Inside-outside

Hello again, reader(s), from the other side. Necessary short version: All is well! Baby is great! Blog will remain my own holdings-forth and will not be about the baby herself, both to preserve her privacy and because there is at this point not a tremendous amount even to overshare if I were so inclined. (Newborns eat, sleep, and go to the euphemistic bathroom. Mine is no exception in this regard.) 

The difference between pregnant and not is hard to overstate, if a whole lot less about physique than I'd have imagined. True, I no longer look nine months pregnant, which is of course a good thing seeing as I'm not, but size-wise my goal is not a bikini, or even jeans, but to fit into my usual winter coat by January, when it will likely become necessary. Mostly, it's about being able to take a shower and not panic that maybe it's too hot for the baby. To eat lox and soft cheeses, but also just to eat a bite of something that tastes a bit off and not think, oh no, food poisoning, which bacteria could it have been?? To walk down an unsteady construction-site ramp into a Krispy Kreme near the doctor's office, knowing that the baby is across the street with my husband, and not inside of me.

And I suppose it's nice to know, principle of the thing, that I could have a drink, even if practically speaking, this is something has to wait until you can be sure your baby can make it two whole hours between feeds. Those Rodenbachs I bought just prior (and made a habit of knocking over in the fridge in search of food over the past many months, so who knows what state they're in) are still there, and I'm sure I'll get to them at some point. 

Oh, and it's amazing not to feel like I'm going to faint every day between breakfast and lunch, no matter how many iron supplements and snacks I'd throw at the problem. To sleep deeply and (sort of) comfortably, even if for limited stretches of time. And all of this after what was, on paper, an easy-enough pregnancy. (No morning sickness - just food aversions - and none of the serious pregnancy complications.)

Of course, there's also childbirth, which is reputed to be painful (even with pain medication), and with good reason. WWPD will not be host to a play-by-play of my own experience, but let it be known, an experience was had. One that, much like pregnancy itself, is tough to categorize as easy or difficult. I have not, shall we say, rejoined my local running group just yet. Recovery... takes a moment, and I write this from somewhere in that moment. Certain basic actions - going on a short walk, or picking something up from the floor - sort of went from being near-impossible for one reason to being similarly challenging for another. But at least things are trending towards easier rather than more difficult.

I've heard plenty about the claustrophobia that can come of feeling tethered to a baby, and, sure? You are tethered! If you breastfeed and are still in the time period where you aren't yet supposed to pump, your baby-less outings are by definition short ones. (Short and mildly nerve-wracking, but possible.) But the version with an actual baby is a whole lot more fun than where it's that what's stopping you from trying the ultra-hip nail salon you've been contemplating for a year is your own dread of the walk from one end of a subway platform alllll the way to the other, or concerns about the fumes, or the (remote but you never know) possibility of infection. That's really the big difference - when you're pregnant, depending your... outlook? belief system? life experience?, a baby feels like a hoped-for outcome you can't quite count on, and could jinx at any time. Whereas once there's a baby, that much is, at least, for sure.

End of an era

Goodbye, outskirts-of-Princeton. Goodbye, preppiness, ticks, and excellent gourmet ice cream. Goodbye friends who haven't already (long since) moved away, and goodbye adorable fluffy wildlife, including the tiny bird that was (for a few brief, terrifying minutes) sharing our apartment. Goodbye, America-narrowly-defined. And yes: Goodbye, car. 

A productive morning

Further self-promotion: my take on fashion-and-beauty mansplaining. It already has a comment from a self-identified troll, so it must be good!

In other achievements of the day, I'm now the proud owner of an adult driver's license. What this meant was, I had to go to the DMV and exchange my "probationary" one (what you have to carry for the first year in NJ once you get a first-time license) for a regular one. As usual, the peach-fuzz-mustache set was out in full force, proud moms in tow, because I'm nearly twice the age one's meant to be for this.

The I-95 Flag Great Adventure

Today I conquered my last remaining learning-to-drive task. Unless we're counting parallel parking in a tiny city spot in busy traffic, which we're not, because that's a) avoidable, and b) something lots of the driving-since-16 sorts can't do, either. What I'm saying is, I drove on the highway! Alone! And am typing from my apartment, which means I made it back!

