Whilst in the monastery

This weekend my father and brother attended a retreat at a monastery in rural Virginia. I must, again, assert that I am not kidding. When I asked them how it was, both said it was great, and that they didn't really do much of anything except "contemplate life." Okay.

Vinnie did say he had some spectacular discussions with an 82-year-old priest who would tell him a story ("I was brought up in Africa, and learned a lot about the culture...") and then roughly three minutes later, would tell him the exact same story ("I was brought up in Africa..."). I got a big kick out of that.

However, my favorite thing about this retreat is the string of emails exchanged between my mother, who was at home, being normal, and my father, forwarded on to me. You'd think there'd be no emailing while with the monks, contemplating, right? Wrong. Dad's got a Blackberry and nobody's gonna take that away from him. Not Jesus, nobody.

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Fred Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

Just had chicken fajitas from Baja Fresh and am sitting here watching the news..

Do you think Vinnie would like to be a monk? Seriously, I'm sure it is very peaceful. Are you going to get up at 4 for Vespers?

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Kathleen Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

It is 3:30.
He seems to like it.
I am reading in my room and I guess Vin is too.
I am of course frustrated because I can't use my phone and find out how much money we made.
Vin says he will go to vespers or vigil or whatever
I could say I miss you and wish you were here but then one of us would be sleeping on the floor.
Brother Alfred of the Weeds

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Fred Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

Brother Alfred--I want to take some wine up with me tomorrow. Do you have any worldly guidance for me?

Love, your wife on the outside

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Kathleen Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

Re: wine. Not really hon. Some good whites in the cooler and reds in the rack under the paintings. Don't take serpico red. That is Vinnie's favorite. I think some cakebread is in the cooler.

B. Alfred

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Fred Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

Thank you, Brother Alfred. Am now up in the bedroom with the dog and with the door locked.

Love, the girl

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Kathleen Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

Love you dear. Be careful.
I am going to read some more and then go to sleep. I am probably the last one up.
I will call tomorrow when I go out for a walk.
B. Alfred

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Fred Rotondaro
Sent: Fri Jan 27

Ok. Love you too.

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Kathleen Rotondaro
Sent: Sat Jan 28

Good morning. Up and at em.
I read last night that the a.m. vigils were changed forty years ago from 2 a.m. to 4. Some monks thought this was indulgent.
So do I.
B. Alfred

Magic broomsticks? We don't need no stinking magic broomsticks!

Recently J has been wondering about some pretty heavy things, like, "What if Quidditch was real?" After years of declaring he had no interest in the Harry Potter books, he's been devouring them with the vigor of a 10-year-old boy and asking as many questions (see above).

He took it to a new level when he disclosed to us that he was going to find a way to make Quidditch real, i.e. use motorized flying vehicles instead of broomsticks, etc. I told him I was sure some youngster was already cruising ahead on that one, and he told me, no, they're not, because he'd looked it up on Google. No one's making real Quidditch yet.

Here's a list of the things J's expressed interest in making on his own over the years:
walking sticks
soda
coasters
birdhouses
a lamp
a real live Quidditch game

He made the coasters. So I think we are well on our way.

The examined life

Since I've turned 28 I've been thinking about my life's accomplishments and getting somewhat worried. Before you even think about typing a cheery comment explaining how I'm "not old" hear me out (while we're talking about things that I'm not, I'd also like to state that marriage has made me fat, and I had to get a size of pants BIGGER than I normally buy the other day, and yeah, it IS marriage because once I tried on my wedding dress and it fit I had nothing to strive for, plus eating popcorn nightly with your new husband is a great way to bond).

I don't think I'm old, and what's more, I don't think that age has to have much to do with one's accomplishments, but for whatever reason, being 28 has got me thinking about whether or not I'm working hard enough to achieve certain goals and perhaps more importantly, what those goals are.

