My tract, a nice bookstore and the coming season

When I began to feel the pangs of yet another urinary tract infection yesterday I started to panic and curse my womanly body with all my might, which is the standard reaction for me. "Why urethra? WHY are you so prone to this hellish pain? Why must I survive another bout of utter agony?" I've gotten them all my life, even when I was a little kid, and the past few months have proven particularly bad. In between infections, when I'm calm and happy, I think about how I need to work on prevention, but when they arrive all I want is a doctor and the most powerful antibiotics known to man. Antibiotics that might cause diarrhea or yeast infections, fine, but good God, get rid of the pain, the fire and burning.

Yesterday though, for the first time, maybe ever, I decided to calm down. I decided the neverending routine of infection and then treatment and then infection again wasn't working all too well for me and so I calmed down and turned to the Mecca of all knowledge: Border's book store. By the time I got there - well, either the relaxation techniques had worked, or these infections just naturally don't hurt so much after a while (which I'd never know because I drive myself STRAIGHT to the doctor for Cipro) but I was feeling better. Very contented with my new self, full of restraint, goddess of maintaining control, really, I walked over to the women's health section and got busy looking up my oh so consistent problem. I settled on the newest edition of "Our Bodies, Ourselves," after a while. I was actually more drawn to the hippie books, the ones that talk about drinking marshmallow root and never taking a drug again, but I decided that it was best to trust a collective of real doctors rather than someone who'd interviewed, oh, witches. Or spiritual healers. Plus, the book I got has both practical medical advice as well as alternative techniques. Perfect. Border's was warm with Christmas decorations and people and I was being such a proactive non-victim! When I headed out into the damp night I felt nothing but pride. And only a little bit of stinging.

I got home and poured myself a glass of water. I sat on the couch and turned the radio to the classical station. The dogs lay peacefully at my feet, although completely aware that I wasn't up to their antics. I sat down and read my new book. Neighbors' windows shown brightly up and down the street. I started to get excited about the season. J came home and asked how I was doing and sat down with me. Everything was so cozy, and then he spotted my new book, said how great it was that I'd bought it and was looking into my health, opened it, turned to a black and white diagram of the female reproductive system, took a sharp intake of breath and said, "Look!"

I promise to love, honor and obey you

My new LG phone
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

My new cell phone. Isn't it lovely?

I did it again, Christy

J had us wake up at 3:30 a.m. to make the Thanksgiving journey to D.C. I can't complain now because the trip took barely four hours and we encountered no traffic. Plus, as promised, I was allowed to sleep the entire way while he drove. It was a good idea. But at the time I was ready to kill - waking up before sunrise to travel being one of the top 10 things I hate to do.

I must say, however, that the quick trip was a great start to a just-about-perfect holiday break. My new husband spent his first Thanksgiving with the Rotondaros. Over dinner, after each naming one thing we were thankful for (I demanded it), we talked family gossip and about the dogs. My father lamented Lucy's submissive nature - the fact that she makes a face like a "Chinese whore" after she's done something wrong, or believes she's upset my parents in any way. We question the comparison of the labradoodle's facial expression (when eager to please or scared she's upset the humans, she shows her front teeth while wagging her tail and peeing on the floor) to something, well, that we hope, at least, my father's never experienced, but his constant worry about her confidence always rouses the crowd and, personally, I like that he wants the dog to have better self esteem.

After a lot of good wine and a good night's sleep we headed to the Bay Friday and had a delightful late lunch at Cantler's Riverside Inn. It's the kind of place where they lay brown paper down on the table because, yes, you're going to be that messy. We ordered extra-large crabs and beers and then spent the day watching sweet cable (it might be time for J and I, it just might...) and eating Thanksgiving leftovers. J spotted some ducks.