I could give excuses-excuses reasons for why it took so long - that nowhere around here requires a highway, and longer trips are more fun not to take alone anyway - but who am I kidding, I was terrified. But then this morning, I first drove my husband to the train station, then my dog to the dog run, and on the second of those trips, I started noticing that the big road to the run is basically like a highway - there's merging and a speed limit of 50, which in NJ-driver terms means highway speeds. (Of course, highway speed limits are similarly deceptive.) I thought, if I can do this like it's second nature, the highway can't possibly be so dire. That, and I was having one of those home-alone-on-the-weekend moments when I suddenly realized that I was browsing the Wikipedia pages of the cast members of "Frasier." An activity begun with some kind of Further Thoughts on "Frasier" in mind, but at a certain point, my eyes were glazing over, over the fact that Daphne was not only Marla the Virgin on "Seinfeld," but also a dancer in Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life." I had to get out of the house.

So, highway driving. It's still not second-nature to me how to merge or change lanes above 60mph, or how to anticipate when someone else is about to do so, given that people don't always signal. But it's doable. Far more difficult is parking once you get to the place. Lambertville was better than, say, Philadelphia might have been, but still somewhat challenging. Also difficult: finding where to get onto the highway on the way back. It's supposed to be the first left, but is really the second - the first puts you back on the same road. That I've been on the same trip probably a dozen times, as a passenger and driver, ought to have made this not so confusing, but no. Still, all told, a success.

Defended!

It's done! Forms are in and everything! And my car wasn't even towed! The defense itself is a bit of a blur, but I remember taking notes. I remember it going well, and that the criticisms were useful, not scary or gotcha or whatever it is one is meant to expect from that type of situation. I remember that despite an overwhelming fear that I'd fail (inspired in part by learning, a week or so beforehand, that someone once failed a math defense when a famous professor deemed the project "trivial") preventing me from planning any kind of immediate post-thingy celebration, some friends saw to it that I didn't spend the entire post-defense in the inevitable late-afternoon nap.

Now I have nothing left to do but throw myself into an idiosyncratic, likely academic and non-academic permanent-job search that may yet end with a postdoc at air-conditioner-repair school. (If you happen to know/hear of/wish to create a position in French-Jewish Studies...) And all the various writing projects I'd lost track of, what with it, can now be resumed, and the existing ones continued. Likely including WWPD, unless air-conditioner-repair school has some clause against it.

Heavy machinery

As I can't possibly be the first American to figure out, driving long distances works best if there's some good food at your destination. I learned this recently, when the desire for Japanese groceries set me forth on my longest solo drive yet, all the way to H-Mart in Edison. There was also a practical purpose, which was to start getting used to the idea that wherever I work next will likely require more than a five-minute drive, or at least, I shouldn't be ruling things out that would. But in the immediate moment, the catalyst was more nori related.

In any case, while Edison is far, it's also a simple matter of driving along the main street in Princeton and not turning until you reach the supermarket, about 45 minutes later. But it was a good exercise in paying attention to lanes ending, merging, over a long(er) stretch, on streets I don't know (as well). It was also, I suppose, my first solo urban driving, if New Brunswick counts. I'm going to say that Nassau Street does not.

I had reached my destination.

But I got sidetracked.

When I got to H-Mart, I also got to Paris Baguette, a Korean French café in the same strip-mall. I needed a moment to recover from the drive. And if that moment came with iced green tea and a cannelé (an excellent combination it's unusual to come across), so be it. 

Driving to Edison may have mentally prepared me for the next pedagogical step, which is driving alone to Lambertville, aka the most interesting destination reachable by a few minutes of highway driving. Highway driving and parallel parking. Once these two are sorted, as in once I can readily do them alone, I will truly know how to drive. Someone just needs to dangle a pastry in front of me for these tasks, and they too shall be accomplished.

Immediate post-turning-it-in goals

-Get dog groomed (check!).

-Go to supermarket (check!).

-Catch up on emails (getting there!).

-Clean the bath (hmm...).

-And the rest of the apartment (ehhh...).

-Cuddle with freshly-groomed poodle while watching the newly-available "Princesses of Long Island," trying not to view it through any kind of academic lens (no comment).

