Last night my father called to tell me a) that I "sounded tired," which he does every time he talks to me and which usually tempts me to remind him that I don't have time to take a nap every day. Like some people. Who, I've been told have always done that and who also, I recall, used to walk around their offices in their stocking feet and then leave at about 4 p.m. - at the latest. He also told me b) that my wedding planner, Michelle, had been nominated for some kind of wedding planning award for the category "Best Wedding in the Worst Circumstances." You may recall the streams and rivers that materialized in the front yard, or the flattened shrubbery left by the massive busses. The busses that people puked in. Or, you may not. Because of the mojitos. Today is the four-month anniversary of that blessed event - the rain, the dancing, the speeches that weren't scheduled til midnight, for better or for worse.

Happy anniversary, J. Despite having to give up the melodic cadence of my Italian-American last name, I love being Mrs. McDuna.