Pickles & Dimes

If you’ve been listening to these guys since their start in 1996, you’re a smarter person than I am. I became familiar with the band less than two months ago when Shauna and I went to see The Departed. After the movie, the first thing that came out of both of our mouths, rather than critiquing the movie (it was great, by the way), was “Did you hear that song at the beginning of the movie?!”

Since then I’ve picked up all five of their studio albums and a collection of their singles, rarities, and live recordings. That’s right, in less than two month’s time.

These guys are great. They are a punk rock-style Irish band. Along with their own songs, they also sing traditional Celtic songs with a hard edge. Bagpipes, driving guitars, and tin whistles with heavy vocals. You couldn’t ask for more.

Their latest CD, “The Warrior’s Code” is probably their best work, but each of their discs sounds as good as their last. Check them out, they’re worth it.

Rating: 4 out of 5 pickles

Every year around September, my Mom starts asking Jason and I what we want for Christmas. We are to put our wishes in list form and then not tell anyone else what we want, unless it is not part of The List.

It is confusing to me, this making of the list, especially since my brain refuses to handle Christmas-related thoughts until right after I’ve devoured my third helping of Thanksgiving stuffing.

Regardless, I dutifully wrote down a variety of possible “wants,” ranging from very cheap and reasonable (a case of Mt. Dew) to slightly more expensive (X-Files DVDs - Seasons 6 through 9) to expensive (an iPod) to “never gonna happen” (my own private island).

Jason and I both turned in our lists. But what did we get in return? No lists. No reasonably good gift ideas for any of the other members of my family (with the exception of my brother, who, thank you, provided me with a very good gift idea that didn’t require me to leave the house to purchase). But everyone else is playing coy. This frustrates me, especially since when I personally called these individuals I got the same response: “Oh, I don’t know what I want.”

Look people, I hate going to the mall as it is, even when I know exactly what I need to purchase, but the thought of slaloming my way through herds of humans when I have no idea what to buy? MADNESS.

To cap it off, I’ve been told what NOT to buy for certain individuals. Had I known this was an option, I would’ve modified my list: “Yes, I won’t give you any ideas as to what I DO want, but I most definitely do NOT want a samurai sword, Paris Hilton’s CD, a bottle of Goo-Gone, or corduroy earmuffs.”

We love our cats. We really do. They’re fuzzy, clean and give great head butts. They don’t judge, they greet us at the door and they generally serve as a source of great entertainment and joy.

How. Ever.

They are becoming increasingly obnoxious at night. To the point that Jason and I are getting about four hours of sleep. Note: these four hours are not consecutive. It’s not all night, just any time between the hours of 1:30 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. You never know when your dream of getting an old family recipe for lasagna from Sharon Stone is going to be rudely interrupted by a fuzzy demon hell-bent on receiving her morning allotment of tuna-flavored heart-shaped kernels. (Which are relatively flavorless, by the way, not that I would ever know.)

As you might imagine, this lack of quality R.E.M. is interfering with our daily lives, especially in the areas of: Not Falling Asleep While at Work, and Not Killing Each Other While in a Sleep-Deprived Haze.

We’ve tried the whole “close the door and try to ignore the incessant pawing and scratching and whining and dear GOD, just open the door again already because my mind is LOST” method, but we both value our remaining shreds of sanity, so that option is not viable.

The cats, for all their endearing qualities, lack two very vital characteristics:

1) the ability to ascertain the appropriate time of day and/or night to beg for food (they tend to forget that they have never, ever EVER been fed at 3:30 a.m.) and

2) the ability to have a memory span longer than 9 seconds, which is the approximate amount of time we get in between each and every occurrence of jumping, pawing, whining, falling, scratching, head butting, meowing, and/or batting at the window shades in their near-successful attempts to drive us to CrazyTown.

So here is our solution: anyone who wishes to adopt these two freaks of nature is more than welcome to them. The caveat? You are their owner from the hours of 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. only. Because, you know, they’re OK the rest of the time.

It’s perfect. You get to be entertained during the usually boring night/early morning hours, the cats get to be their active, conniving selves, and Jason and I get some actual sleep that prevents us from inflicting bodily harm on anyone.

It’s win-win, really.

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving weekend. As a result of overindulging during the long weekend (traditional Thanksgiving feast, Buffalo Wild Wings, Broadway Pizza and a big batch of Shauna’s famous chili), it’s time to start watching what I eat again. At least until Christmas - or next weekend.