Sweet sweet, sweeter sweeter

A few weekends ago J and I drove to Raleigh to see Caitlin Cary, Jason Isbell and Kevin Kinney at the Pour House, one of my favorite bars in Raleigh. The singers, all members of other bands, were doing a reprise of a show they did together last year, in which they told some stories, sang songs (naturally) and drank a lot of whiskey. I like it when performers drink as well as the audience, so this immediately made me happy. Before the show all three were just wandering around the bar, hanging out with their friends and whatnot, and I kept trying to get J to go and talk to Jason Isbell, who sings in one of his favorite bands, the Drive by Truckers ("favorite" = listens to them non-stop in vehicle and sings along and then says to wife, "just one more, I promise" but really he means we are never, ever going to listen to anything else again). Since J, of course, would have nothing to do with my plans of befriending the young, hip singer, I had a lot of fun, instead, pretending like I was going to talk to the guy when he'd walk nearby, and J, in his always endearing fashion, would pretend he had no idea what I was doing and began saying "what?" and "huh?" and getting that terrified "please PLEASE DON'T do this to me" look in his eyes and then briskly bringing up a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with anything, like you know, about the beer, for instance: "This is really good beer." ("Please, Cara. Please do not a)talk to the singer b)call out his name c)tell me to go talk to him when he is walking nearby. Please don't. Please. Just look at me and talk to me about the beer.) You should know that J gets this way whether it's a semi-famous singer or just some random individual he knows from Chapel Hill.

After the singers took the stage and J had calmed down (both because there was no more threat of my attempting to make friends with semi-famous people and because he'd had a few drinks) we settled into the smoky crowd of fans and listened to a really great show. People sang along - the right words and also the wrong words, but nobody cared - and swayed to the music and talked back to the singers when they asked questions or beckoned for more whiskey. We were feeling pretty awesome when we stepped out into the frigid night air and then deflated like two beer-filled balloons when we went to start my Honda and it emitted an awful, burning smell, sputtered and shut right back down. After several more attempts we began to worry about the car exploding (we jump to conclusions sometimes) and called AAA to get the vehicle towed back to Chapel Hill. We rode up with the driver all the way back. J fell asleep and I struggled to stay awake, thinking about how I had to go to work in five hours and about my car, bumping along on the truck in back of us.

We hadn't eaten dinner, so by the time we got home (which involved walking to J's car that he'd left at work after dropping the Honda off at a repair shop) all we wanted to do is get in bed, get warm and eat snacks, which come to think of it, is the best thing you can do anytime, anyplace, even if you haven't just ridden 40 miles in a tow truck.

It turned out, we discovered a few days later, that my car's air compressor unit had locked up and the whole system needed to be replaced, which costs thousands of dollars. This is when I started thinking about a new car - how that was all I wanted and how my current car has been nothing but trouble and shouldn't I just get a new car? Of course I should. Several days later I found out that the case I'd made to Honda ("I just don't think this sort of thing should happen") had WORKED and they were going to pay for the entire repair. Then I realized how awesome my sweet little two-door is and how I never wanted to let it go, not ever, sweet little car.

This is the incident that preceded the holidays. This was the first Christmas that J and I shared and we decided that it would be best to drive 567 billion miles up and down the east coast. We did and it was amazing. Not only was I not even the slightest bit sad upon waking up Christmas morning and realizing I was in, good God, Connecticut! - being denied the chance to wake my brother up early and enjoy my parent's too-strong coffee and presents in the living room - but I was, well, incredibly happy sitting in a different living room with a new family with whom I now share a last name: McDuna. We made it back to DC in time for dinner with my family, amassed more presents and spend a relaxing Monday eating candies and cheese and cracker platters before getting up the next morning, hours before dawn, to drive back to North Carolina, which, as you all know, is my favorite thing to do (to those of you who do not know me, it is my least favorite thing to do).

Of course you know what I'm getting at here: I got another urinary tract infection, and as my father so aptly pointed out to me in an email:
"Cara. Love. Mom and I think that your u infections come when you are under sress and tired. Tjhe christmas season for exemple."
It's true. This is my body's weakness and it flares up when my body is stressed, when I've been traveling a lot or not sleeping enough, or, tjhe christmas season, for exemple.

