To all y'all strippers out there

When we met Shawn at his car he seemed a normal guy, except for the semi-shiny shirt and 80's-style boombox. I don't know what I was expecting. This guy, I thought, this guy, he could be my friend.

Shawn was a stripper we'd hired for a bachelorette party this past Friday. The party, for a friend getting married in September, also included a lot of rum, which was important, it turned out. Now I've never seen a real live stripper. In fact, I was so unfamiliar with the concept that I made my fellow party organizer call the guy and set everything up. I took care of food and drinks. She called up a stranger and asked him to come to this party and take his clothes off and rub his genitals, carefully encased in a man-thong, up against our friend while gyrating to dance music, and I made seven-layer dip. Fair.

As Shawn began his act, I began thinking moonshine may have been a more appropriate beverage than the tasty and refreshing mojitos we'd whipped up. Moonshine and some Valium, maybe. He flicked on that boombox and Shawn immediately transformed from my new potential guy-friend to a monster of sexuality. He got this I'm-gonna-dry-hump-you-giddy-ladies look on his face. He mouthed the words of the hit tunes blaring into the once-quiet living room.

We got into it slowly, finally "wooooing" the guy on because he was brave, not to mention an incredibly gifted acrobat. I mean, sure, the neon green and purple banana hammock that Shawn played with from time to time, making moves like he just might take the thing all the way off but never gracing us with that reality, was not sexy in the typically sexy fashion. But he wore it like it was and when we grimaced and giggled and looked away he just pushed us further. Shawn also had a very nice body and I do not know where he learned his skills, but he is a very gifted man. At one point he cleared the floor, did some kind of somersault-into-headstand and ended up with his crotch just inches away from the bachelorette's face. During another of his grand maneuvers, he placed several cubes of ice on his spectacularly hairless back and moved them back and forth in a dance-like motion.

All I'm saying is that my first stripper experience left me thinking that, honestly, strippers are pretty amazing. When our man was on one of his rounds around the room, giving us all the personal experience, and he was hovering above me grinding his pelvis close to mine, his sweaty body so close and the smell of his cologne overwhelming my senses, I didn't think, "Oh, this is turning me on," or "What in the name of fuck do you think you are doing, mister?" I just relaxed into the hysteria and, really, all I could think was, "I know we just met, but I am so proud of you."

This is kind of what it's like in our house, what with the wildlife lovers and all

Lately, Cecilia has been sitting by the side window in the living room, cocking her head and crying. Besides the fact that she is going through a rather emotional adolescence for a dog, the reason she does this is that a squirrel has been raiding J's birdfeeder.

J pads out every morning in his boxers, bleary-eyed, muttering, "I'm tired," and instead of jumping right in the shower or looking for coffee he heads over to that window, the one where Cecilia likes to sit at rapt attention, and peers out to see what chickadees or cardinals have come by, singing their birdsongs and enjoying the wild bird feed we provide.

If there is a bird, he says, "Look!" And if the squirrel is there, he raps hard against the window and says, "Get out of there, you motherfucker!"

This sets Cecilia off. Sometimes J encourages her. "Look Cecilia! The squirrel. Would you like to eat that squirrel?" She starts pacing and crying wildly, every once in a while stopping by the window, cocking that hard head of hers and opening her mouth ever so slightly in an expression of wonder. Sometimes, if I'm sitting on the couch, she'll place her 65-pound body in my lap and pant hot breath into my ear and cry and I know she is thinking, "Goddamnit that squirrel is mine."

This is what goes on. This, and no cable television.

When you held that boombox above your head while "In Your Eyes" played, I knew what true love really was

No matter what you do, John Cusack, even if you stray from the ultra-cool movies I hold so dear to my heart, I still love you.

Durham is better than Chapel Hill: A campaign

I know that by writing this I will incur the wrath of Chapel Hill natives and Chapel Hill lovers and most of the general public, and probably receive angry comments (reality check - maybe one comment, if I am lucky) regarding the idiocy of the above post title, but if you really think about it, come on guys, Durham is better.

