New York Minutes, Vol. 3: "Mrs. Who?"

“Hello Mrs. C--, may I please speak with your husband?”

“Who? My what? Sorry, you have the wrong... Oh! Yes, hold on...”

So went a number of phone conversations with hotel concierges in Mexico and Belize during the first two weeks of December.

Yes, we went through with it. Evidence on our photographers' blog.

But no, I'm not changing my name. I considered dropping my first name, but have decided that the status quo is just fine for now.

The wedding planning process was not unlike going on safari in Africa, where the goal is to nail the Big Five: the buffalo, the elephant, the leopard, the lion, and the rhino. In Weddingland, substitute the venue, caterer, florist, dj, and photographer. (Assuming, of course, that the groom has already been bagged.)

Some of the planning was fun (pink champagne tasting with the caterer); some not so much (vendor negotiations, first-ever migraine while getting measured for the dress).

And of all the advice I received, why did no one point out that we only needed about two-thirds as many invites as invitees? (What, you thought we would have worked that out ourselves?) Our 2008 grocery lists will be on very nice paper.

For my bachelorette party (“hen do” for you Brits), I was worried when Heidie first told me her idea: “You want to do a Sex & the City tour?” I responded, picturing us queuing for an hour for a cupcake with squealing women from the Midwest. (Not that there's anything wrong with women from the Midwest.)

“No,” she replied, “I thought we could do a Bader & the City tour!” We rented a delightfully embarrassing party bus, complete with strobe and neon, and met at my childhood apartment building, where the doorman I grew up with just happened to be on duty. We continued onto the sites of my various schools, jobs, doctors' offices, and other New York hotspots. It was surprisingly fun touring around Manhattan in such a vehicle, attracting a predictable combination of cheers and insults.

As for the wedding itself, it was a rockin' good evening, filled with cocktails, laughter, tapas, guests eating the centerpieces – you know, that old chestnut. It was the first time since my brief Cyndi Lauper phase in the mid-80s that I wore make-up - that level of frequency feels about right. It was also probably the first and last time that people would happily sit and watch Adrian and me dance, although I am convinced that his air guitar is competition-worthy. (Yes, of course we went to the US Air Guitar Championships this summer.)

And then two weeks of sunshine, punctuated by ceviche, beer, and sporadic realizations that we’d just committed to being together for the rest of our time on earth. A daunting but rather lovely prospect.

Adrian had planned the whole honeymoon as a surprise. What to pack? Bikini and a fur coat, of course - appropriate for all seasons. Sure enough, the hotel rooms that had air conditioning got a bit nippy. But the bikini was more useful on the best segment of the trip: three nights on a 35-foot catamaran tooling around the Belizean cayes, just us and a skipper, who would occasionally dive into the water and come back up with a lobster or conch that he'd cook for us. Who knew that barracuda burritos were so tasty?

We snorkelled, kayaked, and slept around some impossibly small islands, most uninhabited but for some pelicans. I thought I'd been to some remote places, but to see nothing on the horizon except a cluster of mangroves, flying fish, and waves breaking on the world's second-largest reef was quite an experience.

And now back to a chilly New York winter. Not that work hasn't been plenty interesting this year (mind the double negative): Those who recall my travails getting to Zurich last year will be pleased to learn that I made it back there with much less strife, although was so focused on getting the flights right that I found myself without a hotel room.

My UN team is starting to formulate recommendations in preparation for our mandate’s conclusion in June; in the meantime, my company has decided that it no longer needs a New York office because our investor relations team should be based in the financial capital of the world, Houston.

So I’ll soon be working from home full-time; any advice on this front in terms of either infrastructure or psychology would be much appreciated. For example, I recently heard of one man who would put on a suit and walk around the block before returning to his home office to start his day.

Upon conclusion of the UN mandate the plan is for me to rejoin the company virtually, working for the new policy and strategy team based in London, to help set that team up and disseminate all the good stuff I’ve learned in the past 18 months.

Which likely means a few trips back to London, where I still enjoy the man-on-the-street wit: Walking along Piccadilly during my last visit, a man shouted at me, “Glue sniffing!” This had me stumped until I remembered that I was wearing a t-shirt from my former London frisbee team, Bad Habits.

Thank you for all of your love and good wishes this year. Here’s to an even more joyous 2008.