So after a wonderful, if busy, December, I ended the month leading up to the New Year's holiday with a raging U.T.I. and the promise that I'd try and calm down a little, or maybe eat less sugar, or maybe just become more content, for my poor tract's sake after all. Tuesday night, following an afternoon sick at home watching "Best in Show" and then a few episodes of "Six Feet Under" with J, we realized we were hungry and it was time for dinner and because I felt somewhat better we decided to drive down to Foster's market for some (healthy) takeout before we plopped back down on the couch for some more marathon television watching. When we got in the Saturn, which we've been sharing since my car's been in the shop, I was assaulted by a harsh, high-pitched chirping and wondered if I crushed a tiny bird in the door. But no, it was only a CD. A CD, in fact, that I had purchased, adding to the mania. The Birds of the Carolinas audio CD, to be exact, which features naturalist and author Stan Tekeila's commentary followed by a wide range of bird calls and songs. The best part, and by that I mean the best part to make fun of, is when Tekeila includes a mnemonic to help the birder remember what each one sounds like. Like the bird who says "Drink your teeeaaaaa!" or, my favorite, the song that goes, "Sweet sweet, sweeter sweeter."

After I got the picture and realized that there was no bird in the car, per se, but merely a bird CD, I chided my new husband about his hobby, lovingly, and we talked a little bit about some steps he could take to get even more serious about birding if he wanted to. I already knew about these very steps because when we were at my parent's house I'd spotted an email my mother had printed out and left for J, which was, no lie, the nerdiest email I'd ever seen EVER and which included birding tips from her coworker's brother and a paragraph that began "If he wants to get more serious about birding..." and then went on to name some crucial instruments like a scope and tripod. So, yeah, I told J, yeah I know all about the scope and all about that nerd email. Talking about some things other than how many times I had to go to the bathroom helped me to feel better, and so did the night home and the hours of sleep and now I'm ready, strong, for an entire weekend of New Year's festivities before the long, boring winter months set in, the months that are, really, exactly what we need.

We talk about the classics

J.A.M. "Did you see Vinnie's new classical guitar?"
C.M.M. "Yeah. But I don't understand what makes it 'classical.'"
J.A.M. "The strings are plastic, and the way it's designed...Did you hear me playing Bach?"
C.M.M. "How do you know how to play Bach?"
J.A.M. "Well, it's like, a Jethro Tull version of Bach."

31 wonderful years

(HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!)

Papa Rotondaro takes all

My dad, he beat me, THIS TIME ANYWAY! Be on the lookout for more essay contests in the new year.

Also be on the lookout for a post on me and J's awesome weekend, which ended in my car dying on the side of the road on a cold Sunday evening, and which, I am told, will cost thousands of dollars to fix. That's coming up soon.

I'm in an excited mood. I've just wrapped up a lot of this week's business matters, including all stressful calls to Honda, re: Why in the name of God does my car keep breaking, guys COME ON!, we're about to go on Christmas break and spend time with family and friends, and then it will be one of my favorite holidays, New Year's, which, as we all know, means turning over a new leaf, and also, a big party. I'm anxious to see what 2006 will bring, besides my turning 28, and dear Lord, how mature that sounds. I greatly enjoy the three week-or-so period in which all these things happen. Eating too much and swearing not to eat too much in a hastily-made resolution. Having too much to do but blaming that on the season and then doing too much. Making deeply-felt promises to loved ones after clinking glasses, like "I love you so much, no sooo much, seriously, this year, this year we are going to spend so much time together soooo much time I love you so much" and then you blink and it's time to make good on those promises and you're all ready because last year's over and the bleak winter months are a blank, clean slate.

First essay contest: The Holidays

Readers, welcome to the first-ever No Agenda essay contest. Below are two essays on the holiday season, one written by me and one written by my father, Mr. Alfred Rotondaro. If you'd like to cast a vote for which essay you prefer, please do so in the "comments" section. A contest is exactly what this blog needed, in my opinion. Let the games begin.

My essay on the holidays, by Cara McDonough
The Christmas spirit nearly bowled me over as I was standing in line at a security checkpoint - shoes off, bags under the x-ray - at an airport several weeks ago.

I had reached up to grab a plastic tub in which to place my coat and scarf for the guards when I heard a female voice say, rather curtly, "I need that."

The offense was so small I barely recognized it.

But I did. I did take note.

This was a hallmark in the joyous beginning of the holiday season, when traveling is frequent and every place, from the mall to the highway, is crowded with people hurrying to get that perfect present or visit every last family member, every last friend.

And my neighbor in line was feeling it.

She offered no "please," no smile and no qualms regarding her discourteous behavior.

