My hero Dan

We are out at a favorite meeting spot with my group of friends. It's a bar where I've stayed until closing hours many more times than I care to think about. After already having had wine with dinner, I didn't need much more before I'm conducting very loud conversations with my friends and strangers and practicing seated dance moves to the old-school hip hop favorites the DJ is playing. Pretty soon I'm thinking there are some songs we've GOT to here and so make my way up to talk to the guy. While I'm trying to sell him on the merits of playing "Miss Jackson" by Outkast (which he did, immediately) he's telling me a little about himself, like that not only is he the DJ tonight, but also the manager of the place. "You used to come out more often," he tells me. I was surprised that he remembered me, especially my social habits, but naturally didn't think it strange. Stupid. Stupid girl. "What happened?" he asked. "Why don't you come out anymore?" Um, I grew up? My aversion to Tuesday morning hangovers got in the way? There are a lot of reasons. But I just told him I didn't know and ran on back to my friends to inform them of all the incredible songs they were about to hear.

The next time I saw my new friend was outside on the patio where he told me to sit down (didn't think THAT was a big deal either) and began telling me more about his rockin' lifestyle, like how he's the manager and only 24-years-old and what's more he went so State not Carolina, and how any time there was a line outside I should just tell the bouncer hey, I know the manager, and what do you think about that! I was cluelessly responding with whatever admiration I sensed he was expecting when my friend Dan looked over and raised his closed fist in an affectionate "let's punch hello to eachother" guesture. Without even thinking I punched his fist with my left hand and Dan said, "Ouch, your ring almost cut me." I repeat he said: "Ouch, your ring almost cut me," to which the manager replied, "You're engaged?" And I said "Yeah!" and pointed out J inside, and then my new acquantance mumbled some stuff, got out of there and pretty much ignored me for the rest of the night. I was absolutely astonished with Dan's brilliant trick and more importantly, I didn't have to talk to the self-involved manager and DJ anymore (who, for those of you wondering, found himself a new girl in about 2 seconds flat). The lesson here is that when guys you don't know ask you to sit down with them when you are already involved in a perfectly good conversation with your own friends, they are probably hitting on you, and also that engagement rings are sharp, and my hero Dan figured out a good way to put that quality to use.

A successful wedding, clean litter box - it's in the details

My mother, as of late, calls, asks the mandatory "how are you what are you doing?" and within three seconds time had developed the tense, questioning tone that demands: "How is the wedding planning going?" Before I get must past "Well" she's launched into a thorough list of what she's been up to and asks what I think and before I've fully assessed what I think we are pretty much on to the next aspect of the whole affair - tents, food, band - and lately, the wedding planner.

We'd agreed early on that we might not need one and then that we might, but only for the day of, and now that we might and she might need to tell us exactly what to do before we decide upon one more tiny detail. "We might need help with things, Cara, like table linens," my mother explained. Truthfully, I'm very happy with my mother's enthusiasm towards all this and the prospect of a wedding planner. As someone who enjoys planning parties as much as I do, one might think I'd want to do it all on my own, but it's really quite the opposite. If we can get everyone in on this, counting a professional, and furthermore, no one is worried that my friends and I will mess up the house, well, I'm alright with that.

In other good news, even if the unthinkable happens and J and I suddenly cannot stand one another and must part, things will be ok. The other night we talked jovially about who would take who in the case we broke up. Teddy, the cat, would be his, Justin said, Cecilia would be mine and he'd never seen her again, and we'd have joint custody of Mina. I asked Justin if he'd ever cleaned the litter box to which he replied that he'd done it, once, he thought. When I told him he'd need to do it nearly daily he exclaimed "What!? I thought you only did that every month or so!" It's a good thing we love each other so much that Teddy will have us both. It's a good thing we'll have the wedding planner to help infuse that love into a wedding, with the right music, plenty of liquor, and exquisite table linens.

My Tender Heart: A Friday Morning Tale

J and I, like on many other mornings, spent this one with him pushing the snooze button a nearly unbearable amount of times, and both of us announcing, "I'm going to get up," only to roll back over. But after the showers were taken, and bags packed, I managed to make it into my car at 8:30, leaving just enough time to get to Pittsboro and open the office on time. J, like he promised, walked Mina. They were leaving as I pulled out of the garage, and my precious, tiny, mischievous angel mutt ran over to my open window, jumping - straining with all her might to make it up to my face and jump right in with me. J and I laughed at her, and he pulled her over to the grass to commence the coaxing of the poop. When she immediately rounded her little body and let one fly without the normal provocation of a walk all the way down the cul-de-sac and back, J looked up at me in utter surprise. We could not believe the ease of the task on this brisk morning. I gave J the thumbs up, and drove away. I sipped the coffee he had made us that morning. While driving, it spilled a little because I was using a regular, rather than travel, mug. My messy car became more messy as my boy and dog receded in the rear view window.

