I declare war

Listen up Matt B. - if you think by starting a blog you've come anywhere close to approaching the level of my supreme awesomeness, well, you might just have another think coming.

1)I have a dedicated audience of, oh, say...nine or so daily readers who will kick your ass with their devotion and comment-leaving capabilities.
(SECRET NOTE TO NINE OR SO DAILY READERS: LEAVE COMMENTS THAT DISPLAY YOUR WIT AS WELL AS YOUR LOYALTY TO ME! FORCE MY DAILY PONDERINGS UPON FRIENDS AND STRANGERS! I'VE GOT TO WIN, HERE!)

2)If you didn't want the world to know about that time you draped a blanket around your shoulders and sang "Today" by Jefferson Airplane, practically with tears in your eyes, when we were all drunk after a formal dance in high school, well Matt, maybe you shouldn't have started a blog and invoked my competitive nature.

3)I could write an elegy to Max Bobbitt that would kick your elegy's ass.

4)My friend Tom said that this is the "Best blog ever." You know what that means, huh? Yours? Not the best blog ever.

5)I've become friends with a bunch of your college friends. I think they like me (more than you).

6)Ohio vs. North Carolina? Close call. But NC wins it by a nose solely based on the sunny day to cloudy day ratio in both locales. Southern pride, baby. Y'all hear?

7)Even though I love you and you have always been one of my best friends, I've got no problems making fun of you on the internet.

Another down the drain

Right now I'm having a cup of coffee while it rains softly outside. In anticipation of my day of thrusting B into A sections and getting newspaper ink all over my hands, and if I'm lucky, dusting up my t-shirt just where my boobs make their modest, but notable appearance, I'm wearing comfortable clothes. I don't care what I look like. This is nice. And then there is the empty fish bowl reminding me of death.

My mom loves to tell this story about one time when I was little and visiting the pet store for the 70 or 80 millionth time to get a goldfish. "I don't know why they keep dying!" naive little Cara apparently said. My mother also loves to tell the story about the time when my little brother came home to witness his parakeet on its back in the cage, legs sticking in the air, just like a cartoon dead thing - not the way you'd imagine an animal would actually die. "I just gave it water yesterday!" said my little brother, according to mom. She laughs, and said, no, he probably didn't give it water just yesterday. Because it was dead. You think? Both of these stories are unspeakably sad to me but perhaps when you grow up and have kids your priorities change and dead pets are just part of life and not a neverending reminder that something died and it was your fault. Someday I'll get over the frog we unfairly took from the wild, brought home, put in a cage and gave food from the pet store which it didn't eat, became horrifically emaciated and then, one day, was bobbing about in the water but not in a good way. "But we fed it every day!" Yes you did, children, but it died anyway.

In college my roommate Erin and I had two bouts with living creatures of the pet variety. The first were sea monkeys that were doing alright until my arch enemy (I didn't know that she was my arch enemy at the time but this and consequent actions led me to the conclusion that she was) dropped them on the cold, hard, tile floor when she was watching them for us one weekend. Ironic tragedy! They were sea monkeys! They didn't need to be watched! Especially, it turned out, by a clumsy and or vicious pet sitter who stood by as the perished in our freshmen dorm.

Next we tried our luck with goldfish which, in retrospect, wasn't a good idea because we, as college students, were very prone to pouring beer, our new favorite illegal substance, places. Like in the hallway, or carelessly spilling all over our shirts after we were drunk, you know, after like one and a half Miller Lites (to be fair Erin and I used to share a nip of Jack Daniels before hitting the streets of Boston which, to this day, is evidence that we were badasses and way cooler than those prissy girls getting tipsy off vodka and juice). I'm not saying we put any beer in the fish tank, just that knowing ourselves...the fish...maybe they would have been better off with a family. People who didn't sleep all day and whatnot. We named one Sushi, which was cruel, and the other name I don't remember. That might be because they lasted all of, oh, 18 hours or so. Dead. It was funny. And awful.

So when we were coming back from Raleigh the other day and I was feeling pretty easygoing after the two glasses of wine I'd downed after a day spent learning about Jesus and cervical mucus at Catholic marriage prep and J said, hey, let's do something we've never done and then suggested getting fish I thought, "Awesome." That was until we had them in their bag, their precious lives suddenly our responsibility, and we were waiting at the checkout and I had to explain to J, "Listen, if they die, I'm going to be incredibly sad." He asked me why. They were only about two dollars each he said, and had very tiny brains. Trust me, I told him, I just want you to know that I am going to be sad.

