Let me begin by saying that we did not get arrested this weekend, or even pulled over, so those of you who love me so much that you were counting out rosary beads for me all weekend: thanks, and you can stop now.

Jacob and Lisa’s wedding was beautiful. Gorgeous location, many tears. (Lisa cried, and her mom cried — entirely appropriate. I also cried — less appropriate, but I am a sucker for other people crying.) And while their ceremony site at a trailhead in Tahoe was perfect for them, I wonder if they really researched their options. For example, how about getting married at a castle which provides a trained owl that swoops down to deliver your rings? (The website doesn’t say so but I think that right after the owl delivers the rings, Dumbledore comes back from the dead to congratulate you and fake-battle Snape.)

I’m not backseat wedding here, I’m just saying: trained owl. What’s a wedding without falconry? It’s something to think about.

I got the new wheels smogged yesterday and was planning to head to the DMV today, but it turns out all California DMVs are closed today by edict of the Governor. Now, Schwarzenegger has hated me ever since I told him I wasn’t that into Total Recall, but I was expecting him to come at me by taking away my state parks or tearing down my local library to build a prison or something. Attacking me through my car? That’s personal.

No DMV access means that Gene and Jason and I will be riding up to Tahoe this weekend in a car with no license plates and no title. I mean, a title exists in the system, we just don’t have a hard copy. This should be interesting, especially since Gene and I recently watched 10 Rules for Dealing With the Police and we’re all stoked on the idea of exercising our rights and stuff. Any cop who sees our license-plate-free ride is gonna pull us over, and our lack of cooperation is probably going to get us arrested.

I guess I should have warned Jason about all this before we offered him a ride but, jeez, I can’t think of everything.

We are vehicular!

Yes, gentle readers, my intended and I are once again owners of four-wheeled motorized transport and boy, does it feel good.

Owning a car feels, to me, like the essence of being an American. It’s something about having a little walled-off space that’s all your own — very different from being on the subway, or even on a motorcycle. We are a nation of delineations: state lines, suburban fences. In other countries you get the commons, or public right-of-way across private land; here we have our own personal homesteads and the right to shoot you if you come in uninvited. For better or for worse, to be American is to take a wall seriously.

So it seems appropriate that we’re planning to take this car on a tour of these United States for our honeymoon. Our own car, the open road, off to discover America…it’s mythic. Epic. Perfect.

(Of course, Jacob and Lisa will be mountain climbing in Nepal on their honeymoon, which is just slightly more epic, maybe, but never mind. Route 66, baby! Give me a heart-shaped vibrating bed and a dinosaur statue made from cheese and I am a happy woman.)

Our realtor on our most recent home tour looked like a Disney prince. He was all square angles — square jaw, square shoulders — and appeared hand-drawn. I kept waiting for him to burst into song. He could rhyme “sweeping views” with “HOA dues,” “Victorian charm” with “costs a leg and an arm,” and “second bedroom” with “closet we’re trying to pass off as a second bedroom.” Somebody get me Iger — I smell an elevator pitch!

Incidentally, you ever looked at a picture of Robert Iger? He also kind of looks like an animated figure.

Last night I watched Michele and Katy take a swathe of fabric and make a dress out of it. It was pretty astonishing. I’d like to learn to sew (and pin patterns straight, and cut fabric, neither of which proved to be among my current talents) but where would I put the sewing machine?

It’s this ongoing argument in my head. Move to Alameda, learn to sew (/have space in which to sew) adorable summer dresses. Stay in the city, take the bus over to Ambiance in Noe Valley and buy my adorable dresses off the rack. Move to Alameda, grow my own garden. Stay in the city, hang out in parks maintained by other people. Move to Alameda, be an easier visiting distance from our many East Bay friends. Stay in the city, hang around the house, eavesdrop on my neighbor’s conversations, and pretend they’re talking to me.

It seems like the city panders to my extreme laziness. But maybe that’s not a trait I want to encourage in myself.

Our Dr. Doolittle neighbor works at an extremely fancy bar downtown and last night we went to visit him at work. He saved us a table by the window and when we arrived, proceeded to ply us with champagne, wine and martinis, exciting appetizers and an enormous plate of dessert samplers. All free.

Just before that, we went and looked at a couple of apartments for sale in the neighborhood, neither of which was as nice as our current place. Then we go out and our current building manager floods our faces with free delightfulness. It’s like the universe is trying to tell us we’re better off staying where we are.

Universe, I don’t know whether it was the crab slider or the enormous tiramisu that did the trick, but I am beginning to think you might be right about this.

I just glanced outside and saw my building manager standing in the yard with his hand stretched out. He stood there for a long time — thirty seconds, maybe? — until I started thinking “How long does it take to figure out it’s not raining?”

And then a blue jay landed on his hand! Which was clearly the point, because he exhibited zero surprise. They looked at each other for a few long, psychically intense moments, and then the bird flew off.

I think my building manager might be Dr. Doolittle.