3/31/2005

Email conversation with Dad, no corrections made, we are bored.

Cara Rotondaro to Fred

Hello. How are you doing? love, your daughter

Fred Rotondaro to me

Hi. Doing great how's bout you. The dad

Cara Rotondaro to Fred

I'm bored it's rainy.

Fred Rotondaro to me

Based on your first email , I never would haveguessed you. Werebored. The dad

Cara Rotondaro to Fred

do you have vin's address in DC?

Fred Rotondaro to me

I don't my darling child.

Cara Rotondaro to Fred

I got it. I think I'll be sending him some nudist colony brochures.

Fred Rotondaro to me

Considering his approach with women, some nudist colony pictures might be the best he can expect.
The dad

Cara Rotondaro to Fred

You think? He'd probably appreciate that then.

I'm starving.

love, your most amazing daughter

Fred Rotondaro to me

Send to him
You are amazing.
Eateateat
The d

Almost April 1st, would you like some cuddle gear?

What is it with the distrustful internet people? I was just trying to send my darling brother some newsletters, invites, and other publications on the www.cuddleparty.com website, and of course they tell me that they'll have to send a confirmation email to determine that people aren't signing up other people without their permission.

Why would anybody do that??!! Why would anybody NOT want to know more about cuddle parties, and perhaps even attend one?

3/30/2005

We should have won. No, really, we should have.

The other day as I was making my daily trek from Orange to Chatham County I started flipping through radio stations one by one after NPR started rattling on about something I knew I should care about, but didn't. I flipped and flipped then suddenly paused and flipped back and holy shit, it was Wilson Phillips hit single "Hold On."

I'd had some coffee and hadn't heard the song in years, so I cranked it up and started singing like one is wont to do on her morning commute, wishing that the windows were a little bit tinted and that guy would stop looking over like, you know, you should be embarrassed, shouldn't you?

When "Hold on" came out I was at exactly the right age to think it was the best, most meaningful song I'd ever heard, and would prance around my room in whatever "cool" attire I'd chosen to adorn myself with thinking about the importance of being a teen in the 90's.

Needless to say, I didn't know what cool was. However, during my ninth grade year, myself and two friends did something that, to this day, I believe to be one of the coolest and most hysterical events of my young life.

The faculty announced that the school would have a lip-syncing contest at the next dance. Rather than worry about what we'd wear, whose parents would drive, and all the other crucial issues, my best friend Jennifer and I got down to thinking about entering the contest, and how we'd win.

The answer: we'd don short skirts, practice synchronized dance moves, and enlist the help of our good friend Matt Barbee to become the popular band Wilson Phillips.

We visited the thrift store and organized costumes. We memorized words. We laughed and laughed in anticipation of the most clever and amusing skit ever known to man.

When the night arrived, we were ready. The crowd didn't know our tactics, but as we entered the stage and began our performance, it became clear. As Jennifer and I, dressed as Chynna Phillips and Wendy Wilson, began to lip-sync to the familiar melody of "Hold On," Matt, dressed in a gigantic dress remained off to the side, disinterested, holding a full grocery bag. He was Carnie. I know - I know! It's not nice to make fun of the then overweight member of Wilson Phillips, but funny? Oh, it was funny. At one point Matt grabbed an entire loaf of bread and just started chowing down on stage.

We should have won.

When I hear the song today, not only do I sing, but I tell anyone who hasn't heard the story of how Jennifer, Matt and I dreamt up the most creative lip-sync performance but didn't win. Some girls from the tenth grade won, if I remember correctly, doing a lame rendition of "Respect" or something like that. Typical.

I still have some emotional attachment to the song, like any songs that get to you during those priceless teenage years. But I really can't take it seriously. The visions of Matt, the bread, the sounds of laughter are too much. I know it's wrong to make fun of people but it was a shining, sparkling moment, a memory of youth, of being cool.

3/28/2005

Showertime

J took a shower this weekend that spanned roughly 40 minutes. So when he proclaimed, at 8:05 or so last night, that he wanted to shower before we made our way to our 8:30 engagement, I, naturally, became nervous. Then I gave up. I love him, and he loves showers.

