this is what happens when you get married too young.

I really hate logistics.

No need to belabor the details, but it's all outward busyness and inward dizzy inertia around here, if you know what I mean. Thus, I can't think of much to blog.

Except this. When I stepped out of my apartment door this afternoon to see if I could borrow a Yellow Pages from somebody, WHAM: the whole floor lobby was generously scented with what observant attendance at a few Tom Petty shows back in the day has empowered me to recognize as The Chronic.

Truly unexpected. This is a painfully bourgeois building. Middle-aged ladies with little dogs and such.

And of course, I still had to try each door in hopes of finding a damn Yellow Pages (I really needed it). Yeah, right. Somebody else on that floor was home, yet puzzingly, no one answered my knock.