Adventure is relative

Oh the adrenaline: my first-ever solo drive, following a long accompanied drive this morning, which included Route 1 as well as what would have to be New Jersey's narrowest road intended for cars. Which went fine, but I'd avoid that road in the future. Anyway, this was a short loop, yes, but with a jogger, some other cars, and an emeritus professor and his wife strolling around all relaxed, not knowing the full significance of the car passing them by, being driven by an adult woman who by all accounts ought to have been driving for more than a decade. 15 mph, but no lane line, almost no sidewalk: challenge met.

It seems unreal that I'd be capable of actually getting myself to town/the supermarket on my own, whenever I damn well please. Like getting around in a city, only worse for the environment. Until I get to town, park (in the lot, obvs), get a coffee at Small World, get back in the car, and return, I don't believe I count as knowing how to drive, but I think that ought to happen soon. I might just make it after all.

WWPD Guides: OMG DRIVERS LICENSE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! edition

Prepare yourselves, WWPD readers, for what shall be the most momentous announcement of WWPD history: On this very day, I went and got a driver's license. It actually happened. After two failed road tests in Red Hook, after actually getting a car and practicing since June, after putting my husband through the unique agony that is teaching a loved one how to drive, after panicking just about continuously from the time I set up this road test, the day finally came, and I managed to not massively screw anything up. Yes, my foot was quivering on the brake, and yes, my shirt, if not the entirety of Mercer County, was drenched in sweat. But it's done! I'm so happy to never, ever, ever parallel park again. If this means not driving to Philadelphia, so be it.

So, now that that's out of the way, the official WWPD guide to getting a driver's license as an ancient person:

-The biggest obstacle to this ended up being my so-so proof of address (which turned out to be OK, long story), so I recommend holding onto recent first-class mail, in your current name, if you've changed it. Don't get tripped up by something you can totally control.

-Use lessons strategically. Learning to drive with lessons alone is theoretically possible, but it helps tremendously to get a feel for just basic maneuvering. To pay for this with lessons would get expensive rather quickly. But just practicing isn't ideal, either - you want, at the very least, to take a lesson right before the test. That way, someone who knows the local DMV gives you whichever tips, plus you've gotten over the most extreme nerves an hour or so before the test itself. The only downside is, the car will be unfamiliar. But if they're not too different (i.e. you hadn't been driving something closer to a truck), you'll be fine. Also useful: take a lesson where your instructor tells you you're ready, then practice for several months more, and only then take the test.

-Practice with someone who got a license somewhere with a much more difficult test than you're going to take. It helps to find a Belgian - their test is on normal roads, and using a manual. What you want to do, as with any test, is overshoot the mark in preparation. (I think my husband should be able to put 'taught badly-coordinated native-New-Yorker wife how to drive' on his CV. I think this counts as astrophysics.)

-With parallel parking, you will spend a lot of time perfecting the maneuver, but what you really need to know is how to correct for having entered the spot incorrectly. On my test, the parallel parking came immediately after a right turn, so there was no time to straighten out the car. I could tell how wrong the angle was, but figured once I was in the spot, using some combination of lesson-techniques and Belgian-driving ones, I'd get it in there. Which I did, but with a hubcap touching the curb. Which, with more time, I'd have corrected, but DMV examiners need to get on with the day.

-Pray for a lenient examiner. And I think this falls into Dan Savage's category of things atheists might make an exception and pray for.

-Re: psychology: one thing that can help or hurt, depending, is to remind yourself that everyone has taken this test and passed. This isn't like getting into college or grad school, or like getting any job whatsoever. This is open admissions, as it were. Remind yourself that you're not special, not uniquely incapable of doing this basic thing that everybody does. Unless you do have a condition that prevents you from driving safely, in which case don't drive. But if you're just run-of-the-mill clumsy, remember that this skill isn't the same as being good at sports or ballet. Don't assume that mediocre spacial reasoning, or a poor performance in high school physics, disqualifies you from the basic way Americans and many others get around.

"You're schmoopy"

-Via Facebook, a truly amazing ad that was apparently in the Harvard Magazine. The hotel defended itself, kind of, by claiming this not at all the same photo as its inspiration.

