Snowflakes in France

Reflections of a 20-something woman in publishing

Category: jane austen

Paper goods sorted out

I had a minor freak-out moment yesterday when I heard that one of my friends thought he wasn’t invited to the wedding because he didn’t get a save-the-date. Like any good bride, I immediately whipped out my guest list and the file that I printed address labels from to confirm that I had not forgotten him. And then I blamed USPS. Because how sad is it that he did not get to see how adorable Jon and I look on this save-the-date?!

*Note, the date is NOT April 18. That's a template.

OK, that’s not the only reason I was upset. He was the fifth person I’d heard of who didn’t get this in the mail. Who knows how many other people didn’t get it. So I sent around an email as a catch-all (with the pic! yay!) and all is now right with the world.

(In the end, the rumors were wrong. He did get the save-the-date; it’s on his fridge — awww. But a few friends thanked me for the e-STD anyway because they had either lost or never received the paper one.)

In other paper news, I ordered my invites earlier this week. Initially, I was disappointed that my mom preferred something classic without too much of that pretty design that I see on all the wedding blog invites. But in the end I’m very happy with it.

Here’s a sneak peak:

It’s very elegant and some how managed to match the save-the-date. How very blog worthy of me! And for those who are squinting to see the script at the bottom, it’s my very favorite author’s very silly character Miss Bates, who once said,

“It is such happiness when good people get together — and they always do.”

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Happiness, Bliss and a Homeless Man

We’re engaged. Gah!

I ordered the belt, and then he proposed about four hours later. I guess we were definitely on the same page, which is what I was going for, the ring is beautiful, and I still have a surprise for him! So I have no complaints (quite the contrary).

So, the story of the proposal…

As you know, the plan was to go English Country dancing. He knows me so well! But I screwed it up and brought shoes that would scuff the floor of their rented facility. Not allowed. I was a bit heartbroken, but we decided to go on another Tuesday, stopped by a bookstore and then came back to Hoboken.

Why don’t we walk along the water, it’s such a nice night, he said.

So we did. And then he took an abrupt right onto the pier.

We walked all the way to the end of this pier, and looked out on NYC

Well darling, he said, if we had gone English Country dancing tonight, I would have said that you had a very pleasant temperament, and you would have commented that the dance was nicely done. And I would say that although I may not have the annual income of a Mr. Darcy… (which is 20,000 a year, ha!) I feel that I can still provide for you. And I care about you very much, and love you, and Alice…

He got down on one knee…

Will you marry me?

Yes. Yes! Yes!

Did I know he was going to propose? It ran through my head that this would be a good setting, but I don’t think I actually believed it was going to happen. I was also slightly worried about how close the ring would be to the water, but luckily that was not a problem.

So we’re standing there blissfully in our own world, when a homeless man walks up.

Excuse me, he said, I just have to tell you that you are a beautiful couple. I saw you from all the way at the other end of the pier and you’re just glowing.

Thank you! (I probably started “glowing” even more at his comment).

I don’t know much about these things, I’m a homeless man, but you look like you’ll be very happy together. And thank you, for allowing me to tell you.

And he walked away. I don’t even know if he knew we had just gotten engaged. Talk about perfect validation.

The ring? Sorry, I was so caught up in our blissful state, I forgot to tell you about the gorgeous ring:

So sparkly!

I love it. So we went out for dinner, and called family and friends and had a lovely, overjoyful night.

A Country Dance

This, by the way, is called a country dance, after the French, contredanse. Not because it is exhibited at an uncouth rural assembly with glutinous pies, execrable Madeira, and truly anarchic dancing.

-Jane Austen from Becoming Jane

I’m going to a country dance class tonight! It was supposed to be a surprise, but Jon just couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Besides, he had to tell me to bring an extra pair of “very clean” shoes, which sounds suspicious.

So he told me that he had arranged for us to take a class in Greenwich Village that embodies that famous Jane Austen tradition. A dance. With lots of bowing and walking, as Jon likes to describe it.

I’m pretty sure that he’s trying to think of some witty banter to use during the dance. Hahaha. It’s going to be great.

A restless state of in-between

I have such a short attention span. I find something right in one part of my life and want everything else to immediately line up accordingly.

My current situation is lovely. I went to see a Saturday matinee on Broadway with a friend, and spent Sunday browsing odd little vintage and costume boutiques. I made ravioli cassorole that should last me at least until Wednesday, and ended the evening with a glass of wine and about 30 pages of Emma — my favorite Jane Austen book — before chatting to Jon and then falling asleep. Pretty typical weekend.

But here I am, Monday morning and it’s a snow day, which leaves me with nothing to do except contemplate my existance. Which is to say, find fault with my current situation. My room is a small disaster with too many shoes and not enough closet. I’m aching for a dog — it’s been five years since I’ve lived with one and at this stage of desperate longing, every mutt on the street sets off some dreamy soundtrack in my head as I resist reaching for him in a violation of the New Yorker way. But how could I possible condemn such an innocent creature to this room or expect my roommates to accept such a change?

Thus, I must move. But I can’t move — I don’t have quite enough money. And even if Jon were to get a place with me, then we’d have to decide on the city. (Although I think I might actually be somewhat successful in persuading him toward Hoboken) In any case, I can’t move until at least the summer because who wants to take on a move when a foot of snow could suffocate every street across the East coast on any given Monday?

I’m stuck here, in a restless state of in-between, a place that wouldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t so looking forward to the next best thing.