The DNA test

I was on my way to meet Nooj for dinner this evening, when I got temporarily distracted by the conversation between the two women walking in front of me.
"You know what I did," one woman stated to her friend proudly, "you know that guy I went on a date with the other day? I got his DNA tested."
"WHAT?!" exclaimed her friend, (rightfully) surprised. "How?! Why?!"
"I got a brother-in-law who knows someone who can do it. And it's so easy to get someone's DNA, you know how it works."

There was a pause in the conversation, I can only assume her friend was as shocked as I was. But also, apparently, wondering the same question. Luckily, she asked it, before I inserted myself right into that conversation.
"But... why?!"
"Because you never know. If he's got something wierd-like, I'd rather know right now after the first date, right?"
I was horrified. Go on, friend, tell her off, I thought to myself, silently urging the friend to set this woman straight.
"Wow. You're the smartest person I know. I wish I could do the same."

That's actually what her friend said.

I did what, sadly, we have to do far too often in life. Just shook my head sadly and moved on.

The Nine Month Wedding

Its been a fairly crazy few weeks, but as I've long-since learnt, crazy can be a good thing. Perhaps the first thing I need to catch up on is the wedding party that Delta and I had. Yes, finally, almost a year after we actually got married, we had our wedding party.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Getting married for us was like childbirth - it took us nine months before we actually had a finished product wedding. But finally, there we were, friends and family all together, with a party to celebrate. Nothing elaborate, mind - but a party all the same, and (just like any blushing bride would say) one of the happiest days of my life.

With Jenny and Tres offering for us to hold the party at theirs, we had the loveliest loveliest setting we could have ever wanted.

And - with a chance stroke of luck that we rarely experience, after weeks of downpour, the sun reluctantly ventured out on exactly the right day.

So there we were, happy as peas in a pod.

The fam: What with Rohinton and Jeet now living in Bermuda, and the 'rents back in India, it warms my cockles every time I see this picture. (Delta didn't believe 'to warm the cockles' is a phrase so I googled it, and can confirm it's legitimacy.)

My nieces. They eyed Delta funnily for the first two days, until one of them finally burst forth over breakfast, "Why are you dressed like that if you're a pirate?!". She wanted the eye-patch and all. So we had to disappoint her by explaining the difference between 'pirate' and 'pilot'. Sigh.

Relationship advice

I was catching up with Metro yesterday afternoon.
"So, what's the latest in your dating life?" I asked him.
"Well, funny you should ask. I dated two guys this past weekend."
My eyebrows shot up. Two? Tell me more.
"One guy's a business fella. Swiss. Not that there's anything wrong with Swiss, but, you know, it's a different kettle of fish. And the other guy is a journalist at the New York Times."

I didn't miss a beat. "Go for the journalist." I said.
"Why? You don't like Swiss peops?"
"Nothing's wrong with the Swiss, silly. Just that the other guy is a journalist at NY Times. He's got to be interesting by default."


Metro thought about that for a bit.
"He uses a lot of exclamation marks, though."
What.
"Are you serious? I'm going to have to take everything back. No serious writer uses exclamation marks. Exclamation marks are only for teenage girls." (And African languages.)
"Teenage girls and gay men," Metro corrected.


I thought about that for a bit.
"He also uses capslock for emphasis," Metro added, laying all his doubts on the table.
"Does he dot his "i"s with hearts?" I asked, full of trepidation.
"He can't, luckily these are text messages."
"Go with the Swiss guy."

A Perfect Day

"Didn't you hear the minister?" Delta chided me yesterday, "during the ceremony, she confirmed that you're supposed to make me coffee every morning."
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously.
"Yep," he said, looking into the distance as though searching his own memory for confirmation, "and right after that, you said 'I do' ".
I scowled and pouted and generally made dramatic expressions until Delta realised it would be a far simpler task to just get out of bed and make his own coffee on himself.
"Make me one while you're at it?" I asked, grinning like a cheshire cat.