Luckily, some higher power heard my self-centered mental ramblings and sent a sample CD of The Teaching Company's "Great Courses" in the mail. I took it with me on my commute this morning, and upon listening to the classical music introduction, realized that these were the very same lectures my brother and father have been raving about. "Cara, you should listen to these philosophical lectures! The speakers are amazing!" or: "Cara, I'm a nerd! I like to take college level classes in my car!"

But I was instantly hooked. The first lecture, an Oxford professor on four philosophical views of "the good life," brought to mind countless hours spent in ollege of Arts and Sciences classrooms at BU, slowly pounding out some kind of meaning in our texts - Hegel, Kant, Aristotle, of course.

The lecture touched on the many dimensions of a good life - an examined and satisfactory life - and in the end the professor came to a typical philosophical point: That there are many necessary components of such a life (you must live an active life, a selfless life, a contemplative life) and that these components may very from individual to individual.

Perhaps at 28 I can tie the youthful idealism I lost some of in the past few years (when I stopped thinking it was ok to discuss vague ideas like "moderation" at random, because, seriously, nobody wants to hear it unless you're all splayed in the grass outside the student union on the first day of spring) with my practical goals and come up with some kind of timeline like this:

28: A magnificent turning point, a true awakening. Work at newspaper. Learn new skills. Kick brother and father's ass at listening to philosophical lectures. Mostly, listen to mom, because who runs a successful company? Mom does.

29-40: Move on. Have thoughtful, curious, well-behaved children. Do great and amazing things. Work hard.

40: Open coffee shop in South Arundel County, MD.

Rest of life: We will see.

This is the post where I alienate Tori Amos fans and drama people

I just looked up Tori Amos online to see how badly beaten I'm going to get for writing the following, and I'm going to get beaten pretty badly. So let me start out by saying how awesome Tori Amos is. According to the internet she is the co-founder of RAINN, a sexual abuse support network, as well as expresses true survivorship in her songs, inspiring many women.

Point is, I know that song "Silent All These Years," is about surviving sexual abuse (at least I thought so, but I just stumbled upon a guy with a Tori Amos webpage - that's right, he's got a Tori Amos webpage - that suggests the song is: "...basically wistful, a lament of a probably single mother with a self-indulgent and non-committal boyfriend and a generally unfulfilling life." Whatever, guy. Hey, by the way, can I get arrested for that? Copying and pasting someone's analysis of Tori Amos's "Silent All These Years" into my blog?) but even though I know that, I really hate that song. The subject matter has nothing to do with why I hate it. I'm just not a fan of overdone dramatic music, the kind where you feel like you've got to be weeping a little when you hear it, maybe slowly petting a cat, wrapped in a blanket sitting by a window (except for Van Morrison and U2, who can do whatever the hell they want and it's awesome). I mean, have you ever been driving, windows down, beautiful day, it's the weekend and you are PUMPED, and then something like "Silent All These Years" comes on the radio? That, my friends, is an awful feeling.

But besides all that, there's another reason I hate that song. I'll tell you.

When I was in high school there were kids who did drama, all the plays and whatnot and many of them were good at it, and before you go yelling at me for making fun of them I was in the plays a couple of times too and those kids were awesome. Besides, they're not really my target. The people I'm really talking about were the kids who didn't really do drama - not seriously anyway - but who hung out with all the drama kids and wore flowy clothes and hung out in the student lounge all the time. The student lounge at our high school featured really dirty couches and floors and a couple vending machines. Well, the crux of this meandering story, in which you will discover that it's actually OK that I'm making fun of some people and Tori Amos, at least a little, is that one day I walked into the student lounge to check my mailbox - see if I'd gotten any hot gossip from my buds in the form of carefully folded notes - and that song, "Silent All These Years," was absolutely blasting from the stereo and the drama kids, wearing formless skirts and pants in black, and chains, naturally, were all draped out on the dirty couches and chairs, looking like someone had just died - like, I'm thinking maybe Robert Smith of The Cure or something - and I just stared, and I swear to you, to this day I have not seen such a flagrant display of unnecessary melodrama. I was no Queen of Cool or anything but come on. Don't lie on the dirty couches and act all tortured when "Silent All These Years" is playing. I mean, Jesus, it was private school.