3/25/2005

A log cabin, or tent, would be preferable

The people who make showers - do they make them in an especially convoluted fashion as to trap all the mold in their 483,983 little compartments of hell? Or it that really how they must be built? Because while just cleaning mine, I found the mildew in little pockets and tubs of the door, in all the cracks between tiles, that left me wondering if that design is really the most brilliant.

I have today off, and rather than moseying around the art museum or seeing a movie that seem like wonderfully cultural, independent, worthwhile things to do on a day off, I decided to stay home and clean the house. First of all, it's Good Friday and I decided a rather somber day deserved a somber chore. Secondly, not that our house is an absolute pigsty, but we've slacked on the general maintenance, hence the mildew, and a few spots on the rug. That doesn't sound so bad, but when you really get down there, on your hands and knees and all - well, I hate it. I don't have some crazy dillusions that housework should be fun, but I didn't think it would be so bad. We're going to have to keep up better week to week - not let it get to this point - otherwise I'll have to pack up and leave. You think I'm kidding.

3/22/2005

When I was in Miami everyone drank frosty alcoholic drinks

While home again this weekend becoming enchanted by florists and caterers (seriously - enchanted. I want these people to move into my house and greet me every morning with a fresh bouquet and espresso station) I became very intrigued by my mother's shiny blue-covered South Beach diet book, which she now swears by. I've always had it out for that kind of diet, proclaiming that the only way you'll ever get anywhere with weight loss is moderation and exercise. I still believe that but alas, lately, can't practice it, so I decided that the South Beach diet was going to work like magic for me. You know, get rid of the slight poundage I believe I've gained since J and I started nesting and kick-start me into high gear. I used to know how to be healthy! South Beach will help me learn again.

Now before you even get started on the "you don't need to go on a diet crusade" let me say this: I know what it means when it takes me more than five minutes to get my pants (that just fit me the other week, I swear!) on. Enough said.

Anyway, it's going pretty well so far with one exception and that's the thing about these diets - you can't do certain things. Like, um, drink beer. Ok, ok. I'll get by without that one at least for a while. I need to cut down on that anyway. Who needs a wretched headache and a gut? Not me. But in the first two weeks of this diet you don't touch alcohol or sugar or bread or anything, and the annoying part is - sure, I can do this. But only if I live in a sheltered world with only myself. At the first invitation to have dinner or a drink, I'm finding it really difficult to say "No. I'm on South Beach." Because that seems like a thing a loser said. I'm no loser. I just want to be slim for bathing suit season.

My solution is to put myself on the best version of that diet that I can manage. And really, I think I'm doing an excellent job. Will it work? I'll tell you this - it will work more than the cheese and crackers at midnight diet or the search the pantry in a frenzy looking for chocolate diet. It will work better than those.

3/20/2005

To the people who broke in

Hey, people who broke into my car Thursday night. FIRST of all, yeah yeah, maybe I shouldn't have left my car in an unlit parking lot but it was St. Patrick's day and I'm telling you, I did the right thing by not driving home. The reward for my good behavior was the big hole in my back window and glass all over the seats. The nice police man told me that people who break in usually are just looking for "quick" stuff but come on! Two David Bowie CD's?? Man, I LOVED those CD's. Was it really worth it? My guess is no. I'm over it now - the window is fixed and I've learned my lesson, but as a result I had to take J's Saturn to D.C. this weekend. He's got kick-ass satellite radio, and so on the way home I was really getting into "The Globe" by Big Audio Dynamite, a song I haven't heard in years, and because I got so into it I missed the 85 exit and was stuck on 95 all the way to US 64 all the way to Raleigh. That's no fun, punks, and when you get down to details, it's your fault. I just got home and am tired and cranky but I'm going to have some wine, and take note: I really hope you're enjoying that David Bowie. You better the hell enjoy that. That's some damn good music.

3/17/2005

A salute to the Irish and their God-forsaken roads

It's been a while since I've written and I decided that there is nothing better to kick things off again than St. Patrick's Day, especially considering the only proper ways to celebrate the day are wearing green and drinking beers and some crazy people eat corned beef, which isn't bad, but I'll just take the beer, thank you.