I had made a simple mistake, if you can even call it that, by grabbing a bin she'd hoped to procure, and she was angry.

Everybody knows that Christmas is stressful. The reasons I mentioned are the big ones - traveling, busy schedules, spending money - it's not all Santa and cookies like when we were little.

So it's not simple anymore. But why can't we be patient, and maybe even a little nice to one another?

It's something I wonder about in general, but especially during the holidays.

The season is often described as people's favorite time of year, as well as the most stressful time of year. That has always seemed slightly comical to me, even though it's true for obvious reasons.

Because we can't get around those reasons, we are limited in how we deal.

When the woman made her brash remark and took her plastic bin I felt a flash of anger. I'm not above holiday stress.

I thought of lashing back with a rude, "Excuse me!" or a scathing look.

Then I looked at the line of people behind us, fellow travelers stuck with the same circumstances.

I noticed the expanse of hard, cold land outside the large airport windows. It was frigid that day, winter approaching.

I noticed the holiday decor up in the building, placed in a futile attempt at making spirits bright and I made a decision.

I laughed and said I was sorry and let my own personal holiday stress dissolve. My limbs felt lighter.

And as if that weren't enough, the old adage that those who give shall receive rang true and my sock-footed friend smiled back.


My essay on the holidays, by Fred Rotondaro
Many of us look to the holidays with intermingled feelings of joy and dread.

I am one of those.

The holidays are life in miniature.

They are passion and boredom, rote activity and opportunities to show love and maybe a little disdain, life and death.

The holidays overwhelm us and they depress us. We eat and drink too much, sleep too little, and now we have a new mini-crisis to give us additional stress.

Is it Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas--or my favorite, have a holy Christmas, because that is what it's all about, isn't it?

I have vivid recolections of my early Christmas holidays.

My father in his favorite chair being as gracious as he could be to our hordes of relatives, and me sayiing "don't worry, Pop, they'll all be gone in a few hours. You can make it."

And my mother always winding up in a hospital because she ate all the wrong things causing her heart fluids to go up, whatever that means.

And my uncle Fred, the soft spoken Marine combat veteran, with his namesake, me, in tow visiting our relatives on Christmas Eve to discuss/argue politics and society and religion.

The holidays, for me that means Christmas, for others a wonderful variety of other meanings, are indeed life. And like life, they offer the chance for renewal-a renewal that can be grounded in faith in God, belief in the goodness of man, or anything that inspires us to reach beyond our reach.

It is time to end this little essay I am, after all, busy...shopping to satisfy the deamds of our secular Christmas, finding quiet time to think and pray to satisfy my religious Christmas.

And remembering always to draw distinctions because as P.G. Wodehouse wrote, "Christmas is once again at our throat."

"A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight."

Moments I'll recall when trying to convince my children that their mother was once "cool," very cool.

Not that the children are on their way just yet, but I've been feeling rather emotional this week and that leads to nostalgic thoughts, moments that really stuck, that have helped me to grow, or at least laugh - I create montages to soft music in my head as I remember the time when...oh, there have been so many and there's no time to name them all (although honestly, maybe there is) so I'll start with a few:

1) The night the Star Club was formed, high school. While there's been considerable debate regarding this night amongst my friends (and no doubt this post will cause more) the feeling surrounding that significant moment, even if we've since conglomerated many different memories from many different nights into one that symbolized all, were magical. The crux of the situation - me and four friends bursting out into the night and forming a star formation on the black pavement at my house by stretching our hands and feet out to touch one another's (Was it after a school dance? Had we been dipping into Mom's amaretto again? These are details that will never be secured) is cemented in my mind as one of the most striking moments of friendship and love that ever occurred on this Earth. Since then our little club has grown to be not so much a club of only five, but instead a group of people who share the same memories, but more importantly, the same bonds now, in the present, and some of us a small scar on the top of our left ears from an ill-fated trip to the mall to get star-shaped earrings placed there as a reminder of our supreme love, but then that particular spot was irritable for some of us and we were forced to take them out after only a few days.