Weekend: A Recap

Saw a commercial for this and got excited about trying it out. Really got psyched. Bad. Really pathetic. Bad. Bad.

Went to a party and talked to friends about how I can't wait to have children some day. Fast forward 1 hour: dancing, belting out "Sweet Home Alabama" in living room. Jumping up and down.

Learned about ways to help prevent pollution in our streams, lakes and rivers (like this) at an informational session Saturday in a cozy home with a very gracious hostess. Drank coffee while it rained outside. Continued to think more about how we treat our environment, our people and animals. Been thinking about things like this.

Tried to understand football for the 47,652nd time. Failed.

Marveled at the lyrics to "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas ("What u gonna do with all that ass?/All that ass inside them jeans?"). Does this mean I am getting older? Because I really couldn't believe this either.

Drank wine with old friends.

Did none of the things on my to do list.

Dreaded Monday.

At least he's reading

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara
Date: Jan 21, 2006 5:07 PM
Subject: Objectionable content in you blog

I am shocked that you would make fun of my very fashionable multi-colored socks. I got them in maine and I love them.
And as I read on, I realizwd you were making fun of J--something about the garbage and you called him, indirectly, a nerdy birder.
Living in the south has certainly not improved your sunny disposition.
Your sainted father

They match the drapes. AT THE CIRCUS.

his right sock
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

This is one of a pair of socks, CLOWN SOCKS, which my father bought in Maine which he HONEST TO GOD was wearing when he and my mother arrived at our house last night. They were just settling in on the couch when I heard J say, excitedly, "Check it out! Look!" And I looked and there they were. My father happily explained that each was different. While the left one featured yellow stripes the right featured pink. Honestly. This is a real photograph I took with a digital camera in our living room.

Excerpt, "The First Year is the Hardest," Episode One

C.M.M. "So, I took the trash out."

J.A.M. "SHIT! Cara, I was gonna do that. I wrote myself a to-do list and that was on it and everything! I don't know what more I could have done!"

C.M.M. "You could have taken the trash out."

A hint of raisin

One of the best things that can happen to a person in my opinion is for the person to be sitting at a bar having a Guinness with a friend, and for that person to learn, through the powerful force of random bouts of conversation with strangers, that the nice guy sitting next to her is the sommelier of a well-known hotel and restaurant in town. After she thinks about vocabulary for a few minutes and realizes that, indeed, sommelier=individual who knows and inordinate amount about wine=new best friend, they chat for a while.

This weekend we took up my new friend's offer, which was to visit the Sienna Hotel in Chapel Hill where he'll only be working for a few more days (before he moves on to wine distribution with friends) and do a tasting.

What made this visit even better was that J and I had visitors in town: Kristen, who went to high school and college with J, and who is 100 percent awesome for many reasons (one of which is that she didn't cry her way through the book The Time Traveler's Wife, like me, even though all our friends told us we would. We thought, "God, what's wrong with us?" and then realized, NOTHING. First of all, people can't time travel. There's a lot of crap going on that actually happens, like politics and celebrity gossip) and my brother, Vinnie. The four of us entered the hotel a little nervous that four raucous young movers and shakers like ourselves might be looked upon with disdain in such a posh establishment, but quite the opposite was true. First of all, once my sommelier friend Damon entered the scene and warmly welcomed us, we were drinking about five glasses a piece of better stuff than the swanky looking older gentlemen sitting in the room. Cabernet Sauvignon? Ok. But we're going to sit here and enjoy the best bottle from the best producer in Northern Italy. So there.

For another thing, once you've had, you know, about seven glasses of wine you start to feel very comfortable in your surroundings. Once we we'd asked a full array of appropriately absurd questions ("Could you explain 'full-bodied' to me?" "Do you get to drink this stuff every day?") we started picking up the lingo. We talked about varietals and our palates and detected hints of all sorts of things you'd never think you'd find in there. Cocoa. Cinnamon. Raisins.