Instead of write about what's happened over the past couple of days, or why I've been so bad about updating my blog, I thought I'd tell an Irish tale, titled, "The time my father tried to drive us through Ireland" OR "How the Rotondaro family nearly perished on a road fit only for goats and bicycles."

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone!


The summer after my junior year in college, my family planned a two-week trip to Ireland. The plan: fly into Dublin, drive south, up the west coast, and then back to Dublin before leaving. It was incredibly exciting. My parents even gave me incredibly effective sleeping pills for the plane ride over, so all I remember are a few words to Vinnie and then deep, dreamless sleep. We were there in a flash it seemed. Later my brother and I engaged in almost physical fights over who would swallow the last of the magical pills when we were both fighting horrible jetlag and couldn't get to bed at a proper hour, but that's another story.

We arrived, well-rested and piled our luggage into the tiny little car we'd be driving for the remainder of our stay. As you know, the crazy people in that part of the world drive on the other side of the road, and so the driver's side is opposite what it is in America. Driving stick, which most everybody does, proves a real challenge for those not used to it because you are not only on the other side of the car on the other side of the road but using your other hand for shifting.

My father, however, was in remarkably good spirits and ready to take on the challenge. He'd driven us around the countryside when we were just small children on another visit we'd made, and didn't see any reason why he couldn't manage it again.

Here's a reason - We were driving, happy, my father was singing, even. He was belting out a jaunty little traditional Irish tune called "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," when BAM! There was a loud noise and some friction on the passenger's side of the car. That's where my mom was sitting, near the side of the road, and this was the first of many incidences during which she feared for her life.

He'd hit another car, specifically, another car's side mirror because he'd been driving too close to the side of the road - typical, because as the driver in Ireland you're sitting close to oncoming traffic and people new to this tend to steer towards the edge of the road rather than close to the middle.

We didn't go back and check on the car we'd hit. We did laugh a little and excused my father this time because we got it - it was hard! He drove on, but the car was now silent, the singing ceased.

It wasn't long before a steady thump began on the left side of the car as though we were driving over something over and over again. Turns out, we were. My father was so far over to the left that he was driving into and over each house's driveway, including the separations in between. We were being thrown up and down as he cruised over each raised section of pavement, but we didn't say a thing. Somewhere in the common-sense part of our brains, we realized that saying anything negative about this man's driving at this moment might be the end of it all. He might take his hands off the wheel and give up. As it was, he was visibly tense, his body tight and leaning forward. We remained quiet except for the nervous giggle that escaped from me or my brother every now and then. We couldn't help it. We were thinking about dying on a foreign road.

It went on for a while before the situation intensified. We entered a more woodsy stretch and tree limbs began whipping through my mother's window. Some of them hit her in the face and some of them were very large. My father looked over at her every now and then, quickly, a nervous look upon his face as though he was not the one who had any control over all this. A lone tear fell down my mother's cheek and still, no one said a word.

The experience, as all such stressful experiences must, ended when we finally pulled into the long, winding driveway of the historic inn where we were to spend the night. When we understood that we were off the main roads, so narrow and full of cattle, we breathed easier, we started to smile. We spoke. We made fun of my father. He could take it now because we had survived, the family vacation would continue although there'd been a moment there when each of us had imagined it crashing down around us in a shower of shattered car parts and yelling.

We were safe. And then, horribly, we weren't. Caught up in the joy of the moment, my father had completely forgotten where we were and let the car drift over to the right side of the road where a woman and her many children were driving the opposite direction, and right where they should have been. It happened quickly - she saw us and we saw them and both cars came to a screeching halt, the nose of our car right against theirs. As our Irish friend drove off, screaming obscenities, we took a deep breath, realizing that once again, we'd escaped. We drove on to the inn, had lunch and a beer, and my father didn't set foot in the driver's side of that car again that trip. We found my mother was much better suited for the job. We explored great, beautiful cliffs, and old pubs, met the kindest people, and visited the historic sites and still the best story is the drive from the airport.

3/07/2005

Better than any drug

We met at a sports bar on Franklin Street yesterday afternoon to watch the Carolina/Duke game and, of course, root wholeheartedly for Carolina. I'd just gotten some Carolina gear, a t-shirt (I have gym shorts too but I'm not wearing those out to the bar, no thank you) and was proudly sporting it as Katey, Carissa, Kelly, Justin and I grabbed a corner of space and ordered some buckets of beer and also some beers that were in glasses as big as buckets.

