2 hours, 19 minutes until...

Yesterday at work I was telling my friend Andrea about tonight's concert.

I told her: if I'm not at work on Monday, you can take that as definitive proof that I am or soon will be the next Mrs. Stewart Copeland. She laughed.

Hey: it's not funny.

Just now Patrick and I just had "the talk" - I told him: Look, man, if Stewart wants me to be his next wife, I just want you to know: I will always love you.

He said, "You know they're not worth it, right?"

And I said "What!?" (I thought he said, "You know you're not worth it, right?" It took a minute to straighten that one out.)

And then we laughed - Aren't I funny!

(It's not funny.)

Last night at the theater I was telling my friend Paul the same hysterical line I had given Andrea earlier in the day, and Paul reminded me that from my seats, Stewart's not even going to know I'm alive (familiar story). It was at that moment that I hatched a very Marcia Brady plan to faint or something, and while I'm being removed from the stadium, to come to and speak, ever so faintly and in a sexy voice, these words:

Wait a second.

I can't even come up with this shitty plan!

Oh, well. Guess I'll settle for an overpriced beer, maybe an overpriced t-shirt, and my memories of The Police demolishing all my favorite songs. "Next to you, next to you, next to you!"

See you at Dodger Stadium, Stewart! Don't fuck up!