It was an amazing experience, quite frankly, and I'm so thankful to my new friend for setting us up. But the weekend wasn't all nice hotel bars and checking whose teeth got reddest fastest, which is classy. We took in some local culture with an exhibit at the Ackland Art Museum. And Sunday we rejuvenated our souls with a brisk walk at Jordan Lake where J, who by all means knows way more about birds than he used to, packed a bag full of gear, including binoculars, birding guides and the "Flydentifier" he got for Christmas. For those of you who are non-birding-non-nerds, that's a little contraption that plays all sorts of bird sounds. Sadly, those recorded calls were the most prevalent that day as the lake was pretty deplete of wildlife except for the dogs, who proceeded with roam the beaches and woods with zealous insanity.

It was a cold day, unlike the unusual warm weather we've been experiencing recently, and when we got home we made cappucinos. It is this sort of weekend that makes the nights lying under a quilt watching television seem less lazy and more appropriate recharging. Especially when the Golden Globes are on and for the first time in a year we've got a working remote.

In search of the Red-Breasted Merganser

A dream deeply rooted in the American dream

On this very important day, a celebration of civil rights successes in this country, but also a reminder that there is still work to be done, I, obviously, can say nothing better than this.

We all know this speech, at least parts of it. We've all heard it before, repeated over and over since we were children, but if you have the time today stop and read the whole thing. Still gives me goosebumps and I'm sure it always will.

No more saying nonsensical things like, "We don't have cable, and it's neat because we do other things. We read, stuff like that."

From the moment the nice man installed the black box in our home this afternoon I've been wild eyed. Right now "The E True Hollywood Story: Meg Ryan," "Felicity" and "Beverly Hills 90210" are on. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Three channels, right in a row. Crisis. CRISIS.

I'm using my online publishing to cover the important stuff, Father

Because there are a few people really close to me who never ever - not ever - read my blog (MOM DAD VINNIE JENNIFER GLYNN) I was pleasantly surprised to read the following email last night:

An idea for a column--
What kind of a new year's dog party would Cecilia have? How would Mena behave?
I hear rumors you did not answer the phone the other day because I had already called you four times and you were watchig Six Feet Under shocked as I was by this rumor, I was even more shocked by the rumor that you made fun of our visits to williamsburg. And this fun appeared in your blog...mocking your sainted father.
I will of course, now that I have learned how to retrieve your blog. begin to read it daily so I can defend myself.
The dad

He figured out, apparently, how to get the censor on the link - the one he sees ever day - and view the web page. When I told him that that was all he needed to do - check out that same page, and that I updated it every day, he seemed to get pretty confused, but then got back on track, and asked, "Like even from old emails? It doesn't matter?" and I said, patiently, "Yeah. Yeah, always the same."

And now that I know he's reading, I think he'll be pleased to find I'm writing about important issues, like how The Cheesecake Factory is the demise of America. I just went with friends, enjoyed every bite, and decided to bring home a piece of cheesecake because I TOTALLY NEEDED A PIECE OF CHEESECAKE.

Here's the thing. I got these new sweatpants from Old Navy recently that completely fit me in a baggy-yet-almost-appropriate-to-wear-to-work-if-you're-not-gonna-see-anybody-way and their existence makes things like The Cheesecake Factory, which is exactly the reason Europeans make fun of us, so divulgent and glorious. Because of their forgiving nature.

One time she ate a large portion of a vodka infused watermelon

One of the things J and I like to muse about as we're cuddling on the couch, not watching cable, is parties our large, lovable dog Cecilia would potentially throw on occasion. Like for New Year's, we decided, she probably called her buds Hayden and Raj, boyfriends of hers, and told them to come on over after the owners had left. They'd wear party hats and play with soft chew toys, it would be fun! They'd greet our elderly cat, Teddy, a suave gentleman who'd, no doubt, be sitting in the corner on a pillow or cashmere sweater, slowly sipping on a 12-year-old single malt with his belly hanging out, thinking about the good old days when he used to prowl the town gettin' it on with the ladies while Barry White played in the background.