Benefits of Leaving a Warm Bed for the Exercise Ball

I braved the wintry weather this morning - it fell yesterday, leaving North Carolinians stranded in the momentous one inch of snow. I got in my little car, and drove down the barely iced but rumored to be treacherous streets when the sun had not yet risen. Why? I wanted to be true to my word. I have always told people that if I could just get up, I'd rather go to the gym in the morning. You get it out of the way, there are less people hogging the machines, and it leads to a more productive day, I would tell them. This was spoken from experience of having done such a thing - drive to the gym pre-sunrise - about once, ever, in my life. But since 2005 is the year I've turned 27, am going to make something important of myself, and get married, too, I decided it's time to take on the challenge. Needless to say, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was, waking up at 6, minus the lack of sunlight. I don't mind getting up early, but it always seems a bit wrong to be driving around with a sweatband on and track pants before the stars have dispersed or the morning birds have begun to sing. Who do you think you are? A gymnast with Olympic dreams? Sleep has always been more important to me, as I'm just getting in shape for my own vanity. I must admit though, it has been a good day. And after my struggle on the elliptical machine and attempting and failing to use the bicep curl instrument (luckily that incident was viewed only by a few others up at that hour), I walked out into a still grey but lightening morning sky and nothing open but the coffee shop a few doors down. Ah, I thought, this is how it should be. I plan to make more morning gym trips. It's not all talk. This is my year. Next time I might even stop for coffee.

Understanding One Another

MVC-001L
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

Cecilia has chosen, finally, to sit in the front entryway, chewing, then spitting out, a small, muddy leaf. Her preferred action for this morning, however, has been to sit by my desk and whine. I don't know if it because she is bored, because she is hungry or thirsty or worried. Maybe she misses her brother, or mother. In a valiant attempt to get to the heart of it, I had one of those pathetic "conversations" with her. Dog owner talking to dog. My mother used to ask if I wanted to talk to our dear old poodle, Ziggy, when I'd call from college. "Here he is," she'd say. And I, embarrassed, would quietly talk, voice raised, "Hey Zig. Hey doggy." You never know when the phone has gone back to the ear of the more appropriate person. Person. People talk on phones. "I think he heard you! He cocked his head," my mother would exclaim. Whether the dog knew my voice we'll never know. I do realize dogs don't understand. But nevertheless, upon looking into Cecilia's soulful eyes, listening to her pathetic whines, I asked her, "What's wrong girl?" "Do you need to go out? Are you tired? Lay down. Lay down! The office is fun. Offices are fun for doggies. I know. I know Cecilia. Look! Look! Here'a a picture of you when you were a baby. Look Cecilia! A baby!" She scoffed at my photo, carefully placed on my bulletin board, a reminder of when she was small, and my immediate plans were to cast her off on another adoptive parent. I'm glad I didn't. Cecilia didn't care much for the photo. She licked it, whined again. "Why don't you get it?" she seemed to ask. Why? An affectionate pat on the head, she thumped down on the thin carpet. For now, that's enough.

Let's Just Say

I'd like to drink a frosty beer, perhaps outside, an umbrella shielding us from the rain, with a few good friends, who share my thoughts that this would be a better way to spend the afternoon, than attempting to determine some other, less productive and certainly less fun course of action. Let's just say that to do that was fine. What a happier work force we would all enjoy.

Priorities

I am perfectly aware that what I should be doing on any given slow day is searching the bridal websites full force to find that perfect dress for myself and bridesmaids, looking at cakes and forming lengthy invitee lists. Right? That's what I should be doing. If not, I should be calmly reading a novel, knitting the neverending scarf, but I just can't get enough of the Food Network. I've become slightly obsessed with Rachael Ray, who, in the beginning, I did not care for. She grew on me, with her 30 minute meals and thrifty spending style in all corners of the globe and now I, honestly, nearly emit a startled breath when I turn on the television (Food Network, what else?) and there...she...is. She's peppy, damnit, and I love her. In fact, I just also discovered, thanks to that educational Food Network bio, that Rachael owns a pit bull. This discovery, of course, furthered my non-sexual crush on the woman. She, like many kind-hearted souls, has realized the injustice forced upon that great species of dog and invited one into her home. Oh, Rachael! When are you coming over for dinner? You're cooking. I'll relax with a nice glass of wine and admire your witty and upbeat commentary regarding the ease with which the salad dressing comes together, and the pride one finds in making a delicious and quick dinner, after a hard day of work.