-Via Prudie (sorry, JTL), we now know of a new trend in bridezilladom: you're-not-invited announcements. As in, rather than knowing you're not invited to an event on account of, you weren't invited to it (that is, if you're even aware of the event in the first place), the hosts will notify you, unprompted, that you didn't make the cut.

I agree with Prudie that if this is a thing (if! although as the letter-writer indicates, there's some evidence that it is), it relates to social media, on so many levels. If you get married, friends you haven't spoken to in years may still feel close to you, because they've been following your status updates or photos... even if there's no way they were going to invite you to their weddings, once actually sitting down and writing a guest list. And if you post photos of your celebration - and if there are 8,000 such photos, why not all? and perhaps in dozens of installments, such as to dominate the news feeds of everyone who hasn't yet hidden your updates - then by a certain point, even people who would have not wanted to go to your thing in the first place will on some level wonder why they were left out. (Not unrelated: the couples that get all lovey-dovey before an online audience, an audience knowing, on one level, that this is inappropriate and insecure, yet on another, experiencing a pang of irrational envy. The human psyche, never as straightforward as all that.)

In the past, there simply wasn't the same opportunity to feel excluded from events one had nothing to do with. But this mostly comes down to a more timeless and genre-independent fact of life: There will always be those who assume an invite from them is the most sought-after piece of paper imaginable, and that the kid who sat next to them in freshman biology will quite possibly never get over the hurt of having not gotten one. And there's apparently, via one such forum, a converse of this - invitees afraid to decline, for fear of hurting the couple, because a 'no' from this uniquely vibrant individual would in fact ruin what would have otherwise been a delightful celebration.

And yes, from these two items above, I'm starting to see where the women who want lifetime-monogamous-commitment-to-dude but not "marriage" are coming from.

Strictly professional: Further reflections on the grown-up Facebook

-I'm kinda liking it. What I like most about Facebook, what keeps me on it, is the rolodex aspect. I'm not saying that's all I use it for, but I on some level think that's all it's good for, and Linkedin pares it down to just that.

-Not sure about the suggested... contacts. (The impulse is to say "friends," yet the purpose is to avoid needing to do so.) I mean, I've exchanged nods with the famous mathematician who lives across the street, but never emails, and I'm quite certain our professional overlap is nil. And of course, as with Facebook, there are the usual let's-move-along-shall-we suggestions (former students, people one went on one date with 100 years ago). I see patterns, but can't figure out where the data come from. Or could but won't be bothered.

-Also massively confused about the etiquette. Because these are contacts and not friends, you don't have to/aren't supposed to add (back) people you know socially, but who aren't in the same field as you? Or is there some kind of character-reference angle, where it helps to show that X-hundred people can vouch for your reasonable-person-ness? I mean, I'm only adding people where there's some kind of professional overlap, and even then feeling altogether pushy, but you know.

-The photo aspect is odd - like a French CV. (So I went with a picture taken in a Brussels Pain Quotidien. Close enough.) As is the prompt to say what year you graduated from college. Is this courting age-based discrimination? (Along similar lines, a posting for a very interesting writing job - job, not internship - notes that medical benefits aren't part of the deal. Is this because up to 26, that's now often taken care of? Is it, in other words, a way of saying the elderly, i.e. late-20-somethings, need not apply? Or is this just, as PG once helpfully noted in the comments, verbal skills aren't all that marketable?)

"Exotic" Jews and more

-Electricity returned, Obama won. Lights are now flickering again. Is Romney, too, planning a surprise return?

-A friend forwarded me Roy Greenslade's enthusiastic endorsement of (the eternally wonderful) Hadley Freeman's take-down of Stephanie Theobald's evidently bizarre (but behind-a-paywall) article about The Jews, an "exotic" people in Britain, it seems, not in the days of Walter Scott, but in good ol' 2012. There's evidently a reference in Theobald's story to "the attraction of the monetary rewards connected with being Jewish." As a seventh-year PhD student in the humanities, you see where I'm going with this.

But I'm not sure I'd put it as Freeman (sarcastically) did: "We Jews really are so very Other, what with spooky voodoo ways and our foreign accents." Because, like, yes, there's the Jews-these-days-are-undifferentiated-white-people (in the US or parts of it, at least - Freeman is, I believe, an American who lives/did live in the UK) argument. But non-Western religions and accents, these wouldn't merit an "exotic," either.