Sometimes when I say I'd like to spend some time in Durham people say things like, "Ha. You'd like to get mugged, you mean," and other ridiculous statements that make it clear to me that these people think Durham is the most dangerous place ever and have definitely never been to other places, like Jamaica, where, I kid you not, while on spring break, 2000, my friend Slavomir followed some guy into the woods to "check out the availability of a banana boat ride" for all of us and the guy said he would have to take him to see his boss and then, like, I swear, brandished a huge knife. Also, one time a nice man with a tiny hankerchief covering his privates approached me while I was wandering around one the beach, smiled, asked me, "Do you have any Jamaican in you?" and when I said no, replied, "Would you like to?"

None of those things has ever happened to me in Durham. In fact, I've had wonderful and interesting experiences there.

Yesterday I met Jen after her work day was over for a drink at the James Joyce Pub. I had been there only a couple times but remembered it as such a cozy, fun little place. So we went and drank Guinness and sweated because it is hot as hell and watched the regulars at the bar as they greeted one another and told stories. I'm telling you, these people were awesome. First of all, most of them, or so it seemed, were actually from Ireland or England or some other country and as we all know, hanging out with a multi-cultural crowd in a bar, or just in life, is what everyone strives for. Diversity. Furthermore, most people were drinking Guiness or something similar to it and not any sissy Chapel Hill drinks.

I know I can't judge the appeal of an entire place on one little bar, but I'm going to. It pretty much sums it up. I'm not going to start shunning Chapel Hill or anything crazy like that, because the truth is I love living there and I could probably, I mean, when you really get down to it, reverse this argument and say Chapel Hill is the better place. I like to pull for the underdog, however. I could also say that San Francisco, or New York City or D.C., for instance, pummels these little southern towns in the ass, but let's stick to the subject. I'll meet you guys in Durham.

All the chicken at the mall

One thing I had a fine time doing while at college in Boston - besides taking part in the impressive social scene, besides visiting the graves of some of the most historically important individuals since the dawn of this great country and besides attaining an education at a prestigious university - was eating teriyaki chicken samples at the mall.

Most malls that have a food court have a Japanese place and one poor employee is always sentenced to roaming the area right outside their cash register with chicken samples so that they can lure you into their waiting arms by causing you to crave that kind of chicken. Not one piece, but a whole plate. We used to cruise by this poor sucker a bunch of times in college. Because we were mischievous. We got more than one piece and sometimes didn't even buy food there.

(I'd like to interject here that by saying "we were mischievous" I by no means meant that this was the most mischievous thing I did in college, or even one of the most mischievous. I was being a little sarcastic and taking advantage of the good old idea that college kids do crazy stuff, you know? Had this been the most mischievous thing I'd done in college, or one of them anyway, I wouldn't admit it. If I did admit it, I bet you I also would have been pretty damn into Star Trek or Warcraft or some similar hobby that would have kept me in my dorm room and out of harm's way, except to cheat the poor Japanese employees out of their free chicken, over and over again. The point is, I didn't feel like a badass when I got the samples, ok? I just wanted them.)

When J and I were at Southpoint mall the other day, I noticed that the number of employees holding up chicken samples and beckoning to potential customers with all their might had grown. There was the standard Japanese teriyaki chicken, the bourbon chicken from a New Orleans-style restaurant (which, funny enough, had a lot of Asian-inspired side dishes, it looked like) and then this new place, Le Bon Bistro, where an especially pumped chicken sample-giver presented me with not one, not two but THREE chicken samples, all different kinds. This was out of control. After the incident, I, of course, had to get my food there. It was beyond my level of cheating to accept so many pieces of food and not patronize the bon bistro.

When we sat down we gazed over at the row of eatery choices, the employees, now having to compete with each other in order to clear their plate of samples, toothpicks. J wondered aloud, "If you were going to open a place in the food court, why would you open another one that serves chicken, almost exactly like all the other places?" I didn't know, but will remain a willing participant. After all that money-spending that typically occurs during a trip to a shopping mecca, especially one with Nordstrom, it's nice to get a little something special for free.