We were wearing flip-flops, it was just warm enough for them, that kind of day. I don't know if it was the weather, the buckets, the fact that it was Sunday and the end to a great weekend, but I started caring like I've never cared before about the game and who won. Since Justin and so many of our friends are involved somehow with UNC, that's always the natural choice, but when it gets down to it I just start to think about basketball in general terms. I'm going to watch "basketball" but really am going out to socialize. This game was better than any other I'd seen, with Carolina getting the two needed points just as the last seconds were counted down, just as the bar was getting ready to explode or sink into a terrible depression. People were on chairs and saying "fuck you" to the television. People were holding their breath and making friends and collectively loving and hating life with each passing moment.

But we won and the bar exploded. People erupted, a bell was rung loudly and for a long time and I screamed and screamed. We paid our bills and got out on Franklin to see cars driving slowly down the road beeping their horns, people giving hi-fives to strangers and cheering and general happy chaos. We chose a bar and waited for all our friends to gather so we could have a proper victory celebration. They arrived and beers were bought and total strangers got involved. We watched the local news on television. They showed pictures of just down the street from where we had settled. A mass of fans had started bonfires and were chanting. It was a party in the street and we kept saying, "We've got to go there!" but then someone would order a drink or another friend would join the group and we realized we were happy where we were, or, if we didn't really realize it, that very fact caused us to stay.

It was a huge feeling, being so elated about something I just learned to really care about, and I don't know quite what it is. Being happy that a team wins a game is an interesting phenomenon. Somehow you get personally involved - personally hurt if they don't make it, and personally uplifted when they do. And connected. When the game was over and we had just finished our yelling session and were wrapping things up at the first bar, an inebriated young man talked with us while paying his bill. "This," he yelled, "this feeling is BETTER THAN ANY DRUG!" He didn't really mean the beer, so his point was well taken.

At the end of the night J drove Kelly and Carissa back to our place and I claimed I wanted to stay out for a while. Ten minutes later I called him, having changed my mind. I was hungry and tired. I'd been out all weekend it seemed, and the weekend had come to a very fulfilling end. We were all asleep by 10.

The weekend's activities provided some unwavering truths: I have a wonderful guy, this will be a good week to take it easy, and I have proved myself worthy to wear my new t-shirt.

3/06/2005

I know my body is young because

I know my body is young because when I stop at the grocery store, once again, for a late night snack - oh...say, macaroni and cheese after a night of drinking I think, "Hey, that's alright!! I've got TIME to work this bad habit off. Poor nutrition today, a new start tomorrow!"

3/04/2005

Happy birthday Christy! Cell phones are trouble.

I'm not sure if today is my friend Christy's birthday, but I do know that she will be celebrating at the second annual birthday bash. This party last year (the first annual) was monumental for a couple reasons. First, almost immediately upon arriving I went to use the bathroom. Nothing unusual about that, but as I'd placed my brand new, picture-taking cell phone in the back pocket of my tight, low-fitting jeans, the phone (pre-toilet-use-by-me) went flying into the basin and sunk to the bottom like a sad, silver, expensive piece of excrement. My immediate response was to grab it and run it under the faucet (right, because more water was a good idea). The phone proceeded to beep through the night, and then die. I know this only because Christy told me. I left the phone there to annoy her as she tried to sleep long after J and I left. Why did I forget it? Well, that might be because halfway through the party I started getting pretty tired and decided it might be time me for one of my famous drinking naps, which are always preceded by the statement, "Don't worry, I'll be up in a few minutes." I got on the bed with Christy's dog, snuggled close, and passed out. Little did I know that due to the low-fitting jeans my ass was showing, but you know, just a little bit as our friend Brian explained to me MONTHS later. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THEN???" I had to ask him when I learned of this atrocity, to which he responded "It was cute!" to which I responded, "Doesn't matter should have told me!" and then proceeded to bring up the fact that he'd been a bad friend in the matter of keeping my body covered instead of checking it out and laughing at me every time we'd go out. Finally, right before he finished up grad school and moved away, Brian decided that I might need some real payback for his actions and after a few (hundreds of?) drinks, he showed me his ass as we were leaving a bar. "Now we're even," he said. Indeed, we were more than even.