2) When Erin drew Domino on her sweatpants, freshman year. In our dorm room, the front door of which was adorned with everything from power point slides to ads for prostitutes (No, really. There was no disguising what "Ladies of Distinction" was all about) cut from the Yellow Pages, Erin and I had a mini-fridge, and one of our favorite things to put in that mini-fridge was Magic Hat, Miller Lites, Pete's Wicked Ale and other types of beer that we'd get Priya, who was 17, to buy us at Star Market because she was the only one we knew smart enough to come to college with a proper ID, necessary for such purchases. One night Erin, Mary Steele and I were hanging out, drinking some frosty brews and just, oh, bein' freshman!!!, and we were getting pretty wasted (we'd probably had about two each) when Erin (who, just by the way, was wearing safety goggles, I don't know, for fun) grabbed a black Sharpie, ripped off the cap, and drew a caterpillar on her white sweatpant leg. Now, there's probably more to the story than this. Not much, mind, you, but probably more, like that we'd been at least talking about caterpillars or something, but all I her remember is her doing it and our thinking it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. And I simultaneously realized that I wanted my life full of moments such as this. And laughter. A few months ago Mary and I were chatting and she asked if Domino (who was - this I do remember - named after the Van Morrison song) would be at the wedding.

3) The moment we almost died (or fell over, anyway), Uwharrie National Park, North Carolina. The fall after I'd met J, as well as my wonderful friends Carissa and Bethany, a bunch of us took a camping trip in a gorgeous park for a weekend. The trip is still talked about all the time because of the extraordinary things that happened, for instance, when Karla, Carissa and I were sitting in the woods talking about the chemistry between J and I for the very first time, each with a beer "and a beer on hand," as Carissa liked to put it. The fact that Johnny Justice Johnson Junior fell flat on a rock and got a concussion, but didn't know about it until the week after, and still participated in all our merriment. Max asking if we "wanted to go for a roller coaster ride?" and then slyly, adding, "in my car?", i.e. a little late-night-after-drinks off roading, which we actually ended up doing the next day, but when it was light out and we were well-rested and ready for the adventure. The vehicle I rode in, which just happened to be Johnny-Concussion's S.U.V. was following Max's as we made our way over rocky terrain, very rocky in places and at a certain point the car just couldn't do what we were asking it to and started to tip -the two wheels on the other side actually left the ground. We all realized what was going on at the same moment, shouted exuberantly and threw all our weight back on the car, thus bringing the wheels safely down and we giggled then laughed outright at the feeling of terror so quickly replaced by solidity and got on our way.

I don't like it when

I don't like it when fashion magazines explain to you that the foolproof way some ultra-thin celebrity got so svelte was by eating 4 oz. portions of chicken with vegetables for, like, lunch and dinner, and by only snacking on cucumber slices, but then they've got their cover girl interview on page two and all they can do is gush about how she "went right for the Doritos when she got to the shoot! She eats whatever she wants!" Bastards.

Saturday

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Originally uploaded by caramaria.

All was doom and gloom until I discovered that the packing peanuts included in our latest wedding present, through the magic of static, could be used to adorn the dog's heads. I'm pretty sure this form of entertainment will ward off any misery I suffer at having to stuff them into trash bags while they blow about and end up in the neightbors' yards in the future.

You'll be a man someday, but for now...

Thanks to J's Uncle Bobby, I, as well as all of you out there (J, I am your wife and we are bonded eternally by law and by the Lord above and you cannot divorce me for publishing pictures of you in a bunny rabbit outfit, ok?) can see what my precious husband looked like as a youngster all ready for Halloween, or for just hanging out at home having a good time.
Bobby pulled me aside on our recent trip to Connecticut and handed me a white envelope, explaining that he had some blackmail material for me. There was no way in hell I was going to deprive my friends and the world wide web of this. My Justin. I couldn't love anyone more.

She doesn't want a Rolex

This morning I called my parents to chat during the interminably long drive to Siler City. I was greeted by my father's half-Irish-half-Chinese "Helllooooooooooooooo," which serves to ward off any telemarketers (so that they might think they've reached the wrong house, that couldn't be the voice of one Fred Rotondaro, could it?) Once he'd confirmed that I was, indeed, his daughter, my father told me all about how my mother was "abusing" him because he'd forgotten to buy milk. I could hear her in the background, asserting that buying the milk is "his job" and that she'd asked him to do it, and he hadn't. Later on in the conversation we got to talking about things I wanted for Christmas. My dad put me on speaker and said he was holding the phone up over his head as he lay in bed so that my mom could hear me clearly and talk to me as she moved from bedroom to bathroom, getting ready for work. I asked my father what he wanted for Christmas and before he could fully answer the question my mother loudly interrupted, clearly not over the horror that she'd met upon attempting to have a decent breakfast, "MILK. Cara, I want milk. I want your father to PROMISE ME THERE WILL ALWAYS BE MILK."