Quotes I recite in a bad English accent

When J and I were in the moving process and told people we didn't have cable at the new place and might not get it, they (the ones searching for some higher good in this world of temptation and material goods, anyway) would smile and make false statements that they actually meant and hoped to be true, like, "That...is....so great. You are going to read so much."

The only truly admirable bout of literary activity that has taken place in our cable-less house was my obsessive reading of the newest Harry Potter book last weekend, especially Saturday morning when I laid on the couch for about four hours, unshowered, muttering "just one more chapter," until I finished the book. When the dogs cried to be let out I told them to go to sleep and when I was interrupted because I had to get up to go to the bathroom I got annoyed with the frailty of my body. So really, not admirable at all.

Other than that, the reading's been normal. What hasn't been normal, however, since the disappearance of cable television stations from my life, is the amount of time I spend watching the BBC comedy "The Office."

We only own the first season, although I highly recommend both seasons and "The Office" special. Lately when I've been in the mood for something familiar and cable-ish I put in the DVD and watch the episodes for the 100th or so time. I swear. I've watched them a lot of times.

And now that my friends have all watched them a lot of times, we like to quote "The Office" on a regular basis. Many of us share a favorite episode in which the office characters undergo training with an outside expert in order to better work together as a team. In our favorite of favorite moments in this episode, main character David Brent is doing a role play with the training expert. Brent is a hotel customer, the other a hotel clerk. The point is that the clerk doesn't care about the customer's complaint and that's bad customer service. But as Brent doesn't understand the exercise and only wants to win, he spends his time during the role play attempting with all his might to get the "clerk" to listen to his troubles, at the height of the exercise, shouting, "There's been a rape up there!"

So when we go out to bars, and driving in cars, and walking along streets, we, my friends and I, like to shout in our best English accents, "There's been a rape up there!" and I've just recently realized that maybe that's not the best idea.

Mina, Wilmington, Fourth of July 2005

IM000694
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

Happy Birthday, Blog!

One year ago today I started this blog on J's advice, who said something like, "You should start a blog. That would be right up your alley." And so I did.

In that year, I've:
-re-learned how to knit
-had my car broken into
-moved
-gotten engaged
-retained a paying job
-suffered one bout of food poisoning
-enjoyed numerous nights out with friends
-turned 27
-and claimed on many occasions that I'd really like to learn how to play my banjo

But I still haven't learned. Of course if everything worked out the way we planned there would be less funny stories, so here's to another year.

Negatives, positives

Things I don't care for much right now:

* When I am shrugging off some ridiculous wedding expense or idea and I say, "Well, you only get married once," and inevitably, someone says, "Yeah, hopefully," and laughs. Shut up, asshole.

* The caterpillars that live in our house.

* The fact that I'm reading Harry Potter at such an alarming rate that I'll soon be finished and have only normally interesting books to read, and not wonderful books written for children that are so intriguing I forget to do the dishes.

* All the dirty dishes.

Things that are good:

* Mina panting after going on adventures in the backyard.


* Beers, outside.

* Harry Potter.

* Thursdays.

Summer reality show update

1) The thing about Josh is he isn't really that "average," is he? It says right there on the website that Anna calls him handsome. Furthermore, the guy can kiss. I watched those two making out last night and he's got moves. So I'm rooting for him because I love him but if he walked into a bar I'd think he was cute, not average. I would never just sit there and call people average, by the way, based on their looks because I'm not mean like the networks.

2) Speaking of the networks, I cried last night when the promo for "The Biggest Loser" came on. They've played that particular promo, the one where the guy talks about how he used to be a wrestler, not fat, about 536,982 times and finally, it got to me. Are you happy NBC? You made me cry. Reference the above. Networks = mean.