Welcome to the life of Ficali McDelta (nee McPipe).

The wedding ceremony was the shortest (and by that logic the sweetest) wedding ceremony I've experienced. Not that I've experienced that many, of course. It took all of ten minutes to wait our turn in City Hall. It took three more minutes for the minister to actually marry us.

"You do?" (to Delta)
"I do."
"You do?" (to me)
"I do."
There was a moment of faffing around with the rings.
("Delta, you're putting it on the wrong hand!"
"Crap! Yeah! Give me your other hand!"
Minister pretended not to witness this.)
But then, all of a sudden, there we were, as woman and hubby.

We were just leaving City Hall, when suddenly we were accosted by an entourage from New York Magazine.
"Hey there, can we do a photo op with you? We're doing an article on people who get married at City Hall!"
So of course we did our share to oblige the paparazzi. I mean, even people who choose to get married in City Hall like their fair share of glitz and flashing bulbs, you know. Update on this to follow if, by absolute fluke, we actually do make the it into the magazine.

And then we did what I think every New York couple should consider. We had our wedding as a picnic in Central Park. Green grass, blue skies, balmy air, close friends, it was absolutely perfect. Absolutely perfect.

The Day Before

Tomorrow, Delta and I promise ourselves to each other for ever.

Just like any other day, we'll wake up in the morning and bumble around and scratch our heads over whether to have blueberries on the cereal or not.

And then, we'll head down to City Hall with our erstwhile allies Gus and Doobie, and hold hands before Gawd and Law and Mankind (and minister and Gus and Doobie) and say "I do".

Which means, today is my last day as a single woman. What in the world should I do with my time?! I've already gone for a manicure-pedicure session, kissed Queen Jaffa to the point that she has taken to ignoring me, and eaten my lunch. I've already done my laundry and put anything wrinkled into an ironing pile to be ignored for the rest of the year. Nothing earth-shattering, as you can see. Nothing quite remarkworthy for one's last day as anything.

But ooh, the pressure!

With a wedding like this, who needs a honeymoon?

"That wasn't a very positive post," Delta remarked when he read my previous post about our cruise. And I guess he's right. Biased by my absolute abhorrence to the idea of five days of gluttony, I guess my description of the cruise wasn't quite as scintillating as it could have been.

But folks, don't get me wrong! A cruise might not be my cup of tea, but a wedding in Bermuda is a whole different kettle of fish. Not a thing could be faulted. I guess we might have just discovered our new retirement destination (well, until we go to Tuscany next year, anyway).

A Precipice of change

"Are you going to change your name?"
She blinked at me across the counter, kindly large eyes magnified through the thick glasses.
Huh?
"Are you going to keep your names, or change them?" She looked from Delta to me, and back again.

Delta, having known from the beginning that he wasn't going to change his name to become Delta McPipe, just sat in silence. I, on the other hand, was caught off guard, as I seem to be with most things in life.

I had to decide on the name change NOW??!

Early Friday morning, Delta and I headed over to the NYC Marriage Bureau in the City Hall, to apply for our marriage license. If you've never been to the building before, let me tell you, it's an enthralling juxtaposition of grandeur, romance, and just downright governmental bureaucracy.

As you approach the building, you pass through a sweep of towering, gothic mosaic arches. And enter into ornate, vaulted elevators which take you back into the 1930s. And your heart surges as you inhale the sheer grandeur of it all.

Until the elevator doors open to reveal the Marriage Bureau, which is probably situated in the most bureacratic office I have ever seen. Second only, of course, to the DMV. A long grey corridor, which led into a large grey room with a myriad of lines and counters. Line 1 to collect an application form. Line 2 to submit the completed form. Line 3 to pay the chashier. Line 4 to collect the license. And then, once you had the licence, that wasn't even the marriage. That just meant you were allowed to get married.