Tony and Carmella - I remember these names because the empty fish bowl is still sitting on the bookshelf. That is how fresh this latest hurt is. Carmella was never going to make it. She hung around the bottom and looked depressed right off the bat. But Tony, our little calico colored champion swam about cheerfully even after his mate had left him. For a full day, even, he existed like living things should. He ate and gave me loving looks when I peered at him every five seconds or so to look for signs of poor health. They came, of course. After a glorious couple of days Tony started to slow down. I'm not going to go into the details - how he stopped trying. How he took deep, labored breaths and there was nothing we could do but watch. J was there when the end came. I called home. "Did he die?" "Yeah, he died." J told me that he'd gone to be with Carmella and we could be happy about that. He didn't say that the fish were only two dollars. My mourning period was brief and I suppose it is time to get rid of that empty bowl, move on and rejoice in the memory of those fish, that frog, the parakeet, who left us, yes, but who we also, if only for a little while, kept alive.

Conversation while passing public park in New Haven

J.A.M. - "Look at that bird. Hey, that's a hawk! Look at it dive!"

The bird lands in the dirt.

C.M.R. - "That's a pigeon."

Silence.

A fine start to the day

This morning as I prepared myself for a busy Tuesday I began thinking about how I was going to talk less and do more, for instance, instead of complaining about the hectic nature of day to day life and getting bogged down in the specifics of wedding-address-list upkeep, I would try a little harder to fill my life with things important to me, but also things of a relaxing nature. Like getting a haircut when I really need one and taking up a membership at the NC Museum of Arts again. Networking. Going on dates with my betrothed often, not only when we have a rare free evening.

I was thinking this during the always rushed morning routine, the clock ticking as I brushed my teeth, untangled my wild mane of hair and washed my face. I was just getting to feel pretty cocky about what a splendid existence I was going to lead when I realized that in the process of performing the above mentioned rituals I had spit into my cupped hands full of fresh water that I then, without thinking, raised to rinse the soap off my face. As I splashed my face with what I suddenly confirmed was spit water I came down a few notches to a more humble reality, threw on a dirty t-shirt and jeans and made my way to work.

DC area bay trip weekend vs. being back in semi-rural NC

DC area - meeting up with hip friends who are furthering their higher education in areas like French literature and religion.
Semi-rural NC - Hearing, once again, the sweet cadence of a southern accent uttering grammatical wonders like "It got gone," and "It don't matter."

DC area - urban types enjoying a relaxing weekend away from the city.
Semi-rural NC - rural types proclaiming that Chapel Hill is just "too damn big."

DC area - discussions regarding the somewhat warped mindset of Evangelical Christians who believe the Rapture is coming and everyone, besides themselves of course, is screwed.
Semi-rural NC - I could probably be saved right here in my office. If I really wanted to.

DC area - culture.
Semi-rural NC - the Chicken Festival.

"Daddy's Itchy"

I shall now tell the tale of when my father accidentally taped himself for an entire day in his BMW, as told, over and over again, by my little brother, and then everyone we know.

It had been a pleasant weekend in North Carolina. A few years ago my little brother Vinnie and my friend Slavomir had been down to visit, and driven together. They'd taken the car my father was currently leasing. On their return trip to D.C. Sunday evening they searched the vehicle for something good to listen to and picked up an unlabeled tape.

"Let's try this," my brother said.

They put it in and heard nothing much but the faint noises indicating that the tape wasn't blank, exactly, but wasn't music or a great novel or anything else purposely recorded. They waited, the air thick with their expectation.

And then, "Ohhhhhhhh Daddy's tired."

What the boys had stumbled upon was a tape my father had recorded - of himself - during an entire day while riding around the city in his car. The car, for whatever reason, had a feature so that one could tape him or herself if he or she wanted to. My father had discovered this feature accidentally and proceeded to use it all day without knowing it.

What followed was a series of comments, mock conversations, and explanations, the favorites, of course, the typical "Daddy's tired," and "Daddy's itchy," remarks our father uses on a regular basis. It was just surprisingly delightful to learn he uses them when when alone in his car, too.