The always intriguing shaved cha-cha

Jess, a grad student in J's lab, passed her preliminary exams (CONGRATULATIONS AGAIN JESS!) yesterday and to celebrate we dropped by her house with wine and champagne and snacks and shot glasses because she had some tequila from Mexico - the good stuff - and had decided that this was as appropriate a reason as any to imbibe.

So we drank and told stories. People came and left and after a while we did our first shot which was incredibly smooth and delicious, enough to cause us all to say, "My God that is delicious tequila," which is never what anyone says after taking a tequila shot, never, so we knew it was special. Then the conversation turned, as it always somehow does, to the best methods for maintaining one's bikini area or, in other words, waxing your coochie, as I so gracefully put it after our second shot of tequila when I shouted, "I'm going to wax my coochie!" I thought I wasn't all that affected by the few beers and tequila I'd had but looking back on the night I guess it's fair to say, based on the evidence, that two tequila shots still do it for me, the other piece of evidence being that I put a small wind-up rubber penis between my breasts and let it hammer away.

There is a certain wonder that accompanies even the mention of Hair Removal in That Area. For our New Year's Party, 2004, we placed poster board around the walls of the bay house so that guests could pen their resolutions for the new year. When we stumbled, bleary-eyed with madly aching heads to view the outcome the next day one item caught our eyes immediately amongst the 100 or so resolutions so drunkenly recorded, and we let loose loud rounds of laughter. The resolution stated, simply, "Shave my cha cha everyday." We'll never know who she was, or if she has, but I will always admire the dedication with which she made such a promise.

When I was in the ninth grade and hadn't yet learned about the difference plucking my eyebrows could make, much less manicuring the privates which were so very embarrassingly, very, very private, I attended a study hall session in the afternoons with my friends Matt and Andrew and my then-boyfriend Steve. Because we were 14 or so and the study hall proctor probably wouldn't have cared if we'd stripped naked and played doctor, the four of us would turn our desks to face one another and pass notes. We passed notes every study hall session we had together and inevitably, one day, the topic turned to - you guessed it - shaved genitals, or "S.G." as we so artfully dubbed it, our dirty little discussion that went on right under the teacher's nose. Did we know the first thing about S'ing our G's? Did we even know much about G's in general? No. But we could pass notes like nobody's business regarding the elusive practice and if I remember correctly there were also a few mentions of gays and baseball.

That particular discussion only lasted one day - our normal note-passing was very innocent. Matt quoted Jefferson Airplane, Andrew asked which girls in our class he should pursue and Steve would tell me my hair looked nice - but one day was all it took. The boys took the notes to lunch, probably to flaunt their extensive knowledge of S.G. ("See? I've written all about sex and genitals and gays right here.") and left the crumpled sheets of notebook paper that contained our names - our names for Christ's sake! - there on the lunch table where Mr. Barbee, the dean, and to make matters worse, Matt's dad, picked them up.

He invited us into his office and inflicted the worst possible punishment, ever, upon us. He made copies of our insightful comments and told us we were to have them signed by our parents and brought back to him the following day. Our crime? Not what we wrote about, he said, but the fact that we were writing notes during study hall at all. We should have been studying. But I've always had just the tiniest notion that the content, just maybe, had everything to do with our getting in trouble.

I found out the next day that Andrew and Steve had brilliantly taken home the two pages of notes dedicated to discussing baseball, and maybe one mention of gay people. Their parents had looked over the fairly innocent commentary, told them they should have been studying, and signed away. I'd taken home all four pages. While my father laughed to himself my mother flipped from page to page over and over again shaking her head saying, "Cara, I don't think you even know what some of this means."

My love for her will never cease

THESE PEOPLE ARE AWFUL.

HOT! For the parties!

I hit the snooze button and rolled over in bed this morning only to sit bolt upright and think, "Damnit, it's crunch time."

I got out of bed, let the dogs out and put on some sweaty gym clothes that had been lying on the floor because there is less than one month - way less - until the all-important first dress fitting when I better like the way I look because that is the body they're gonna mold that fabric to and that is the body I shall try to maintain until October 8.