-A nice sentiment, or oddly trickle-down?

-I'm on, somewhat baffled by, Linkedin. (And hoping that via relatively passive means, I'll find places to publish my musings on YPIS and parents who write about their own children. Otherwise, assertiveness might god forbid be in order.) You can see who's viewed your profile? Given that upon getting on the site, I went and viewed the profiles of everyone I'd ever met, ever (or, everyone suggested or a friend-of-a-friend with whom I have even the faintest professional overlap), and only just now changed the settings, hmm. So, on the off-chance that whoever these individuals may be (and I can honestly say I've since forgotten), I promise that notification you got is in no way evidence of my having, you know, looked you up. But if you read this and are a writer/editor of some kind, whom I know however vaguely...

-Speaking of the parenting-memoir, some impressive dirty laundry was Fresh-Aired recently, and I got to listen while on the slow-motion commute. This was a tough one, though - I felt totally sympathetic to the parents of a gay 16-year-old son who, despite their acceptance of him, tried to commit suicide. You really get the sense that they want the best for their son, and for others in their situation. With maybe a hint of, they want to make it abundantly clear to the world that despite their son's difficulties, they've been thoroughly not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that from the get-go. There's something about the interview where you keep thinking that the kid being described is either a) currently a young child, b) so mentally incapacitated as to be unlikely to find this memoir/podcast, or c) long since grown up, happy ending, proud of his parents for writing this book. And then you realize/remind yourself that this is a reasonably intelligent 16-year-old kid, who knows about the project and, according to his parents, consented to it. As much as any kid still at home can have a say in such a matter.

The interview got me thinking about just what it is that I find so unsettling about this genre. I suppose what it comes down to is, whose story is this to tell? If you were/are diagnosed with a mental illness, been put on anti-psychotic medication, if you've tried to kill yourself, these are things you might one day choose to disclose - to a close friend, a partner, maybe in a memoir if that's your thing. But these are not facts about yourself that you'd necessarily want others to know before meeting you. They'd impact all kinds of things - who will hire you, date you, etc. - but even assuming a world of perfect open-mindedness, maybe you just want to keep some stuff to yourself. (Setting aside the question of whether any teen, gay or otherwise, however out in day-to-day life or on Facebook or whatever, should have his sexuality discussed in a memoir, on NPR. And I really do mean straight kids also - at 16, I wouldn't have appreciated my own first-crush stories being shared by my parents on public radio.) Dude has a common-enough name, but not that common.

WWPD, honorary Belgian

Back from a whirlwind trip to Belgium for my brother-in-law's lovely wedding. I traded roadside deer for roadside (but penned-in) cows and sheep. I think I've filled up enough of my Belgium punch-card that I now count as an honorary Belgian.

My students asked where I'd be (I'd warned them that attendance would still be taken in my absence) and their reaction was... exactly what mine would have been, pre-having Belgian family. Belgium, wow! For me, it's still the country of amazing food and incredibly tall people, but it's no longer exotic. Not Long Island, but more Long Island than Mars at this point, for sure. 

On the flight back I read a French women's mag, a hastily-selected "Marie France," which had a long article by a "philosophe" about love (with quotes from classics like Descartes on the subject); a profile of various French women of foreign ancestry (including one who was the product of not one but two mariages mixtes between Jews and Catholics); and a makeover featuring a woman of I'd assume North African extraction, which involved the magazine instructing readers on the importance, if you wish to look sophistiquée, of straightening your hair already. A woman with unusually gorgeous curly hair (think natural ringlets), subjected to a middle-schooler-style inept flatironing job. This article also claimed that straightened hair gets greasy more quickly, which is just bizarre - it's naturally straight/fine hair that does this. If you have thick/coarse poufy hair, style it however you please, the apocalypse will come before greasy hair is something you need to worry about. This is the immense upside of hair that is not, by Western standards, wash-and-go. 

And, in case anyone is curious, Belgians are following the US elections perhaps more closely than most Americans. It's apparently - understandably - amusing, in a country with an active Socialist party, that Obama's referred to as such.