We canned the idea of leaving Saturday to avoid holiday traffic and decided to round up the troops and head out to DC. First to Vinnie's apartment where Max, Grant, J and I had a few cocktails - that wedding yielded a lot of leftover vodka - and met up with Abby before heading to the Brickskellar, home of 7 trillion beers. I'm barely exaggerating. We met up with more friends and decided that, despite D.C. being way cooler, we would head into Alexandria and make a stop at Chadwick's, the bar we love to make fun of but where we always end up at the end of the night due to the magnetic power of the place. It's unheard of to go and not bump into some old friend from high school. We rallied with the new plan and before we finished the last of our big, fancy beers and got on our way I made a quick stop in the bathroom. I hung my grey pea coat on the back of the door, then grabbed it just before departing from the very tiny stall and whipped it 'round my shoulders, exhilarated by the night, my friends, a great end to a great Thanksgiving break. That's when I heard a thump, a clatter and realized my cell phone, the one I'd bought after the famed incident at Christy's party - where I'd dropped my new picture phone into the toilet just before passing out on her bed with her dog and, also, with my rear hanging ever so slightly out of the back of my low cut fashionable jeans which that grad student Brian saw and which, months later, caused him to show me his ass while out in Chapel Hill to make the situation fair, see, because I'd been angry ever since that he didn't, at least, cover me up with a blanket - had flown from my pocket into the toilet. As I'd just flushed the water rushed around the thing, threatening to take it down into the pipes. Thank the Lord that didn't happen because I'm pretty sure that would have caused some plumbing issues and I guess I could have been held to blame for that. I reached in and picked it up, not even concerned with it ever working again like I had been the last time. "It's over," I thought. "I'm going to have to get a new one." I headed out to tell my friends the news. Things weren't so bad. Everyone I would have wanted to call was there with me. Plus, sometimes it's just time for a new phone. And there's nothing like a semi-dramatic end to a holiday break, seeing family and friends, and ushering in the Christmas season with a round of laughter from those you love after sticking your hand in a dirty bar toilet.

Because it's almost Thanksgiving and no one's really reading

I thought you might enjoy this picture of a red-eyed tree frog J took in Costa Rica. We saw him on a night tour and said, over and over again, "But that's just the kind you see on every science book cover!"

Sinners

Have you ever noticed how every teenager who has premarital sex on the WB show "7th Heaven" gets pregnant? Damnit. Did I just admit that I'm watching that? Damnit.

At peace with myself and all God's creatures

I was listening to Ira Flatow's Science Friday segment on NPR recently while puttering around town and heard an interview with Dr. Sylvia Earle, an undersea explorer and marine biologist. Her point: we are ravaging our oceans. One thing I never feel guilty about is eating fish. But when Flatow asked her what fish we could without guilt she paused and her point was clear. No fish. I mean, I don't know her. I don't know that was totally her point. But her discussion of fishing practices around the world - how the methods used kill precious sea coral and destroy underwater mountains - made it clear that she believes we gotta work on this, now - how could we not??? And my world view began to crumble. I've never been a vegetarian or anything - ok, ok, I have. Once as a teenager I decided that the way cows and sheep and pigs were killed by meat producers in America (the big commercial ones, not organic farms or those who raise free-range animals) was enough reason to stop eating meat entirely. I decided that if I was going to do it right I better do it right and not eat fish either. But when my family went to Maine for a two-week vacation I faltered on the first night, had a lobster and decided that being a vegetarian wasn't my lot in life. I've kept with that ever since. Some people have the will power. I don't. While I can practice responsible eating, I'm not gonna stop ordering steak when I'm at a steakhouse. It's funny though. Because lobsters, you know, are thrown into a pot of hot water while still alive, and you'd think if I wanted to do something really humane, I'd give up that, but I didn't see it that way. Anyway, the point is that I'm not a vegetarian. I do try to do the right thing though and I've thought for a while now that doing the right thing is eating fish now and then. The non-mercury laden kind. It's good for your heart. I never even think about the oceans. The little nettles and brine shrimp and whatever the hell else this lady was talking about. It took me a while, and an assertion from J ("Cara. Our oceans our huge.") to remind me that she was an extreme person on this one subject. I'm not. I mean, I still, to this day, don't eat veal because I learned when I was very young how those poor baby cows are treated. You can only live carrying so many torches, though. I wish the world could be a perfect place in this regard but I know it's not - not yet anyway. And lobsters - I mean, let's get straight on this, they don't really have that many pain receptors, right?

She's regained the lead

Mina
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

You may call me hateful. You may say I'm abusive - but the truth is, I don't always love my dogs equally.

