Did I ever tell you that really funny story where, two years ago, I forgot my mother’s birthday? For a month? And no one in my family mentioned this to me, even as the weeks dragged by, because they are all sadists? And I was at Ross’s house visiting, and I checked my email, and there were some photographs from my Dad, and one of them was of my mum sitting in front of a cake and flowers (and still, still no mention of the birthday in the email)? And Ross’s Dad said, “Oh, was it your mother’s birthday?”And I said, “Oh, no. My mum’s birthday isn’t until — OH. Oh. Shit.”

And then I felt like the worst daughter in the world for several weeks, until my now six-week belated birthday gift arrived at the house in Singapore?

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you that the regret and suffering of that occurence apparently did not leave a deep enough scar upon my heart. For the 27th of July is my mother’s birthday, and lo, verily did the hours of that day go past in Cambridge, MA without a finger being lifted to dial the number of my mother.

I realized this afternoon in the middle of my first fight* with Ross since we got married, which was awful because I had to ask if I could borrow his phone and I was just in the middle of a good meaningful silence. And so I called my mother, and I apologized for not sending flowers or otherwise acknowledging her birthday, and she whinged at me goodnaturedly for a bit. We laughed. Then she said, in mock indignation, “And you actually talked to me on my birthday, too!” What?

Turns out we’d spoken on the 26th (when it was already the morning of the 27th in Singapore), and once again my mother breathed not a word to me when I didn’t say “Happy Birthday.” Sadist.

A very, very beautiful and wonderful sadist, though. Who will be receiving an enormous bouquet of flowers any day now.

*Relax, parents and parents-in-law. I use the word “fight” only for dramatic effect. You can keep on smiling. ;-)

P.S. Title courtesy of Jo. She’ll have to tell me if I got it right.

P.P.S. The Ash-monster is sick. Pretty sick. Send good vibes to Singapore, please. He needs them to make his fever go down so they can stop stuffing drugs up his bottom.

This evening I attained twin pinnacles of cool and klutz.

I cruised home from class with the windows down, playing the old Gorillaz album very loud, drumming on the steering wheel and feeling like quite the urban annoyance.

Then I cut my thumb open on a can of tuna while attempting to prepare a casserole before Ross got home, and am now feeling the loss of blood, so I have nothing intelligent to say to you tonight. Sorry — maybe tomorrow?

(I’m totally not just saying that because Ross borrowed Season 6 of Buffy from a coworker and Episode 1 is calling my name.)

I was lucky enough to spend most of my weekend with the two tousle-headed goddesses you see below. I can’t tell you how happy I was that Sarah flew into town (from Alabama!) for the wedding and planned to stay a whole 10 days — it gave me a chance to see her without being stressed out. She visited me at the office on Wednesday and we had lunch, but I couldn’t wait for Saturday to roll around so I could take her to the DeCordova, which she had somehow managed to miss when she lived in Boston.

I love seeing people’s faces when they roll in through the front gates of the museum for the first time, and take in just how enormous the grounds are and how many strange and lovely things there are to see. The sculpture gardens are like a Wonderland of sorts — the oddest characters could be hiding behind a shrub, waiting to pop out. We had the most beautiful weather, too — sunny and breezy and gorgeous, the kind of perfect day that fools poor sods into thinking they should move to New England when they visit.

After a very smooth drive to the DeCordova (dude, I didn’t even tell you how last week there was a crazy power line accident and they closed Beacon Street in Newton right where I needed to turn to get to my Hebrew class, and I got out my map and planned an alternate route, only messing up twice before I ended up where I wanted to be. I am becoming such a pro driver!), we wandered around the museum for a good three hours, during which I took approximately twelve hundred photographs of Sarah. I took about seven of Jo, largely because she made a face at me whenever I tried. But neither of them could help looking beautiful, because — well. All of my friends are breathtakingly beautiful.

I don’t know if it’s a subconscious filtering mechanism on my part, or something that happens over the course of our relationship, but it’s a fact of life. You guys? You’re gorgeous.

Anyway, the museum was followed by a tour of my apartment and an absolutely delicious Chicken Biryani dinner courtesy of Ross and our leftover wedding Tandoori chicken, and a nighttime soujourn to Summit Hill park by Jo’s house. It was the first time in a long time I’d been out on such a lovely night, and the moon this weekend was just surreal. Huge and dappled and yellow and so low in the sky, it was always being blocked by buildings.

