About a month ago, Sean decided to grow a beard. I don't know why, exactly: maybe because it was winter and it seemed a manly thing to do---Man freezing! Man grow hair! Scarf for little girl, man say!---or perhaps it was a daring sociological expose into the general public's reaction to hirsuteness, who knows? Maybe he just got lazy and decided he was going to stop shaving. (More than likely that last one.)

The day was magical, no doubt in part because of all the wonderful vibes and love sent along by the Internet. This is one of the very few pictures we have so far---taken by Sean's best man, Tony, who was, as I understand it, quite a hit at the wedding---but I thought I'd post it quickly from the Melbourne Library (what, isn't the library the first place you'd go on your honeymoon?) just in case you were wondering how it all went. As you can tell, it went pretty splendidly.

Well,  I'm all ready for my trip to the Bahamas on Tuesday. I've bought three different kinds of sunscreen, a package of Dramamine---or Wal-Dram II, as the Walgreens store brand is ominously named (can't you just imagine a pompous stockbroker named Wally Dram the Second?

Internet, you have been hiding something from me. Seriously, you've been holding out!  I mean, you must have been, because why else would I have made it 29 years---much of them spent living IN ASIA---without ever having owned or used a rice cooker?

That's right, a rice cooker. Have you ever used a rice cooker? Because I used one for the first time last night, and I have to say, I don't think I'm ever going to be the same again.

So I turned 29 on Sunday, which kind of sounds like one of those fake ages no-one really is. I mean honestly, 29? That's like the punchline to a bad joke some grizzled cashier at the drugstore tells her friends over a Jack and coke: "oh, just turning 29 again!" on her 52nd and 53rd and 54th birthdays. Before I turned 29, I didn't actually know anyone who was 29, and it almost seemed like maybe I'd just skip right over from 28 to 30. Because really, when it comes down to it, what's the point of 29?

Not to get all English major on you, but do you know that poem It Is Time To Tidy Up Your Life? Don't worry, there's no reason you should; it was written by this random British poet in the 1970s whose name was Brian Patten and it's not a particularly spectacular poem or anything, but I've always loved the title. Often, when I'm embarking on some sort of project that involves improving or ameliorating myself in some shape or form, it pops into my head just like that.

We dipped our feet into the wedding planning pool this weekend by starting the process of trying to find a church.

The funniest thing about the day is that it starts out badly. Having finally mastered the stovetop espresso pot in our tiny kitchen, I pour inky liquid into two tiny cups and hold them up proudly for Sean. On my first sip, I realize I've mistaken the salt for the sugar. There are two ways to realize that you've mistaken the salt for the sugar and this way is the worst one. As I'm spitting the briny mouthful back into the sink, the toast pops up, black and smoldering. Just like that, our first breakfast in Rome is ruined.

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