It's a lot of fun having a big dog and a small dog. It's fun to put peanut butter on their noses and watch them try to lick it off one another. It's fun when the big dog, Cecilia, gets a tasty bone and hunkers down on the carpet, happily chewing, and then Mina gently glides onto her back and goes to town, humping like a horny gerbil on a whale.

As most of my friends know, Mina will always claim a special place in my heart. I might go as far as to say that she claims the part of my heart that keeps me alive, that if anything were to happen to her I'd die, my heart would simply stop beating. But I must admit that as of late my attentions have been diverted. Cecilia's been campaigning hard. We took a walk in the woods with her recently, something she's always enjoyed. We hadn't gone in months and the leaves, the creek, the sheer joy of life - it was all so thrilling to her that she filled with love and practically floated above the footpath. She and I have been taking jaunty walks along Barclay Road, checking out the mailbox scents and shooting one another adoring looks before coming home to cuddle on the floor. She's a little much, admittedly. When visitors arrive Cecilia nearly faints with excitement. Her energy is vertical. Her ebuilliance, however, is growing on me in ways I never thought it could. She wants to please her fellow beings on this Earth. When she comes on too strong it's followed by remorse. When she acts angry, it's because of fear.

Mina has been watching our suddenly frequent lovefests with the disdain that she has come to perfect. While Cecilia is compassionate, Mina is manipulative. While Cecilia is generous, Mina stands over the cat's head while he eats his food every night, which takes forever because he has practically no teeth, until he's finished the last crumb in the faint hope that she'll be provided a tiny morsel and thus will deny this morsel to anyone else.

Today, though, today something happened.

The dogs were out in the back yard and I was inside waiting for our new couch to be delivered. I visited them, taunting them with my hot coffee and my thumbs, giving me the ability to go inside and do whatever the hell I wanted, when I noticed Mina was shivering. It has gotten colder, and she's a ham for attention so I put on her nice knit sweater. She's got a couple and her wearing them - in addition to providing her warmth - provides me with humor.

When the couch and delivery men finally arrived I expected a typical uproar from the tiny animal, but there was none and after they'd departed I rushed out back to see what in the world was the matter. Mina was in the the yard, her tail down, her clothing crooked. I'm not sure what kind of incident occurred to cause her such distress. Perhaps she'd had a particularly jarring memory from childhood or maybe she'd been caught on a twig. You never know because of the complex nature of her mind, but occasionally she does have her moments. And she needs support.

When I brought Mina inside she immediately retreated to her safe place under the bed. I coaxed her out but she was not recovering from the unknown trauma well. So I did the only thing I knew to do. I brought her into the kitchen and held her while I fed her treat after treat from the cylindrical glass canister on the counter. She ate. She gave me kisses. I didn't even care about the poop that might result, I just wanted my baby back. When she seemed satiated I put her down. She wagged her tail and was off to explore the new furniture. Her calorie-induced euphoria didn't last all that long. Soon she was back in the bedroom, this time up on the bed at least, her head upon her paws and her eyes hard and serious, thinking about whatever she'd experienced earlier, and perhaps delving into other philosophical quandaries. I peered out the window and saw Cecilia standing on a plastic lawn chair looking for squirrels.

I love them both, but my heart only aches for one dog and that is my trailer park princess.

I am only bringing this up because he is not injured badly...

But I cannot lie. I enjoyed a few good moments of hysterical laughter when I saw this on the five o'clock news.

(Please watch the video. You might have to sit through a commercial, but please do. Also, please don't hate me for finding this so humorous.)

I'm getting fat and leading an unproductive life.

Monday night J and I went to our first electronic music show and it was incredible. We saw LCD Soundsystem, which consisted of an entire band, and not just some guy with a synthesizer, as well as movie screens above the stage depicting various seemingly drug-induced images that were really just real-time shots of the band members as they totally got down. I actually was worried before the show. I asked J, "Hey, is everyone going to be doing ecstasy? Am I going to see every hipster I've ever met in North Carolina?" He assured me that, no, there'd be no drugs, more like "nerdy computer guys." I asked all these questions because I was cranky. I was tired and knew we'd be up late and I felt that I'd rather spend that quality time focusing on my inadequacies as a human. So I laid on the couch while poor J tried to soothe me. I blathered on about how my clothes were tight and how I had not done one important thing that day. It was quite an unattractive state, I'm sure, but my loving husband simply snuggled up next to me on the plaid fabric and told me I was important. When one is in a mood such as I was Monday night the best thing that can happen is for someone that person loves to sit down with them and listen, but not judge, even if the complaints, uttered in serious and dramatic tones, often accompanied by tears, delve into the "I just want to eat tons of ice cream, I just want to but I can't," or the "I'm sitting here, watching TV when I could be doing so much more so much MORE," realm. I'm enjoying being a newlywed. Sweet words of love and rockin' concerts. When we got to the show I discovered I was right. Every supercool individual I'd ever known, all with jagged haircuts and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans in their hands, was there. We also quickly encountered two sexed up music lovers locked in a passionate make-out session. "See," I said knowingly. "I told you there'd be ecstasy here."