In other, no less blue-state-ish news, expect posts on an anti-YPIS (not by me, alas, and not using that acronym) article in the Guardian, and one about racial and socioeconomic tensions at NYC private schools in the Times. 

The little wedding that could

If the Wedding Industrial Complex has succeeded at anything, it's at giving all of us the impression that however lavishly we celebrate settling down, we're actually pretty chill and low-key about it. Whenever the topic of the WIC comes up, we assume the problem is that ordinary folk get caught up in the proliferation of nuptial schmanciness, and feel inadequate if they can't produce a Kardashian Versailles for their big day. When in fact, it's at least as relevant that the more outrageous "normal" becomes, the more comfortable those who identify as modest become in abandoning frugality.

Case in point: The NYT Weddings section (sorry!) has a piece about "The Smaller, Cheaper, Just-for-Us Wedding," in which we learn of a marriage that began with a proposal for which the would-be groom surprised his soon-to-be-fiancée by flying to Paris, where she was vacationing, to propose. Seems schmancy! What laid-back celebration followed back home? "There was no time to order bridesmaid dresses, so Ms. Schneiber instructed the 10 friends she asked to stand with her to wear navy dresses with coral colored shawls she found online at Urban Outfitters for $18." Ten bridesmaids, dressed alike, but not exactly alike. And then "a party for 150 friends" - not 500. Nothing much, in other words. No big deal. And technically not, at least cost-wise relative to the notorious average.

And I'm somewhat guilty of this as well. I too got engaged in Paris (but I was there for dissertation, not vacation! but still), and while what with the move and the new dog and all, we never did have the much-speculated-upon after-party, our close-families-only dinner post-City-Hall was in an upscale restaurant. (My plea for Dos Toros went unheard, which was probably for the best.) My dress came from boutique-chain Maje, so not a wedding gown from a wedding gown shop in price or formality, but not Kmart or thrift, either. And I took the opportunity to spend way too much on a pair of shoes that are not bridal, reasoning that a special occasion merited it and that as much as I generally don't believe in cost-per-wear, going non-bridal upped the odds of my wearing them more than once. But they're sufficiently impractical that I've worn them maybe twice since. I feel much more smug about my relatively-low-key, the-point-is-getting-married-not-having-a-wedding approach than I should, precisely because I implicitly compare what I did with a world of $10,000 gowns, $5,000 floral arrangements, $300,000 luxury-hotel spaces, and invitations sent to long-lost relatives and as many "friends" as one has on Facebook.  

Things I'd rather be tested on than NJ driving regulations

-Important and not-so-important dates in French-Jewish history.
-Which foods are and are not poisonous to dogs.
-The most frequently cited reasons not to get a PhD in the humanities.
-How to make pizza from scratch.
-How to get from Point A to Point B via MTA.
-What Dan Savage or Emily "Prudie" Yoffe would advise re: a given situation.
-Anything. Anything at all.

Yet after much studying (including memorizing rules specific to the under-17, under-18, and under-21, which can indeed appear on the test even if you're ancient), I am now permitted to drive supervised in NJ with the appropriate real driver next to me. (Longtime readers may recall that I failed to make the most of this permission when I had it in NY.)

It still seems odd to me that there are fewer restrictions on my driving at 28 than on the early driving of a teen, someone who probably spent lots of time in cars, growing up where they're needed, and hasn't yet settled into slow-learning old age. No one at the place could believe I wasn't being sneaky and already in possession of a license from some other locale. Meanwhile, if they'd taken me to the road test area, I could have shown them. Oh yes. It's find-a-huge-lot-to-practice-in time for me, the key element that was missing when I brilliantly opted to take lesson's in Manhattan's Chinatown.

The only things that will possibly save me on the road test is the ample recent experience biking on the road and, also biking-related, the thought of the two huge hills I need to go up in order to do anything whatsoever. I picture that agony - and if it got easier after the first few times, it never got easy - and all of a sudden I feel something akin to what the 16-year-old does: must. drive. now. As opposed to in NY, where it was kind of like, yeah, driving would be a good skill to have, and licenses are neato. I'm now something akin to qualifying-exam-level motivated to get this done.