Cecilia, she'd have the noisemakers out, and would be laughing and proud of herself...that is, until Mina, her roommate, her sister, her best friend for Christ's sake, would show up just after midnight, drunk. Mina, small and precious, but full of spit and vinegar as well as smart as the devil, had been invited to, and attended, 8 or 9 parties previous to Cecilia's. Even after the darling had pleaded with her - begged her - just to stay home and drink good, cold water from the tap and have some old-fashioned fun. No, no, Mina was out on the town and stumbled into Cecilia's party late, breath stinking of whiskey, pranced over to the rug, peed, and said in a slurred voice, "Take that, bitches." J and I then reason that Cecilia would slink into the back room and proceed to cry her little heart out.

We imagine too, with all this warm weather hitting us on the east coast, that Cecilia probably recently planned a barbecue for her friends. Mina would listen to the conversations for a while ("Well, I like chasing the squirrels, but not eating them") before sneaking inside to polish off 3 Coronas. She'd then return to the back yard, tip over the grill and eat all the food. Whole hot dogs in a single bite. She'd laugh maniacally and Cecilia, wearing a flowered apron, would dig a hole, get in, and cry and the afternoon would be ruined. I know this sounds mean-spirited - for us to imagine such disastrously sad outcomes for our dog, but, I mean, let's say it really happened, which it wouldn't by the way, because come on, dogs don't throw parties, they'd all be over it in a heartbeat. I know, because when I try to give these animals sweet memories, like, "Look! There's our old house. Remember?" or "Look, it's a photograph of you as a puppy," they cock their heads and give me blank stares, like, "Listen, what do you think we are? Humans? With feelings? How 'bout you put your dinner plate on the floor and then we'll talk about reacting to real things that matter."

Williamsburg, VA 4-ever

When my phone rang last night during a particularly gripping episode of "Six Feet Under" and I noticed it was my father calling for the fourth time that day I didn't pause the disk but instead decided to call him back at a more opportune time - i.e. when I wasn't on the sofa in sweatpants, wondering how many more episodes we could get in that night before officially becoming lazy. And obese.

In his message he said he had an "idea to run past" me and I called him back, excited, and then very excited because lo and behold, this idea? We should all go to Colonial Williamsburg for a weekend.

When I didn't say anything right away and heard my mother laughing in the background I think my father got the picture that I'd had enough of that town growing up. It was the Rotondaro family tradition, for years, to go - me, Mom, Dad, Vinnie and Grandmom, of course - down to Williamsburg for the New Year's holiday because what way better to celebrate the coming of a new year than to don white cotton bonnets and pretend it's 1786.

Vin and I used to happily walk those worn dirt roads, musket balls heavy in our pockets, just cheerful as hell because the wooden prisoner's stocks were just ahead, and damnit! We were gonna get our pictures taken! Then maybe we'd score some rock candy at the general store or, better yet, warm up by a bonfire right there on the cobbled street. Then it was off to dinner and back to the cozy hotel before things got, you know, too crazy downtown.

My father wrote me some emails today, explaining that Vinnie would be up for it if I was, and although I'm not sure J is prepared for a weekend of colonial fun like only our family can have, eating pheasant at Chowning's Tavern and all, I guess I'll take on the challenge. I guess despite the fact that my father's grown fond of the finer things in life lately - good wines, nice hotels - the charm of that Virginian hideaway just never lets up. Hey, I might even feel generous and spring for tin whistles. For all of us. At least now, out of the realm of deep adolescent embarrassment and insecurity, we can be proud of our purchases, rather than hide them deep in our pockets, thinking, "Wait a second. It's not cool to be pumped about a feather pen, dried ink and parchment, is it?"