There was a practice telephone conversation with a colleague, a "What the fuck are you doing?!" to a another driver, and an "I knew that!" that we think came after a glance at the day's newspaper, due to the rustling sounds in the background.

Vinnie made sure we all knew about his find and the story soon became common knowledge among family and friends. Guests would arrive at my parent's house to ask, "Fred, you taped yourself in the car all day?"

To which he would reply in his typical, and now semi-famous fashion, "How the hell should I know how the fucking thing works?!"

Old Siler City Rd. and Hwy. 64

MVC-003L
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

This weekend we head to the Bay! This is exciting to me for a variety of reasons, including the chance to see friends and family without the stressed of any planned agenda.

But mostly I get excited because that part of the world is so relaxing to me. Over the Fourth of July last year a select group gathered at the house with dangerous fireworks and risky ideas. One of these ideas was to travel directly through the sea grass and swampy ground and later, as we found out, water moccasins, to the neighbor's house where there were no a) hot girls, to the boys' dismay and surprise ("I bet there are TONS OF hot girls over there," was one of the prompts for this lunatic adventure) or b) celebratory beers shared and raised in honor of our heroic journey all in the name of good friends, peace and love.

Instead we got blank stares except from a few semi-drunken good sports and the recommendation to take the clearly-marked path back to our house for the return route.

The next day, however, this was a great story, made even more wondrous when my mother informed us we could have been brutally killed by poisonous snakes.

It's not in every day life that you come upon these relaxing scenes and unstructured moments, especially where you work. I've grown tired with the rural life and view my daily travels here not as a break from the busier life, but as an obligation. And an obligation I never wanted to explore. I wanted bustling streets and strangers.

However, every once in a while I turn a corner and see a long road or field full of some unidentifiable crop and remember it's beautiful. And that both the places you love because no responsibility comes with the territory and the places you become responsible for offer equally peaceful moments.

Natural family planning and telling the truth

Last weekend J and I attended an all day marriage preparation forum at a local Catholic Church. Despite the fact that it was a very nice day full of interesting exercises that helped us learn a lot about one another, what we're most likely to tell you about is the segment on natural family planning, or NFP, as it is affectionately called by those who practice it. The thing is, it makes sense. The girl takes her temperature every morning and studies her cervical mucus. By paying attention to varying factors the married couple figures out when she is ovulating and don't have sex during those days if they don't want to get pregnant, or do have sex then if they do.

But let's say you and your beloved have driven to a nice church and are sitting munching on grapes and having your second cup of coffee, all graciously provided by the planners of said event, saying hi to other excited couples and then these two get up there and start to talk about "why we use NFP" and then the male in the couple starts talking about, you know, the mucus, and the female body. Let's just say that happens one innocent Saturday morning. That's a good story.

It's even got some excellent Jesus-Christ-based philosophy which is that, as it states in the Bible, when you make love with your husband or wife you should give your whole self and how can you give your whole self when you are taking a pill that prohibits a fertile egg from being released and prohibits the sperm from getting as far as they'd like.

That's why there are so many couples out there saying "Christ. That was amazing, but you know what? I could really feel the absence of your reproductive seedlings," after they get it on.

I'm being a little hard on it all, really. It was - and I'm not lying - a good day. J and I wrote love letters to one another during one exercise. During another we picked out words from a list of hundreds to describe ourselves, and one another. None of the speakers were boring and a few were really impressive. That's why at the end of it all, when it came time to take the "FOCUS" standardized test, the results of which, unknown to us yet, are haunting me now as I realize we must go over our individual answers together with a church representative in the upcoming weeks(example of FOCUS easy question: I feel I will be uncomfortable nude in front of my future spouse, answer - agree, disagree, or don't know. Difficult question: any that had to do with Jesus Christ), I decided that J and I needed to tell the truth to these nice people. We needed to fill out the special section for cohabitating couples. And we did. And I am ready for the lectures.

We'll be fine, however. One of the most interesting things we learned about during the session was to relate to and comfort one another using our five love languages. We looked at a series of statements and picked one out of two that best described us. "I feel loved when you tell me you are proud of me. vs. I feel loved when you give me a hug." That kind of thing. We both enjoy quality time, it turns out. I like words of affirmation. J likes physical touch. I was glancing over his worksheet during one of the presentations and noticed the entry, "I like it when you sit close to me. vs. I like it when you tell me I am handsome/attractive." J had picked the latter.