Without Christy's birthday, I never would have had a cell phone in the toilet story. Curiously, the one I bought as a replacement almost exactly one year ago died this week in some sort of sick anniversary celebration. I also never would have gotten to see some major booty while out on Franklin Street. Happy birthday, girl. Bottoms up.

3/03/2005

Wake up, roll out of bed, throw on a pair of shorts

I realize I've been talking about this a somewhat excessive amount lately, but I can't wait for it to get warm.

It's taken me a long time to admit this freely. I always prided myself on liking the winter. I still do. Snow, of any sort, still sends me into childlike, frenzied anticipation - so much so that if it begins at night, I awake the next morning, tip toe to the window (so as not to disturb the magic) and only peek through the curtain to what lays outside - is it? - could it be? - AW DAMNIT! Most of the time, that's the response down here in good old North Carolina. People get way more excited about the harsh weather (except hurricanes, those are simply a completely destructive part of life) but true snow days are a rarity. And come on southern people, I'm talking about more than a dusting. A SNOW DAY where you stay inside because you really can't move your car. Not you don't know how to move your car in the slick road covering, you can't move your car.

That's my first point. I mean, if we aren't going to have real snow and snow days I'm ready for summer - or at least spring which is just as good down here. Spring and fall are marvelous seasons of glorious blue skies and cool, comfortable nights. Even the hottest days of summer are bearable because everyone has pools and the bars have decks and sidewalk tables.

During my four years in Boston I only remember two or three instances where I thought to myself, "Good God, I'm going to die," because of the freezing weather which proves to me this: I was crazy. I mean, it's fucking cold in Boston! We used to bundle up in large coats, scarves, hats, and then waddle on down to the bar. We got so used to it that sometimes, after the tequila had warmed our extremities, we'd walk home. Sure, it was only a mile or so, but walk home in the winter in Boston. Crazy people.

I was just walking to get a salad from the pizza place down the block gasping at the extreme weather. I couldn't help exclaiming to Josephine when I got back in the office, "Man, it is COLD out there." Check the most reliable weather source online - current conditions, 43 degrees. 43! Looks like all Boston was good for was an education, a bunch of memories, great friends, and the love of a baseball team that finally won the World Series (no, J, it isn't wrong to love them just because I went to school there. You cheer for UNC, right?). But weather-wise I'm going to have to start at square one if I ever hope to live somewhere cold again. But life's short. Maybe that's not even an option.

In Boston, it snowed a lot, which was great, and when spring rolled around for one beautiful day, that was great day. Summer, although of course great by its very nature, wasn't as great. Not in Boston. It was just hot. Hot is good anywhere if you get into some nice summertime relaxing, but its best here. These are the best summers I think I've experienced, save the firefly-catching, school's out, vacations in Maine days of childhood.

I was walking today, like I mentioned before, to get my lunch and all of a sudden heard this blaring hip hop music from a nearby car. I looked over and saw a very white guy, windows down, just living it up, blaring his music for all of this quaint little town to hear. And I thought, "Man, summer better get here fast." Windows open. Bathing suit on under normal clothes. Flip flops. He wasn't wearing that, of course, but he got me thinking.

J has always said summer is his favorite because you just "wake up, roll out of bed, and throw on a pair of shorts." I'll have you know this is a blatant lie, because the day the boy gets up and puts on anything, shorts included, without taking a shower will be a truly extraordinary day. But I do like the idea. And I like talking to him about it. The feeling of slightly sunburned skin after a day swimming in the pool, or at the beach. Getting clean, and sleeping with just the sheets, waking up, rolling out of bed. It's more difficult now. It's cold. Just taking the dogs out requires multiple layers of clothing. But it's March 3. 28 days til April, and in this state, that's definitely a warm weather month. Chappy says we're going to pick the week with the most beautiful forecast, go out on a Thursday, wake up on that Friday, take it easy, and drink beers outside all day until all our friends can get off work and meet us. That's what I mean. It took me living here to realize that an agenda such as the one proposed for the most beautiful week in April is something worth treading through such cold, dreary months.