"Hey! Everybody! We're gonna take a picture!"

Very end of the night, our wedding.

Go team! GO!

Boston University was a cesspool of apathy. Now wait one second before you go poo-pooing all the Eurotrash and rich kids. I loved attending BU. Everything from hearing an incredibly moving speech by Elie Wiesel, a visiting professor at the time, my freshman year and realizing I was going to have a lot of great opportunities in college, to drinking cold ones with the shirtless, angry Red Sox fans.

But when our equally hated and respected chancellor, John Silber, woke up cranky one morning in 1997 and decided to scrap the BU football team in one fell swoop, well, who could blame him? I mean, except for the football players who where there on scholarship and suddenly had no reason to live. Our team a) wasn't good and b) was very bad. Besides hockey - which I still bring up everyone talks about college (We RULED at ice hockey, we RUULLLLLLEEEDDDDD!") - we BU kids weren't much in it for the sport. In fact, the school was so big and so varied (one of the things I loved about being there) that it was pretty hard for any passionate soul to generate enthusiasm for any cause, great or small. I remember once watching a group of about 15 admirable protesters marching in the light rain one morning, their cause: sweat shops. Their plan: to get everybody roused about the horrors going on in sweatshops around the world. People, for the most part, unfortunately, took one look at this group, this sad, wet little group, and turned back to their friends and their raspberry mochas without so much as a thought about inequity in the world.

Hockey. I'm telling you, that's all we cared about. And how much Boston College sucked at everything.

So today, friends, is going to be pretty neat. I'm headed out to watch the UNC/Maryland game on Franklin Street, and then will meet my friend at his old fraternity for some beer and rejoicing. Or sadness, whatever. My guess is it will still be a party. I'm going to summon the part of myself that always hurt, like an injured bird, at not being able to get into college sport, and I'm going to yell for the team when they make a touchdown! Or, when they do other important football maneuvers.

Yeah. We sleep in the same bed, suckers!

This morning Josephine and I were engaging in our routine chit chat - "It's windy!" "It's a beautiful fall day!" "It's so windy!" - when all of a sudden I heard myself utter the words, "Yeah, this morning Justin said it rained a little last night..." before I caught myself and with a slight gasp got ready to add the qualifying "I mean, I called him and he said," or "he dropped by and told me," in order to, well, not really lie, but make it seem at least a little possible that the two of us aren't living in sin outright. I like to let whoever it is - the religious or elderly or judgmental person - decide for themselves whether or not we deserve to go right to Hell. But then I remembered we got married. Ha! Married! And I continued on confidently with our always stimulating conversation, "but when I got up, well, it was sunny." And Josephine said, "Yup! I didn't hear the rain!" Two married ladies talkin' 'bout the weather.

A common suggestion/I need some help

Me: "I'm bored."

Suggestion-provider: "You should write a book!"

I agree, and am going to need some book-worthy topic suggestions in the comments section of this post, please. Let's make this a joint effort. I'll keep you guys up to date on my progress! Now, remember: 1) I'm not good at writing fiction. I like real-life. Humorous subjects, preferably. 2) History isn't my greatest subject, so nothing about past wars and whatnot, ok? Don't overestimate my skills. I get facts wrong all the time.

My husband, vessel of compassion

To celebrate the first of many mile markers in our marriage, I got up early and made pancakes this morning. We sat at the coffee table eating breakfast and drinking coffee and watching the Today show. There was this segment about overweight teens. One girl was saying, as she cried, that when she walked into public places people would actually look up from whatever they were doing and stare at her, and J, without a moment's hesitation, said, "It's because you're fat!"