My future spouse: I will not feel uncomfortable in any state of undress when I am with you, I'm glad we told Jesus and all the judgmental Catholics the truth about our living situation and I think you are very, very handsome.

Why I haven't been writing

Yesterday I spent a good deal of the late afternoon trudging from store to store getting sweaty with my frizzy hair stuck to my face looking over various collections of envelopes to try and do the impossible - find a fit for our strangely-sized save the date cards which are going out late anyway, so add that to the stress.

It is at points like these, lately, or while looking at the never-ending sea of white trash bags in our carport, or the television with a chewed up cord that I said I'd get fixed sitting in the back seat of my card amongst the clothes, some for goodwill and some I'd like to keep, that I think perhaps I should control the situations and not let the situations control me.

In order to do so I "didn't have time" for other things and that's when I realized that perhaps the full nature of being busy doesn't rest in having too much work and no time for anything else but making sure the stress-reducing activities fall right in line with the stress-inducing activities.

Therefore I plan to write more often. Stay tuned for Cara and Justin and the adventures in Catholic marriage preparation including a discourse on cervical mucus.

Wedding planning haiku

Compiling a list
addresses! Invitations!
Frivolous, lovely.

When we are old let's join a committee

I had the pleasure today of attending a residents association meeting at Carolina Meadows, a retirement community. It's a very nice place, with high ceilings, a variety of puzzles and books, and all sorts of elderly types riding around in golf carts, sometimes smiling, sometimes yelling at you, whatever.

I joined the throngs in the auditorium and was actually very impressed with their setup. The officers sat onstage and passed each motion using a "yea" or "nay" system and a few committees gave reports, including an arts guild and recycling and environment committee. There was an update on square-dancing. There will be a hoedown next week if anyone is interested. I've got the details.

I was sitting there smiling, just soaking it all in, because as some of you may know, I love older people and I'm not just saying that. I love their stories and the way they say what they mean, like the time I was volunteering with this couple in Boston, and Jessika, a feisty woman in her late eighties, absolutely screeched with delight when she met her friend in the hallway and then when we'd traveled, oh, about half a foot away said, "She's such a bitch," to me. Loudly.

Well, when the presentation I needed to cover came up on the agenda, I scribbled some notes then moved forward to snap a picture of the individuals on stage. I got a nice one and went to take another when I felt a mighty strong arm on my shoulder, pulling me back towards the wall. I looked over my shoulder and saw an elderly man, frowning and gesturing towards the video camera he had set up. I was standing in front of it and there would be NONE of that. I retreated. Old people. They're awesome. But sometimes, also, really really mean.

A safe harbor for you, oh vicious bacteria

Last night my friends and I partook in one of our favorite pastimes, which is talking about inappropriate things really loudly at a public place, like a bar or restaurant. We were once doing this exact thing while out one night, sitting next to a father and his three young sons. The subject was boys, and things one might do with boys, and perhaps this is how we should have been discussing the matter. "Oh, and then that thing? He did that thing and I did that." But we were using full-on specific vocabulary and creative descriptive images using our hands as stick figures. Before the father left, he bought our table a round of shots and said, "Thanks for educating my sons. That's better than I could ever do." That was pretty gross, looking back. But we drank the shots.

Last night's discussion was brought on by the onset, earlier that morning, of what must be the five millionth urinary tract infection I've incurred in my life. Once I mentioned it we four girls were off and running with comments regarding "prickly hot needles when you pee," and so forth. The conversation quickly moved to yeast infections, of course, and it's a good think we were in a crowded restaurant because, damnit, these people needed to hear about the horror!

Luckily I've curbed the pain in my urinary tract, the most hospitable environment in America for E.coli, with my latest prescription of Cipro. But the most important thing is that my girls understand. I mean, it's one thing to tell J, coworkers, and others who haven't experienced one of these fantastic infections, that you don't feel well, while all the while you look and sound normal. You may be curled up on the floor in a ball, cursing your body, the world, but anyone can do that. It's another thing to hear sympathetic friends say, "Oh, you poor thing." Friends who mean it, who've been there, the prickly hot needles, the things we shout about in bars and restaurants to those who wish to listen and to many who don't.

Can't we party anymore?