Becoming a serious birder

Birthday with friends and strangers

Last night I had a wonderful birthday dinner at one of my favorite Italian restaurants, Trilussa, in Chapel Hill. We noticed a big table set up across from ours and wondered what the occasion was as it was filled up by a large, happy group. Before I could get up the courage to go and ask them what they were celebrating, I said to my friends, laughing, "Now isn't this like a reception of sorts? Should I make a speech?" and tapped a knife against my water glass as if I were going to do just that. It being rather loud due to the number of people I, naturally, did this in jest not expecting to be heard, or heeded so, needless to say, I was surprised when the entire restaurant became silent and expectant faces turned to hear my announcement. I explained, quickly, that I had nothing to say, and my friends rushed to the rescue, exclaiming "It's HER BIRTHDAY!" You know what happened? Yes you do. They sang to me, the whole place, an unintelligible slur where my name should have been.

After this grand display I visited my fellow restaurant-goers to uncover their story.

"We work for a company called Vietri..."

"WHAAAATTTT? WHAT? Vietri!? Vietri??? I looovvveeeee Vietri! I registered for Vietri pottery for my wedding! The plates? With the fish? And the rams?"

"This girl registered for Vietri! This girl!"

I was whisked around the table and introduced to several key players as my wildest dreams came true. Becoming friends with employees of my favorite Italian pottery company
on my birthday? And hanging out with all my favorite people? And delicious food and wine? JESUS CHRIST TWENTY-EIGHT IS WHERE IT'S AT.

The excellent mood carried on to the next bar, even when the new electronic jukebox (which we HATE, do you hear me jukebox vendors?) wouldn't play "Brandy" by Looking Glass no matter how many dollar bills we fed it. Paying roughly $20 or so to hear "Brandy" on your birthday seems worth it at the time.

Today I'm thinking it wasn't the best decision. But it doesn't matter. I had a short work day, and (parked illegally because I so desperately needed it) went to Panera Bread so I could get some lunch to go and made it home just in time to catch the last 15 minutes of "Starting Over," which is like "The Real World" for housewives. And people who don't have cable. I mean, I don't like that show or anything. I don't get excited when I get to watch it (don't tell you are not allowed to tell anyone).

When she was small and less melodramatic

Freshman year, over the Charles

Regarding some cats

Fred Rotondaro
Sent : Tuesday, August 3, 2004 3:54 PM
To : cara rotondaro
cara darlking..I don'tr even want to see memois about your cats..I w9ould of course gleefully drown them and your dogs--well maybe not meba... your loving daddy...

Most precious foster puppy, with horrible car sickness problem (precious nonetheless)

Mazzy, who got a wonderful home.

From father to son

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: vinnie rotondaro
Subject: Today's heat
Date: Tue, 26 Jul 2005
Do not -repeat-do not stay out in the sun today. If you die, I wiull kick your butt when you come from purgatory to join me and mom in heaven.
Can you take the mutt this weekend?
Dad

Love Mom, Dad and Vinnie

What I like

Since I'm twenty-eight today, I thought it might be fun to share, throughout the day, some things I like. This, for instance.

New Year's Resolutions

1) Maybe lay off listening to "Gold Digger" by Kanye West, like, maybe lay off the cocktails that might lead myself to believe that everyone wants to hear it for the 500th time that night, although, honestly, people were getting down. Myself included, which led to this throbbing pain in my quads, soreness from getting so low with my fellow girlfriends, over and over. Perhaps the repeated screaming of things like "Who wants to DANNNNCEEEEE?" "C'mon girls, dance with meeeeeee!" and, oh yeah, then getting on the coffee table with some people, means that I need to work on calming down a little bit this year, after all, 28 is right around the corner. The aftershock of the evening, mostly the sore legs, leads me to believe, furthermore, that I need to get back in shape, because legs being this sore after simply dancing is just not acceptable. Of course, that's what New Year's Eve is for. That sort of behavior, right? That sort of behavior, which will never, ever be seen again in the new year. That's what you're thinking. "C'mon new year. COME TO ME. I'm ready to get serious! But first I'm going to make a complete fool of myself so it's WORTH IT. Ha! Don't believe me!? Just watch. WATCH!"

2) Everything else.