The seven year glitch

This post is about my lobster-slaying supervillain origin story.

2006: It begins.

No, it's not. It's about my honeymoon. More accurately, it's about my seventh anniversary, which was on Monday, and how I tried to mine pictures of my honeymoon for ideas about how to celebrate and kind of failed all over the place.

We spent a week or so driving to various B&Bs in New Hampshire, Maine, and Vermont because even when I was 26 I was 70. I know for a fact that we spent a great deal of our trip consuming food, because Dan was thoughtful enough to take several extremely flattering pictures of his new bride confirming as much.

I mean, honestly. What kind of a person--

Okay, maybe we were meant to be together.

But out of an entire weeks' worth of delicious foodstuffs, there were only two items that I could summon the ambition to make uglier versions of: broiled grapefruit and apple cider donuts.

That is barely a celebratory breakfast! Those donuts aren't even off-putting enough to join the Pantheon of Hideous Donuts! And for some reason I couldn't come up with aaaaaaaanything logical or theme-y or even appetizing for dinner, so (this is where things really break down) I made...copper pennies. Because the traditional seventh anniversary gift is copper? (Buries face in hands.)

No offense carrot salad, but you are what failure looks like.

My theory is that all my cells have now regenerated since my wedding day and the new ones are incapable of sophisticated theming. These are dark days, friends. Not, like, August-dark, but pretty sad all the same. I think I'll just go watch Exit Through the Gift Shop with Ivy again.