This morning I met Jo and Sarah again downtown. We lunched in style at the Parish Cafe, walked through the Public Gardens and the Common, and did some serious skirt shopping at Filene’s. We also saw a kickass breakdance group in front of the Borders bookstore where we had coffee. All in all it was one of those weekends that… just felt sort of perfect. It has been sweet beyond words to have Sarah here; I miss her dearly and her smile is good for the soul.

Here, have some.

P.S. These pictures look a little noisy because they’ve got a filter on them that in theory is supposed to make them look like ink drawings. It didn’t really do that, but I loved how soft it made their faces look. I’m such a slave to Photoshop. Oh well.

He won’t mind.

Happy first Birthday, Asher-gnasher-smasher-crasher-basher-trasher! You are the funniest, drooliest, smartest, squishiest baby I have ever met and I like hanging out with you loads more than most of the grown-ups I know who can actually talk. You rock my world. I miss you. Try not to get too big too fast. I’ll come and see you soon. You’d better remember my name.

I love you.

Somebody asked me today what it was like being married. Of course in some ways it’s a terribly silly question — but on the other hand, I was sitting at lunch with 8 people and I was one of only two with the necessary qualifications to answer, so perhaps it really was research. I said — facetiously — “Well, it’s almost exactly the same as not being married, except now I’m happy all the time.”

Only (and you have license to throw squashy tomatoes at me now) — see — it’s sort of the truth. Things are almost exactly the same. Nothing in the shape of our daily lives has changed, really. We haven’t moved into a big house. We don’t plan on populating our apartment with baby feet any time soon (even though we miss Asher like the dickens). I still get cranky when I’m hungry and Ross still has a pile of clothes next to his side of the bed. We didn’t become dues-paying members of some sort of married couple club. Basically, things are just like they were five days ago.

But here are the things that are different, at least for now:

The Ring. I take it off at night, so I have to remember to put it on in the morning. Today I forgot and we got all the way to the train station before Ross looked at my hand and I realized I wasn’t wearing it. I made him drive back so I could get it. I fiddle with it after I wash my hands and I clink it against the pole when I’m riding the T. I am convinced that absolutely everyone can tell it is brand new and that it must be the first thing they notice about me, even though I never notice other people’s wedding rings. It feels cool and slightly sharp sometimes when I curl my fingers, but mostly it’s comfortable. It fits me beautifully, which is a relief since we ordered the rings online and they came two days before the wedding. I smile when I look at it, partly because it makes me think of Ross and partly because it’s just kind of funny that it’s there.

The Word. Husband. I haven’t actually used it in conversation yet, but I typed it the other day just to see what it would look like, on a message I posted to the company bulletin board. It was very weird. Not weird bad, just weird. Mostly because it doesn’t seem like Ross could possibly be one of those things — I mean, he’s Ross. He’s not a husband. Don’t even get me started on the word wife. Give me a few years.

The “Yay!” factor. In case you didn’t make it to the wedding, I should tell you that a couple of hours before the ceremony I started to feel a major headache coming on — probably because I’d been sick all week and hadn’t really eaten much that day. Anyway, adrenaline and a couple of Aleve flew me through the proceedings, but not long after the deed was done the headache turned into a massive vice-grip monster who brought his friends nausea and trembly limbs along. I felt pretty awful. Awful enough to leave before my friends did, which all but broke my heart, and to cancel our plans for inviting people to hang out at the apartment with music and wine afterwards. I’m still really sad about that. But I just felt like death warmed over, and I was utterly miserable by the time I limped into bed.

But then, at about 5am, I woke up to pee. My headache was gone, and it was clear that I wasn’t going to perish. I felt a million times better. And when I got back into bed, I thought, “Hey! I’m not going to die, and I’m still married to Ross!” So I squiggled around in bed a bit until he woke up, and I looked at him, and he looked at me. I smiled at him. He smiled at me.

Me: Yayyyyyyyyyyyy!
Ross: Yayyyyyyyyyyyy!
Me: Yayyyyyyyyyyyy!
Ross: Yayyyyyyyyyyyy!

What I mean is, when we think about the fact that we got married, it makes us smile. A lot. And sometimes laugh. And usually kiss. And that, my dears, is what it is like to have been married for five days. Ask me again in ten years.

More soon, I swear. I have a million things to tell you. And I want to tell them all. I just haven’t had time to take a breath yet. Here is the tip of the photographic iceberg, until tomorrow when I promise I’ll come back with stories.

It’s going to be beautiful.