The more complicated procedure was undoubtedly my husband's switch from fern driver to ferner with 'merican driving creds. And he, unlike me, can drive, eliminating what one would imagine would be the major obstacle. Whatever the case, we're now both well on our way to getting the most out of country living. Or driving to Philadelphia or something. That works too.

Wedding fashion recap

-It felt funny being at Dos Toros last night, trying not to get guacamole on the somewhat intricate (and surprisingly modern) wedding band that had been my grandmother's. Between the manicure and the shiny, my left hand is unrecognizable. As is Jo's, my goodness!

-It felt delightful waking up and realizing breakfast=cake.

-Jo's family met mine, and by all appearances everyone got along. Woohoo!

-Let's talk accessories. I wasn't up for a veil or, apparently, doing anything whatsoever with my hair beyond flat-ironing it, putting two different anti-frizz products in it, and hoping against hope that humid-and-rainy would not immediately reverse this. (Normally with such weather, I'd have not even begun such a process.) I also don't know how to much extend makeup application beyond a more careful version of my normal eyeliner-concealer-lipstick routine, other than some added blush and mascara, so there was a limit to how much primping I could fit in, to how radically different-than-usual I would look for the occasion. My mother and I did get mani-pedis on the glamorous Upper West Side, at a place I'd read online would be both sanitary and affordable, which is apparently an unusual combination, so there was some symbolic "how is this day different from all others" grooming. This was my second-ever "pedi," and it confirmed that I am in fact too ticklish for this to constitute relaxation for me. But my toes look amazing.

I at any rate had some very "Botticelli, look at you!" moments with the shoes, which were twice commented on by women after the ceremony, once on the street and once on the subway. Paris, Repetto, yes, yes, I know, I buy all my shoes like that, and if you have to ask... They were so very comfortable, but also, in that they're so very shiny and potentially scuffed, something I'll be saving for other at least moderately special occasions. The bag, meanwhile, was my "something borrowed," borrowed from my mother last-minute and a testament to her handbag expertise - it went just right with the outfit!

-The earrings were my great-grandmother's, maybe? No one's sure, but I had them cleaned for the occasion. They look very Dreyfus-era, or something. Photos, again, to follow.

-The dress was this. Remember that the model on whom the dress is shown is five feet taller than I am. This is a dress made for a short person.

-And now, back to normal life. Well, as normal as life can be when they've decided to house DSK in a building next to one of our local subway stations.

ABD now also Mrs.

Look what just happened! 

It's been a busy week! More photos to come, but here's one that gets the point across.

We still need to figure out celebrations with NY friends and Belgians, as well as the apparently complicated process of turning a maiden name into a middle name, but official and unofficial-but-delicious celebrations have happened with Belgian and American family in New York. That man in the photo, he's my husband!

Important life update: "Maybe the dingo ate your baby" edition

While I still have trouble saying the word "fiancé," having grown up with "Seinfeld," I've now got one of those. Any and all poodles, dachshunds, and (a girl can dream) llamas Jo and I acquire will be legitimate. And I will soon be 100% madame. Woohoo!

Not new information, but I figured I'd wait to announce this here until making it known off-blog, something that took a while in part because I was busy battling ants and a demolition team in my old dorm room. At any rate, there will be a dinner for close family, then (eventually, better get on that...) some kind of party for friends.

While I see how one would have been something, I have neither the time nor the inclination to organize a theatrical display with Flemish and Ashkenazi-American motifs in equal measure. There will be no glass broken with a clog, no huppah constructed from leeks. No tradition-invention whatsoever - Flavia would approve!

I may - stop the presses - get a manicure, and will most definitely wash my hair with the good conditioner, but otherwise I'm not going in for the bridal primping (no "Japzilian," thanks, but what a name), workouts (at most some jogging around especially lap-dog-filled neighborhoods), or diet (limited time in Paris + le boulanger des Invalides = I expect to be if anything larger than usual in the photos). I have instead channeled all 'zilla urges into the shoe purchase of the century, namely going into the Repetto store in Saint Germain - a space I'd always looked upon as a museum, a shrine, but not a shop - and buying a pair of 1920s-ish silver shoes. (These, but in silver.) The shoes cost more than the (also-1920s-looking) dress, which strikes me as appropriate considering that I'm likely to get a whole lot more wear out of them than a dress that, while not precisely a gown, is off-white and "bridal" (says my mother, and I fully agree), and while no doubt purchased as a sundress by some Parisiennes, is going to be my wedding dress. It could get lint on it!