HAPPY ONE MONTH ANNIVERSARY BABY!

Uh oh. Someone's exploring the meaning of life.

I spent this weekend on a mission to get the house back in working order. Because you can't sit and chill when there are packing peanuts all up under the end tables, or when you've got to put the boxes of new cutlery on the floor in order to get a good view of the television set. I worked until I felt that the level of organization was sufficient, and believe me, my standards were high. I rubbed stains out of the carpet and washed the dogs and put new collars that smell new on the dogs. It was serious business. I worked so seriously that last night, for the first time in what seems an eternity, I was able to make dinner (clean kitchen floor nothing sticking to my bare feet) and relax reading a magazine (one of 5 or so, not one of hundreds, piling up for months...and months on the coffee table...), drink a glass of wine on the couch (old and without legs because we had to saw them off to get it in the house but we bought a new one yesterday to be delivered next week!) surrounded by a space where, you know, I could get stuff done. My worries regarding everything from finishing thank you notes to the generalized "doing more with my life" were so hard to really act on when I couldn't even get in the front door without stubbing my toe or hitting my head - multiple times.

Then when I arrived at work this morning, at a desk I'd cleaned off before leaving Friday, I finished my stories. That's right. I wrote all my stories. I didn't let myself eat lunch or look at emails til I'd finished. I started to think about how awesome it would be to get home later tonight after the Pittsboro Planning Board meeting and have done so much today because I'd finished my work so early. And I had a whole afternoon free! I could...I could...Well, for one thing, I could check Friendster, which has once again become an evil and enticing distraction for me after months of ignoring it. But after that bout of indulgence I realized I was out. I was out of frantic measures in which to procrastinate and so I ran some errands and opened up "Personal Finance for Dummies," which I toted along with me today. I ate my lunch and read. Can I tell you how many times I've said I'll eat my lunch while reading a helpful and enlightening book? I can. 873,383 times.

This all followed jogging with the dog this morning and eating a healthy breakfast. Also having the time to enjoy a full cup of coffee and therefore forgoing the usual bringing the coffee cup in the car with me, where it gets chipped, and then having J ask, "Jeez. Why do our coffee mugs all get chipped?" and my responding, "Huh."

But I suddenly felt a rush of panic as I wondered if reading a financial strategies book, which I realize isn't the pinnacle of responsibility but I honestly do think will be helpful, was the best way to spend my precious time - time made even more precious by the fact that due to my rash and obsessive actions this weekend - I now feel...caught up.

I feel caught up.

I've still got a hell of a lot of bills to put in the mail. I've still got the thank you notes and sure, there will be some dishes to do later on, but I've achieved that always-elusive togetherness that I've scolded myself for not having in the past. Watching a movie and eating popcorn when the kitchen's all messy because I'm so, so tired, or driving back and forth to DC every single weekend to plan a wedding and never getting a chance to catch up. I don't feel like that today - and I didn't know what to do.

I started wondering how to make each day worth it on the grand scale. How much do I need to do in order to say I'm working hard to achieve my personal goals? I realize it's different for every person, so where do I fall? It really started to get to me.

Then, for no reason other than I was up for another distraction, I pulled up the pictures my friend Sarah had sent us all after the trip to Vegas for my bachelorette party. And I started flipping through the album on my computer and remembering the adventures - from champagne in the limo to handstands in the pool at the Mirage to the cop in the hotel room. The cop. Who arrived because of the noise violation. For which we needed to be frisked. And then, you know, he got hot, and seemed more comfortable in his thong...

It was very enlightening. Not all the debauchery, heavens no, but the pictures of the girls I loved. And I mean, I couldn't fit all the people I love in Vegas, not on that one weekend anyway, but you know, I got to thinking.

The other night at a party my friend Eric and I were talking about the wedding, people he'd met, and I told him how great my high school friends were. "We write emails to one another every day," I said. "Eight of us."

And he said, "No way."

And I said, "Yeah, we do."

And he said, "That's awesome."

True, it is. I thought about that conversation after going through this misery of wondering how to best spend my time and stumbling upon some pictures from a few months ago for a reason, I think. And that reason is that I needed to remember that things like that weekend are important, too. They're just as if not more important as making a living and furthering one's career and managing your finances. In fact, most of us do those other things in order to feel good about ourselves, and to be able to let loose with nine friends in Vegas.

