fit into all my "skinny jeans".
I wore a bold, black low-cut tunic with spaghetti straps and a sexy bra underneath to emphasize the remainder of my decolletage. I wore high-heeled boots under my well fitting dark washed boot-cut jeans, my hair was all curly and wild and I'd made sure to try green eyeshadow to really bring out the brown in my eyes.
On this night, Simon LeBon would finally feast his eyes on me. Imagine all the years gone by; I'd become a woman, started a family, grown up and looked great. What a perfect time to attract the gaze of the man I idolized for the better part of my teen years.
Confident and cocky, I waited with my friend to go to our seats when the opening band took the stage. She decided to have a hot dog, I checked out the merchandise. Finally, we sauntered over to the ticket-checker-guy and he pointed us the way to the floor. My heart raced a little as we began the descent. At the bottom of the stairs, the entry to Manna, stood another ticket-fellow with a flashlight. I showed him my ticket. He gazed at it, and began to indicate in the direction I'd just come from.
WHAAAAAAA?
"Go back up up around the stairs. That's section 202. Row 5 is on othe other other side."
Denied.
These were not floor seats. I'd told my friend and friends of hers that they were floor seats. Red-faced, I found our seats and then told my friends I was going to call my husband. By all accounts, they were still pretty darn good seats, but they were NOT near the stage. I had to wear my glasses if I really wanted to see anything. As if it wasn't bad enough not to have good seats: Now I was being reminded of my mortality.
As I went back up the stairs I confronted first ticketman. "Aren't these supposed to be floor seats?" I asked him, confusion and utter disbelief sinking in. He looked at me like I was looney.
Well, I was.
I immediately called my husband and complained. As if he could do something.
Strangely enough, as soon as the shock, humiliation, denial and depression wore off and my near tantrum subsided, it struck me that maybe this was never to happen. I was never meant to be close enough for Simon LeBon to encounter me. On a grand scale I hypothesized that this was a sign of some sort: A message from beyond, telling me it was time to let go of my girlish thoughts and embrace my adult self. It had to mean something, right?
During the encore, Simon introduced the band, then went out into the audience to have someone (a lady, DUH) introduce him. Of course he picked a pretty brunette and got real close and told her what to say because she was basically brain dead standing next to him. Upon completing the task, she was rewarded with a lovely kiss that actually lasted about 15 seconds.
I turned to my friend immediately: "I HATE THAT GIRL. I HATE HER! OH I HATE HER SO MUCH RIGHT NOW."
Great show though.