Inspired by Holden Caulfield

Alas, I cannot tell you the situation with The Creep has gotten any better. Instead, it's only gotten formally documented and awkwardly silent. And also, I kind of hate the Radiohead song I had previously loved for years. So there's that.

It's possible that many had assumed I had become one of those girls who gets married and gets lost. And it's possible, a little bit, that I have. But only a little. The bit of monotony I've found I have latched happily onto. The married part of married life is just fanfrickintastic. It's the life part that's causing a little trouble. At the gym Tuesday I smiled at the girl with the large, sparkling solitaire huffing frantically next to me on the elyptical. I hoped she saw my double rings and that I was on the elyptical. Maybe not still, but again. If a little halfheartedly.

The long weekend in New England was certainly long. And it is never boring. I got more sun in three afternoons on the Long Island Sound than I did in a week and a half in French Polynesia. I've never been so happy to see tanlines. We crashed a ridiculous beachfront party and saw fireworks that made me gasp and arch my neck to the sky so long and hard that the crick lasted for hours. I thought the fireworks would fall on my head. They weren't the only ones I saw that weekend, and that's not necessarily great.

Rock Star Brother (in law) called today with big news involving a tour with Scott Stapp, formerly of Creed fame, but more recently of sex tape scandal with Kid Rock and Christmastime fisticuffs with 311 fame. That Scott Stapp. I advised that he enjoy the ride while grasping his dream. But more importantly, should he find himself in a crowded tour bus with mutliple naked rockstars and groupies, that he run fast and far.