Perhaps more importantly, that is the body I'm gonna shake at the longest stretch of parties I've ever had planned in row in my life.

While I have admittedly remained very collected (in public) about the wedding planning (i.e. "Everything is really almost done. It's been so easy!) the honest to God truth is that it's becoming a really nervewracking experience because while yes, most of the important things are done, all the minor things that aren't done are becoming ever more important because it - the event - is only three months away. Honeymoon? Unplanned. Gifts for all those important people to be handed out over tears and laughter at the rehearsal? Haven't even thought about it. Shoes? I have to wear shoes?

That's where the parties come in. This must be the age old reason why parties often precede weddings: Because if they didn't, the people involved would suffer at least minor to intense nervous breakdowns and then there'd be gossip. And we all know negative gossip surrounding a wedding is the worst.

So basically how it's gonna be is I'm gonna force myself out of bed in the early morning to work out my body and soothe my mind and try to achieve a rockin' bod before the fitting but more importantly the parties and then I won't care so much how many little details there are to iron out because I'll be casually lounging by a pool with a rum drink in my hand wearing a bikini with absolute confidence.

Just like real people

Because we flew to Connecticut and back this weekend I allowed myself a favorite airplane indulgence which is to buy magazines I'd normally view as at least a slight waste of time like "People," or even worse, "Us" and "Star." Celebrities are totally awesome to read about. And what is even more awesome is the warped sense of importance these movie-star watchers give to their every day activities. Things like, "Mary Kate loves fruit!" Caption: The diminutive Olsen twin munched on an apple as she waited for her bodyguard to clear a popular clothing store of "Full House" fanatics before she entered.

Ok. I made that one up. But FOR REAL "Star" reported in the issue that I was reading yesterday on an encounter that almost occurred between Heath Ledger and Naomi Watts. The problem that could have erupted? Legder and Watts used to be involved and the meeting on Hollywood streets amongst thousands of other ordinary people, the semi-famous and all-out movie stars who've most definitely dated one another or at least had relations of some sort could have been awkward. The magazine went as far as to draw out a map of their individual paths, pointing out that they really did - honestly - almost run into one another but thank the Lord in heaven that it didn't come to that.

Naturally as a result of reading this informative news source cover to cover I started thinking about how I'll someday probably be at least somewhat famous (maybe like the O.C.'s Rachel Bilson or that girl from Joan of Arcadia) and how the magazines will report on my every day actions and whether or not I should upgrade from my Reef flip flops to something a little more hip and how I probably shouldn't dance to "Come on Eileen" in the car anymore. Luckily I've at least got a little dog to carry around. And she'll kick your ass, you paparazzi punks.

Thursday, Cindy

Just now driving home from a trip to Southpoint mall I had one of those periods of all-encompassing warm feelings that can only occur when driving home after finding the perfect bridesmaid dress shoes with a good friend, running through the buckets of rain, from awning to awning getting soaked and finally arriving in the seat of a dry car. Even if that car is a Chevy Cavalier you rented that morning after being in an accident the day before.

The accident, although it will require my car being at the shop for a couple days hence the ultra-sexy black Cavalier, was minor and, despite the fact that everyone keeps asking if I'm ok, an incident that made me feel lucky it wasn't worse instead of unlucky that it happened at all.

It's like the stomach pain I survived after having a caramel Frappaccino from Starbucks today - bad, but more funny than bad. This has always been a problem for me. In college I used to order a coffee drink from my favorite haunt for "studying" but really watching people, Espresso Royale. It had both mocha and rasperry flavors and after drinking it down in a haze of greedy bliss I'd suffer God awful stomach pains that I knew I shouldn't complain about considering I'd bring them upon myself time and again. I'd wait just long enough to forget the fact that coffee drinks with more than one flavor, the syrup and milk and industrial-strength espresso mixing together to form a substance (each body has such a mortal enemy - my friend told me just last night that he's never been able to eat sherbert) I simply can't handle. But one forgets. So I drank the lethal mixture of substances this afternoon and have been suffering since, reminding myself "never again" with each lower stomach cramp.