Hang On, Lucy

Lucy
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

I was talking to my parents on the phone the other morning about various things, when I heard my father in the background attempting to get their new puppy out of her crate for a morning jaunt in the hopes she'd relieve herself outside rather than on the floor. "Come on," he was saying, gently. "Come on." Then, "Kathy! She won't come out! Kathy!" I mentioned to my mother that he should pick her up, which she shouted to my father, advice he ignored, and continued his little routine. "COME ON DOG! COME ON!" My mother abandoned the phone call entirely to help him out in this seemingly very difficult endeavor, and so I sighed, and hung up the phone. Later they called back, and told me proudly that Lucy had made it outside, and then followed my father down the driveway to get the paper, taking cute puppy steps, and I'm sure both admiring and fearing her ham-providing, wild-haired, clueless master.

Like Madonna Northbound to Erie, PA

Among the surprising, wonderful phone calls I received Wednesday to share birthday wishes, was one from my Mark, across the seas teaching young minds in Budapest. Though we've talked several times, this time he was using a computer phone, or some such thing I couldn't really hear him describe. One reason, besides the enormity of land and sea between us, my Mark was hard to hear was that the telephonic device being used created an echo - and I'm not talking slight echo but serious everything-one-says-is-repeated-in-absolute-clear-and-crisp-quality-echo - whenever each of us spoke.

"Helllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooo!!"
(Helllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooo!!)

And so on.

One thing that this echo did not prevent, however, was the recounting of our favorite tale, the one where while we were dating in high school, and on a trip to Erie, Pennsylvania to visit Mark's father, I decided to have some fun with the paper cups meant for drinking at the water fountain on the train. They were cone shaped, cheap, and I don't know what the train personnel were thinking including that kind of temptation for the young and easily amused on a three million hour train ride or however the hell long it was.

Mark and I used to get kicked out of classes, or talked to at least, for incessant, apparently disruptive laughter.

We met on a relatively calm afternoon during cross country practice. I had shut the van door firmly on Mark's fingers and he, then a good deal shorter than me, asked me please, even said "excuse me," could I open the door back up, set his hand free.

With our history, there was no question that upon discovering these paper water cups, these tit-cones the train had innocently placed aboard for use as drinking vessels, that what I was to do upon returning from the lavatory, was stick them in my shirt and saunter back to our seat, Mark laughing silently, his face bright red not from embarrassment, but from the sheer joy of a train ride well-spent.

Goodbye Twenty-Six, Hello 2005

In the spirit of newness and beginning my life as a twenty-seven year-old, I am envisioning getting home early, eating a variety of comfort foods, and watching hours of sitcom reruns. This is not the plan for forever, so do not worry, it is only the result of a birthday celebration yesterday, which began in the afternoon, and carried on til the night. All the nights of little sleep, the stresses of gift buying and hours on the road are crashing into my very being today, as though I've finally reached the end of one period and can now commence another, and the result is a pleasant buzz of serenity, a longing for the messily made bed.

It's been warm here. 70 or so each day this week. As I was driving home the other night in the soft light of a late afternoon, I noticed the smells and sounds of my little Carrboro, with the car window open and music turned down. The driver in front of me waved to someone sweeping the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. Jesus, I thought, do I love it here? I do. I ache for the busy streets of an urban metropolis, like New York, or the cultured and hip people and scenes of San Francisco, the walkability of busy, cold, brisk Boston. But I felt at home and content for the moment - and realized I could continue on that way for some time.

We got it totally right yesterday. A birthday. An entire day, friends with cold beers and later piano playing right there in the bar. We collected others as the day went on. I was tired at the night's end, but that's alright, it had been a day full of good conversations.

And so, tonight, I will allow myself some peace and quiet and not in the sense that I've been troubled - not at all - but instead a night doing whatever I'd like in the little town I love, thinking about the immediate future, like plans to get a bike, and taking Cecilia to the dog park and an unplanned, unseasonably warm weekend, windows down.