Share the gift of a radio dedication with someone you love, or someone you've hurt horribly, this holiday season

You know Delilah? Yeah you do. Well, I was listening to her last night in my car because my cell phone was dead and the only thing I love more than to talk on my cell phone while navigating my way home is to listen to someone as awful as Delilah. She's awful. With her dedications. And her questions. She's always questioning everybody, as though they haven't been through enough, what with their high school sweetheart not returning the romantic feelings the caller had some 45 years ago! She's all "Howard, how did that make you feel, HOW DID IT MAKE YOU FEEL? Bad? I thought so." And then she puts on Richard Marx like everything's totally ok. Last night she was addressing the listeners in general when I caught her. "Have you started your wrapping yet?" "No, Delilah." "Ooooo have you even started your shopping yet?" "No. I haven't." Back and forth, back and forth, until I realized she wasn't a very good friend and changed the station. I kind of feel guilty, talking bad about her like that when she's so beloved and obviously makes some people feel very good about their radio requests, sent out to loved ones, but honestly, I just checked out her site and she looks pretty damn content, and rich, so I'm not too worried about bringing her down a few notches. That's the power of internet publishing.

Roxy Music's "Avalon"

I'm turning 28 in a month, it's rainy and cold and I'm a horrible coward. Yesterday J and I sat in our seats on the airplane, coming back from Connecticut again, just having made the flight after driving to Hartford from Orange in a snowstorm. We had to wait for what seemed like an eternity while men with hoses sprayed pink antifreeze solution over the craft, melting the snow and ice and making it safe for us to fly. As I never think it's safe to fly, due to my slight but not crippling fear of the whole process, this was quite troubling for me. Especially when my man, my strong husband said, "Don't they have to get rid of the snow? Won't it freeze when we get up to a high altitude?" and I explained, "Listen, you've got to be strong for me. When we are on airplanes, you cannot question the flight staff, you cannot be worried, because I cannot handle it." Luckily, they sprayed the snow off no problem and we enjoyed (others enjoyed, I prayed) a very nice flight home.

When we'd flown up a few days before the air out of North Carolina had been particularly choppy and thus, the flight rather turbulent, but just on the way up to cruising altitude, which happens to be my least favorite part. When we landed, J overheard two women - a mother and daughter it appeared - tell a Southwest crew member that it had been their first flight. She, naturally, responded, "Well, it was a little bumpy on the way up," and they replied that it hadn't been bad at all. "Are you kidding me?" I asked J as he recounted the tale. "That was really bad. Worst ever."

It wasn't the worst ever. Also - flying isn't scary. And furthermore, I think I'd better buck up and become an awesome almost-28-year-old. How, you ask? Well, young brother Vinnie and I were having a typical philosophical conversation regarding LIFE on the internet yesterday and he said, nearly word for word that he was sick "of life taking the reins for purposes for evil," in answer to my comment that "I need to stop letting life take control of me instead of the other way around."

Example: My pants are really tight.

Example: My car is really messy.

Example: Sometimes I watch three episodes of "Six Feet Under" in a row and fall asleep and then get upset that I paid the bills late. Again.

Example: Every once in a while, Mina pees on the floor.

And then there are the bigger examples, examples I won't get into here, but examples concerning my potential and the big old "what next?" question.

So I did what any rational person in this position would do. I got excited. About holiday parties and the fact that we don't have any stressful traveling to do for a while. I planned a big night out with friends while maintaining a productive Monday. I bought Roxy Music's album "Avalon."

Don't make fun of me. A little early eighties emotional music never did anyone wrong. That's possibly not true, but for me, driving along the empty roads (North Carolinians choose to keep at home when it's rainy and even approaching anywhere under 40 degrees) listening to "More than This" was like succumbing to a sweet fantasy. The fantasy in which I finally bought the album "Avalon" and am not afraid to admit it. The fantasy in which I drift peacefully, but also joyfully, wildly, into my 28th year, listening to good albums and celebrating the holiday season with family and friends, and keeping an eye on the huge, philosophical picture, like that the two first-timers on the airplane had it right, but also, that I'm allowed my weaknesses, and that hopefully they'll be forcefully overcome by my strengths.

Mystery # 367 regarding southern dialect

Is "complected" a word?

i.e.
"Billy Bob is very fair complected, so the dermatologist said he would need to get him some things looked at."