Going out to get the shoes helped me to forget about it, because, like the accident the torrential rain that has been falling all night due to tropical storm Cindy, the stomach pain incurred after indulging in something I knew I shouldn't indulge in is fleeting. So as I drove home in the dry Cavalier listening to soft rock I felt happy and safe and started looking forward to this weekend we will spend in Connecticut for my Aunt Betsey's wedding. I drove home and got into the most comfortable pajamas. Cecilia whined and placed a heavy paw in my lap over and over and we all, the dogs and me, got on the couch, turned on "The Office" for about the hundreth time and listened to the storm.

Photo and suggested caption for St. Stephen's and St. Agnes alumni magazine, summer 2005

alumni pic
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

Steve Artabane, Cara Rotondaro and Max Bobbitt, '96, met up in Wimington, NC this summer to celebrate the Fourth of July with friends and a lot of beer. "It was just like high school!" said Cara.

Online diary, that's what a blog is

Dear Blog,
Happy birthday America! Today I baked like a domestic goddess should! I made brownies, blueberry cobbler, and a nice dent into two bottles of wine with my friend Jen! Things are great, Blog. Despite the fact that I keep creating to-do lists with 10 plus items, things that are never going to be done in one day, much less the week, I am starting to realize that stress, Blog, stress is a piece of shit. Screw that! Here's to Sam Adams Summer Ale! Here's to grilling out! I'm 27 this year. It's my least favorite birthday, and my most favorite time. Oh, Blog! That's confusing, isn't it?! LOL :) What I mean is that the birthday...well, it was pretty anti-climatic. I mean, 25? That was a fuckin' party! 26? A calm year, but exciting, nonetheless. 27? That's the age where you start freaking out about how you haven't made a lot of money, or lived a life of moral ambiguity, or all of the above! However, I am getting married. And I do have the best friends in the world, so it's not that bad!!! What I mean is...oh, Blog! What I mean is, I'm really happy. Tipsy? Sure, a little! But things are going great! Maybe I've got some things to figure out, Blog. But...really, they couldn't be better. I do a lot of fun things. I've got a lot of fun friends. And I'm getting married to my dream guy. Btw, Blog, tomorrow I've got to work, and I probably won't feel that great. You know what I say to that? Screw it! Here's to the summer of 2005! Here's to America, independence, summer ale, friends, beaches, birds, secrets, lovers, minnows, sharks, dolphins, and horseshoe crabs. Here's to life...here's to life.
HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!

Justin doesn't like it when you call him by a name that is not his actual name

Like that time Tom and I spotted that license plate that said "MCDUNA" and we were like, "Hey, there's your last name, J," and he corrected us, several times, on the proper spelling of his last name. And then, while lying around rejoicing in the glory of a summer Monday holiday this morning, J sniffles and,

C.M.R. - Sneezy McSneezums.

J.A.M. - Justin McDonough.

Not "average" - spectacular

Reality television never attracted me much. When friends were all about "The Bachelor," I kept asking, "Doesn't that seem unnatural to you?" Of course it's unnatural! Stop the fucking philosophizing and get hooked! Some shows I've seen from time to time make me cry, like "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" where audience members are manipulated horribly into crying - sobbing sometimes - during the last five minutes with the music and the family's situation and the new theme-based rooms. Because my mother works in public housing I know that the gritty truth of poverty in this country is best not left to Sunday night programming, but still, even if I only catch the last 20 seconds, the tears flow. I'm not going to be able to watch the new season of "The Biggest Loser," because just the commercials get me emotional. Reality programming is something I hear about rather than watch regularly so far. It just seems such a huge investment.

So when J and I settled down to watch some non-cable programming the other night and caught, by chance, "Average Joe, The Joes Strike Back," I just expected some one-night-only entertainment.

Then this one guy said that despite his tough appearance he had a cat named Rachel and I felt real love surge through my body. I hope that no Joe's heart is too badly wounded over the course of this saga because I do not think I'll be able to take it.