Ok. Maybe not just to be able to do that, but you get what I'm saying. My family and all the friends I've even known - and I mean since childhood and also the ones I've met in the past couple of years or only recently - give me a reason never to feel the way I was feeling just a little while ago, at least if I can stop and remember that the experiences I've had with those people - like Vegas, getting married, nights talking at the James Joyce pub, giving and receiving Christmas presents, going to concerts, talking over coffee, celebrating new babies, hatching hot new business plans and on and on - those experiences drive me to do the things that matter. Like writing. Not getting the house all settled. That doesn't quite do it. Although I can't downplay the sweet joy of having a clean path to the refrigerator.

Of course Justin is a huge part of all this. I swear I could die happy right now just knowing the people I've known and having the chance to be with someone who - and I mean it - I can't imagine living without now that I've met him. And I don't mean because I'm lost without a partner, or that I can't live life on my own. I mean that everything is just so much better because I'm with him. Better than I thought it could ever be.

I've sort of lost my original line of thinking here, but I hope the point is still loud and clear. It's a beautiful day here in North Carolina. Josephine brought me some homemade baked goods she'd purchased at a church fundraiser this weekend a little while ago, and a dog is sleeping contentedly at my feet. So I really had no reason to feel worried in the first place. But when I did, when I wondered what to do next, and had no prospects, I realized I was being a little hard on myself. And I realized that through thinking about all the people who mean so much to me, because there's just no way - no way! - my life couldn't be good with them in it. It's so good. I'm so lucky.

Look what I've gotten myself into

11:00 am, November 5-

"Cara, you've got to be on the ready today, because if I see a Flicker*, I'm going to be like 'Cara! Come quick! I see a Flicker!"

*Northern Flicker: a woodpecker indigenous to North Carolina that has been frequenting our feeder.

Those oversexed Republicans

Some Saturday morning reading for you all (thanks for the link, Cate!)

That's how good it is

J and I spent a good amount of time last night watching an episode of "Six Feet Under," season one, which we'd received from Netflix that day, despite the fact that there was a very obvious crack in the DVD and roughly half of the episode was really unwatchable. As the characters jerked around and opened their mouths, and as their voices erupted from time to time in untranslatable spurts, we sat on the edge of the couch, straining to get the idea, adamant that this rough spot would be over shortly. It wasn't. In fact, at times the picture simply faded into black, the DVD player obviously trying to tell us, "Take it out! Take this damaged merchandise out of me!" But it was so hard to come to terms with. I mean, we couldn't just move on to the next episode like we'd fully digested the previous one. So we had to send an error report to Netflix and are anxiously awaiting a replacement disk. We didn't do so without fully exhausting all resources, however. There were several serious wipe-downs of the defective disk with a soft cloth and even a bout with Spanish subtitles (English wasn't available). We'd shout out in unison when we were able to translate correctly, which was a lot of fun, but it would have been even better, honestly, if the thing just worked.

More about my father and cell phones

I may have mentioned this previously, but my father was one of the first people in the world to acquire a cell phone. It was very large and very embarrassing, especially for me, his teenage daughter at the time. When I was thinking about what I'd like to do after graduating from high school and my family took trips up and down the east coast visiting various colleges, my father brought his cell phone with him. His friends and business cohorts were the other five or six first people in the world to have cell phones and they'd call him while I, and the other nervous teenagers, were listening to our 9000th speech about why this school was the best one for us. Since it was new, my Dad didn't want to turn it off and he'd answer it while exiting the very quiet room where the nice college students were briefing us about student life, like playing chess in the union or just chilling in the hallways with our new best friends. Suddenly I'd hear my father's voice, the loudest of loud whispers, at the back of the room, and then in the hallway, always failing to fade out: "Bob? Bob? Can you hear me? I'm up in Vermont Bob. Bob? Hello? I'm not in the best area."