But the funny thing was, it wasn't dull and boring and lifeless like other bureacratic procedures are. In fact, the entire hall was full of happy couples, just engaged, or getting marriage licenses, or getting married. Holding hands and smiling at each other, full of life, love and hope for the future.

Delta and I stared in fascination at the sheer contrast of romantic idealism and bureacratic drudgery that inundated the room. Stared, that is, until I was rudely awakened from my reverie.

"Are you going to keep your names, or change them?"
Somehow, when reading the marriage bureau website, I had missed the line that said you had to decide on your name change right there when you applied for your license. My heart lurched. I didn't know yet. Didn't they understand that?
"Erm, do I have to let you know right now?
"Yes ma'am, or if you want to change your name in the future, you'll have to get married again."

I looked over at Delta, hoping he would have the answer. But he shrugged.
"Do whatever you feel comfortable with, Ficali. It's your name. Just go with your gut."

I felt my heart pouding in my ears. All my life, I had been Ficali McPipe. Was I really ready to change that? But even as I thought the question out in my mind, I heard myself say, "yes, I'm going to change my name please. I'm going to go with Delta's last name."

And then I sat in a stunned silence, absorbing what I had just committed myself too. I played the new name in my head. Ficali McDelta. I rolled it around in my mind, and on my tongue. Imagined what the new signature would feel like. Wondered whether I'd ever get used to having a new name, after 27 years of just being me. And yet, it just felt right, that we would have the same name. But before all these rhuminations had even had a chance to play themselves out, she was done, and had printed out our new license.

"Here - this is your marriage license, you have sixty days in which to get married."

I glanced down at it. Yep, there it was, unmistakably loud and proud. Ficali McDelta. We both looked at it, and beamed at each other.

And before we knew it, Delta and I were strolling out, hand in hand with silly grins across our faces, like all the other ridiculously happy couples in this ridiculously bureaucratic building.

Not quite married yet, of course. Not quite owning an apartment either, as a matter of fact. But inchingly closer, teetering at this precipice of change.

The world can change, between mouthfuls of salad

I'm not the sort of girl who ever craved the long white dress with tiaras and lillies. Or wanted to find an engagement ring in the middle of my dessert in a formal restaurant. Or daydreamed of a knight in shining armour, getting down on one knee.

But if you would have asked me a few years ago, I could have never in a million years guessed the moment would be in the middle of a perfectly normal afternoon, between mouthfuls of salad at the Cinema Cafe.

We had just come from looking at the apartment we wanted to buy one last time - and were full of self-re-affirmation of the choice we had made. Yes, this was the place we wanted to make our home. We strolled hand in hand around the block, perusing the new 'hood. Local deli? check. Dry cleaners? check. Pharmacy? check...

And we came to a stop outside the outdoor sidewalk tables of the cafe, inviting in the gentle afternoon sun.

"Lunch?"
"Absolutely, I'm famished!"
And it was there, between perfectly normal mouthfuls of salad,

"Do you think we should get married?"

I might have had a lettuce popping out of my mouth, even, and I quickly swallowed.
The question took us both equally by surprize. The spontaneity of the thought. The enormity of the decision. The excitement of everything else snowballing in our lives.

For the first time in weeks, swirling thoughts of brokers and interest rates and mortgages and floorplans suddenly shrank into a barely perceptible hum in a remote corner of my mind. This moment, this was big. This was no place for mundane thoughts like apartment-buying.

"Do you think we should get married?"
"Yeah."
"Me too."

We clasped hands across the table, and I distinctly remember thinking, I hope I don't knock the salt over and ruin the moment.

We smiled at each other in delight, newly bonded by this intimate secret, ours to cherish for the moment.
"Should we just walk down to the city court and sign the papers?"
"I couldn't think of a better way."

And with such simplicity it comes to be, folks, that yours truly is now effianced. On the road to betrothedom. Part of a gruesome twosome.

Who woulda' thunk.