Last night J and I drove to Raleigh to hang out at Chappy's new place and drink some wine, get dinner, and then see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, something we'd all been looking forward to for weeks. We'd seen the band in this particular venue before and it was an energetic, unforgettable show. The thing about Ted Leo is he likes to come on at midnight or so. What is up with that, Ted?

Or should I pose the question inwards? What is up with J and I that we could barely crawl out of bed this morning? Because staying up late and drinking a few beers shouldn't warrant me sitting here with my coffee contemplating lunch options as though that is the most strenuous thing my I'm capable of this morning.

Last night at about 3 a.m. I awoke to find myself in the backseat of J's Saturn, crumpled up after having passed out for the whole ride back to Chapel Hill. And when I say the whole ride as though we participated in the Indy 500, all I mean is the whole, thirty-minute ride from Raleigh to Chapel Hill. Woooooooo, we are nothing but risky! The reason I was in the back seat was that I failed to get into the front after we dropped Chappy off after the show. So what we had here was a guy, J, driving a girl, me, passed out in the back seat of his Saturn amongst all the clothes and camping gear we still haven't unpacked. My contacts were seared to my eyes as I peered through the blinding glow of our motion-sensitive light in the carport.

J and I stumbled into the house like we'd been mugged and beaten, instead of having seen a really cool band. He told me that the drive had been impossible - that he'd had to stop in a Waffle House parking lot for a few moments of sleep on the way. I used to ride down Commonwealth Avenue in a shopping cart during Boston winters after drinking tequila straight from the bottle right before closing time at the bar...still ready to party. And now, the Waffle House parking lot. But the night was worth it. We are adventurers, still, in this new stage of life.

Settled

We did it, J and I - we finally cleaned up the house and got it in good working order. Well - he says we did it. He said, last night, "Aren't you glad we're done?!" I looked at these boxes, these cardboard boxes half full of 10 year old receipts and whatnot laying around the office, and explained that we were NOT done, but yes, I was glad. For it is much, much better in the Rotondonough household. It is a place fit for guests! But only a few at a time as J and I, the dogs and cat, take up most of the room inside.

After I'd carefully put away all of my belongings last night I felt that a reward was in order, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to look at an album my mother made me when I graduated from college. It contains pictures and other mementos from the first five years of my life. She said that she planned to make books similar for all the stages of my life, up until my graduation, but this one was all she'd finished, and that was fine with me. It is full of my various faces, outfits, attempts at dancing, and hugs with family members. There are other things my mother saved, such as cards sent to my parents congratulating them on my birth, and the first story I ever wrote at preschool (clearly dictated as I couldn't write although I was amazingly smart) in which I explain that my favorite food is, "Corn, corn, corn and asparagus and that's it!" What a great kid.

But the best item is the book is this coffee-stained sheet of paper covered with my father's barely legible handwriting. Numbers that appear to make no sense are written all over. When my mother gave the book to me, she explained. It is the piece of paper on which my father timed my mother's contractions before I was born. I remember thinking it was so cool that she'd kept it when I first received the book. And I remember thinking how funny it was to picture my father recording contractions before my birth. But last night that piece of paper, the cards from relatives, the picture of my father pushing a bottle to my mouth and my mother holding me in the hospital - it became so evident that my birth and those first moments of life had been so important to my parents and others and I felt absolutely lucky in the most true sense of the word.

Thankfully only a few pages later is the "Corn, corn, corn," nonsense and a picture of me in a hotel along with the description added by my mother: "you were very bad," so that I don't get mired in the tearful joy of my birth.

Move "censor," left click

Yesterday my father sent me the link to the blog of one of his friend's daughters. He'd been forwarded the information by his friend, and kindly passed it along. It was a very interesting blog, and I liked reading it, and told my father so, and then explained to him over email that his very own daughter had a blog that he never read and he better the hell read hers before pimping out other people's daughter's blogs.

He replied, "Sweetheart, I can't open hers, and I can't open yours."

He and I have been over this numerous times. He doesn't seem to understand what, exactly, my blog is, and how to access it on a daily basis. I position the link so it's highly visible on the page and tell him to click on it with the sensor. My father, since his very first time on the computer, has referred to the mouse as the "sensor." I told him to do so again.

This time, he replied, "When I put the censor there. There is no open sign."

I forgive him, because he is teaching me about stocks and bonds, and is buying all the liquor for the wedding.