Now that I'm more mature you might think there is no way he could embarrass me like that again. And that's true. Those delicate years when I was a teen were priceless in the embarrassment arena. Just when I thought I was free of it all, my Dad would go and do something like trip over the doorway to the biggest dorm at Boston University (where I'd spend the next four years of my life) on the first day of my college career, as all the college freshmen - my new friends for Christ's sake! - milled around and made introductions. Oh, and all the upperclassmen in charge of signing us in had to go help him up. Oh, and also, he had a broken nose and a broken arm in a sling because he'd fallen down while on vacation the week before. So, you know, it wasn't that subtle or anything.

But he can still do it, if only a little. With the changing times comes new technology, like smaller cell phones. And cell phones with speaker phone functions, which my father likes and doesn't know how to turn off. So I'll be hanging out, just chilling with my friends or enjoying a calm and peaceful moment, say, in a restaurant with my family, and the phone, the phone of ages past (in spirit if not in actual substance) will ring and he can't not pick it up and when he does it turns out it's still on speaker mode. He doesn't know how to turn it off. So not only is everyone subject to his loud "Hello? Hello? Hello?" (sometimes in a foreign accent if he's not sure who the call is from - his tactic is to pretend he's Chinese or Irish if it turns out to be a salesman, that way he can tell them he's not sure where Mr. Fred is at the moment) but everyone is also subject to whoever is on the other line. Their voice comes through the microphone loud and clear, usually shouting something like, "Fred, hey, I can hear you."

Good friends and a fashionable dog

(photo credit to the very talented Randolph)

My wedding was a lot of things. It was fun. It was crazy. There were friends and family, too numerous to count. It was rainy and muddy and there was a lot of dancing. But in all that hubbub, I'm really glad Rochelle and Max got to spend some time with Mina in her princess gown and hat. There is no denying the pure joy that dog experienced when I placed the fancy silks upon her tiny body. You can see it in her eyes.

Halloween in the cinderblock cottage

Last night's first trick-or-treater assured me that I'd like to have four or five thousand kids. She was a princess, or a witch, I don't remember because I was so enthralled at her presence. She was adorable, and kept opening her bag to show me the goods she'd received stopping at neighbors' doors. Her mom, waiting nearby, said "If you get too much, I can finish it off," and I replied "Yes, I'm sure your mom wouldn't mind doing that!" She laughed. Camaraderie. "I'm going to have one of these," my response told her, as I cooed over her festively-costumed daughter.

Last night was the first in a few years that J and I opted to stay away from the party on Franklin St. and instead spend the holiday at home handing out candy. Tens of thousands of revellers descend upon Chapel Hill's main drag every Halloween. The costumes are outrageous and the bars packed. It's not that I don't like that. It's an incredibly good time. But what with already having attended a party over the weekend, and then the fact that, for instance, I don't have any clothes to wear, because getting to my clothes involves a complicated series of obstacles jumping over extremely expensive china and the kitty litter box to get to the dirty laundry because that's all I have left to wear, well, I figured it would be best to stay at home and work on that situation. Plus, there was a big bag of candy at home. For the kids. Sure. For the kids.

So I decided to make the most of it. I bought a pumpkin and spread out newspapers all over the floor and got to work with a sharp knife. I cut out triangles for the eyes and then when starting on the very creative "O" mouth, because that would be the easiest and fastest I figured, I cut two fingers on my right hand. Sliced 'em right open and had to quickly place two band-aids a piece on each. Since the sun was quickly setting I didn't let the injury deter me from my goal and, once bandaged, went right back in for the finish. I placed a candle in my masterpiece and set it on the front step to beckon the masses.

Last year we had a big Halloween party at the last house we rented. Friends were in town. Friends were sleeping on the couches and in their cars and on the porch. The floor was covered in sticky beer residue and we were covered in sticky beer residue and that didn't stop us from getting some Bojangles biscuits and getting right back to work the next day. We headed out to a bar and then to Franklin St. that night for the annual costume party. The next day at work I wanted to give a severe beating to whoever'd made me think it was an ok to do all those activities involving beer. It wasn't my finest hour.

But see this year, despite the fact that we didn't go out, and whenever I told people we weren't going out, they would reply "Oh, because you're married now?" (sidenote: Don't say that. It's not funny), the holiday was still eventful and even painful. Bloody fingers and dealing with those kids who, when I said, "Oh, take whatever you want!" took just about all the candy...we still enjoyed the holiday. And it's just as hard avoiding the basket of individually-wrapped delectable sweets the next day as it is having a hangover.