North Sea, Red Hook

Mrs. Richards: I expect to be able to see the sea.
Basil Fawlty: You can see the sea. It's over there between the land and the sky.
MR: I would need a telescope to see that!
BF: Might I suggest you move to a hotel closer to the sea! Or preferably in it. - Fawlty Towers

I just jogged to the sea, from a hotel that, according to the map, looked reasonably near to it - 5.8 km each way, which wouldn't include the various times I got lost in what were probably private residential complexes. The return trip was a walk, if that, culminating in the purchase of bread and water (what else?) at a supermarket. (The other possible end point of the run, the HEMA, was ruled out because it's too early for the HEMA to be open, and nothing is sadder than a closed shop full of cheap-chic Dutch housewares and pajama pants.) Because Dutch street names are impossible to remember (exception: Wassenaarseweg), I wrote down the streets that led towards the sea, finding only some of them, but impressing myself with a sense of direction that did ultimately get me to a beach. (I also followed the yellow-haired families on bicycles, figuring that was probably where they were headed.)

During the adventure, I of course was armed with soothingly English-language podcasts. On Fresh Air, Terri Gross was interviewing Joseph O'Neill, the author of Netherland. I'd been curious about the novel, plus it seemed appropriate. O'Neill was describing a scene from the book based on his own experience, and let's just say it sounded familiar to me as well: failing one's driving test at the Red Hook, Brooklyn site after driving around the block just fine, for reasons that are never quite established. While my second fail was definitively about hitting the curb while parking, the first...?

According to O'Neill, immigrants to NY who arrive after having driven "without incident" their whole adult lives in their home countries regularly fail at the Red Hook location. The answer, he explained, is to go take your test in the suburbs - Rita's suggestion, and, I've now learned in an unexpected way, a feasible one. Still, it was very, very strange to be in such an unfamiliar place - and the Netherlands really does not seem like anywhere I've ever been, at all - listening to someone hold forth at length about the utter humiliation of driving around that block in Red Hook and not getting a license out of it. On the very remote off-chance that the author of a book read publicly by Obama ever finds this post, I'll just add that they enjoy failing native New Yorkers there as well.

Not under my roof

-How much do college students 'owe' parents who pay (some or all of) their tuition, room, and board, in terms of acting in accordance with their rules/principles/values/hopes (on issues including but not limited to: what to major in, whether to drink, under what circumstances if any to have sex, whether to go to church, and whether to live in a coed dorm room), even when not literally under their roof? Because that's what parents say, right? 'Not under my roof.' How far does this metaphorical roof extend? PG and I began discussing this in the comments to my post about roommates, and I'd like to continue the discussion in the comments here.

-Related question: why are college programs for students not just out of high school referred to as for "adults"? What does that make 18-22-year-olds? Less mature on average than 35-year-olds married with jobs and kids, fine, but are undergrads children? (No snide comments from grad students, please.)

-Hmm. A commenter claims that Birthright Israel trip leader Momo's promise to pay for the Israeli honeymoon of any couple that meets on one of his trips went unfulfilled. Anyone know anything about this?

-Know how I failed my first driving test? Today was my first lesson after the unfortunate day, and turning the car has started to seem slightly, but slightly, less daunting. After failing the test, I started thinking about my ability to turn corners as a pedestrian. And - as Jo, who's watched me do this, prompted to look for skill or lack thereof, can confirm - I am hopeless at that as well, always overshooting the mark, getting squeezed out of my lane, swerving when utterly sober. If one needed a Walker's License to navigate crowded New York sidewalks, I'd have failed that one as well. Of course, a small woman walking around in ballet flats cannot, like a car, inflict damage by jerking in the wrong direction. That said, I do have hope about the driving, and think it might well exceed the walking, because my main issue as a pedestrian is that 85% of humanity (99.99% in Belgium) is taller and just generally bigger than I am, and can't see me coming, making cars something of an equalizer. Not that it felt like that today in Chinatown, surrounded on all sides by trucks, one of which was, according to the sign, filled with Scandinavian fish. But in normal traffic situations, there is hope.