People Really Do Win

Night one of project Go the Fuck to Sleep went quite well, actually. Mike and I decided to do a modified cry-it-out method wherein we'd let HR put himself to sleep, but we'd stay in the room, because neither of us could bear the thought of him getting sick again, all by his lonesome. The key was not to remove him from his crib for any reason. And it worked, brothah! It took plenty of shushing and patting and reassuring, but there was no vomiting and 30 minutes after we first lay him in his crib, he was fast asleep. He did wake up for his usual 3 a.m. "let's cry and cry because we're too tired but don't know how to go back to sleep" routine, but according to the book I'm using as a guide, that'll happen for awhile until he gets used to sleeping on his own. Night two is supposed to be the worst, so if we can make it through this one, it should be downhill in the good way.

But like you care about any of that. What you really came here for was to hear about how I'm going to meet Duran Duran tomorrow and maybe give me advice on what one might wear for such an occasion (I'm asking Kari specifically because she's the only one I know who has also had this honor).

Here's the story: Mike and I have been trying to get tickets for tomorrow night's show since they first went on sale and were shut out in the first hour. We're unwilling to pay inflated broker prices, so we decided to let it go even though we both love the band in a feverish, Bieberesque way that goes back to our childhoods. Mike heard through the grapevine that the oldies station (I KNOW) was giving away free tickets to this private show/meet-and-greet tomorrow afternoon, so we've been half-heartedly trying to score that way (there are only so many times I can listen to "Nowhere to Run To" and local furniture store commercials). Cut to: this morning, the very last day of the contest, Mike's off getting groceries and I'm cleaning banana out of the baby's finger webs when they make the announcement to call in. So I'm like, what the hell, grab my phone, and lo and behold I'm the 20th caller. I never win anything ever if you don't count the life lottery in general, but hot damn, because of my magical dialing prowess I will now be able to describe to you in detail the shade and depth of John Taylor's crow's feet. Sorry radio that you're a dying medium, but I'll take your tickets and run thank you very much.

I know it's like asking for a unicorn when I already have a pony, but if they play this I might actually faint. Maybe if I tell them it's my baby's first birthday and it was his request?