Birding post #54,768

These are some worms who live in our refrigerator. The only reason they are allowed is that they are for the bluebirds, and the bluebirds are my favorite, because of their sweet little song and their cuteness. These are two qualities non-birders enjoy. Whereas birders, actual birders, are generally more into what birds are rare and such, I'm into a) birds that are adorable and b) California Condors. Because they're huge.

These particular mealworms were purchased at Wild Birds Unlimited. When I go to the Harris Teeter in Chapel Hill North to get something for dinner, some paper towels maybe, it takes all my might not to waltz into Wild Birds Unlimited and buy everything in the entire store for J. I know I make fun of him, but if you were to see him in the store, interacting with the store owner, who likes birds so much he's opened his own bird store franchise, well, you'd understand.

First of all, they've got a lot of cool things that you can't just get at Target, or wherever you choose to buy your birding materials. They have the Flydentifier (which nobody talks about except me, it turns out) as well as a host of other specialty bird items. CD's and wooden houses and cement bird baths. But I don't care about any of that. I know many do, but I don't. What I like is the couple who owns the store. Usually it's this very friendly gentleman, who sold us the mealworms yesterday, but I hit the jackpot just before Christmas when I got to interact with both he and his wife and I was buying J his advanced pole system ("APS" for short - get with the program!) The two of them proceeded to tell me the story of how she'd bought him the APS system for Christmas one year. How she couldn't wrap it, because, you know, it's a bunch of metal poles...the look on his face when he opened it. And while I know I'll never be that to my husband - a fellow amateur ornithologist, and I'll never, ever bring binoculars anywhere, much less try and decide which pair would be best to pack for a trip - to New York City - all I want out of life is that kind of love. The kind of love that makes you excited to wrap up birding toys for your partner in life. The kind of love where you're so into the bird toys, and so into eachother, that you don't mind telling a stranger all about it.

On forming a clique in Spanish class

My friends Sherry, Jess and I have been taking a community college Spanish class for the past couple of weeks and I can sincerely say that my skills in the language are coming along. For instance, I now begin emails to them, "Hey hermanas!" ("Hey, sisters!") because we're cool. I might even go so far as to say we're the cool kids in class.

For instance, last night, our teacher, Don ("sir" - formal) Victor, asked the class to tell him, through a show of hands, who'd rather begin learning numbers that night after the test, and who'd rather begin learning numbers next week - a.k.a. we would have gotten to go home way early. Needless to say, our hands shot up wildly after the go-home-after-the-test option while the other members of our class nerdily decided that we'd be learning how to count that very night. What the hell, guys?!

The class sort of echoes high school in all ways except the age of the students. In fact, it's a little unnerving. First of all, the class is taught at a local high school. Our classroom is obviously used for Social Studies during the day and is obviously home to a feminist teacher who wants all the kids, even the boys, to be feminists too. The walls are covered in women's rights posters and murals. Faced with this hearty learning environment, I'm tempted to etch hearts into the desk and make faces at my friends when the overacheivers in the front row do something dumb. Really dumb! Like point out some meaningless misspelling or ask a question that only serves to get them brownie points but not any real depth of education.

When they're standing in the hallway whispering about, oh, I don't know, probably how clever they are I just want to throw our youth and cool-factor in their faces. But when it gets down to the real deal, what we're going to have to do is beat them at their own game. And I'm a little concerned about this considering Sherry, Jess and I have lives which we dedicate to ventures besides reading "Spanish is Fun" cover to cover while nursing a decaf coffee at the kitchen table.

As mentioned, last night was our first test and we laughed in the snack room after it was over about the difficulties we had. One of the sections was to write a five-sentence paragraph in Spanish about a scene pictured on the page of a man with a broken down car. What?! This isn't Spanish Comprehensive Lit!

My paragraph (translated here for you to read) went something like this:

Pedro's car is in the garage. Pedro works in a bank. Pedro doesn't buy a new car. Pedro talks to the man. Pedro rides a bike.

Luckily, we think Don Victor, who's a pretty easygoing guy, won't grade us too hard. And if he does, well, it's kind of badass to be a slacker anyway.

The most radical summer of all times

At Cate and Brady's wedding this past weekend - an amazing weekend during which I kept looking around at my friends and thinking about how lucky I am, and how, by the way, AWESOME we are to have at weddings (just keep it in mind when you get to that invite list) - we ran into Ryan Hanson, the brother of Nick Hanson, who just happens to be a card-carrying member of the rock band Buffalino. And you know who plays drums for that band? That's right. My little brother, Angelo Vincent. Although I'd appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself when I try to sell my story, "Rock 'til you drop: The Buffalino Story," to Rolling Stone because it would be bogus if they knew I was the sister of a band member.

Ryan and I had met up in Wooster, Ohio, on a beautiful, bleak winter weekend. But even if we hadn't we'd be BFF anyway. Because that's what being siblings of Buffalino band members, not to mention being pretty cool people yourselves does for a friendship.

Ryan and I spent a good portion of the evening trying to call young Vinnie and leave him a message about the serendipitous meeting up in New York City. However, when I talked to my brother yesterday he told me he'd received not a single phone call. This is interesting but not unexpected, I suppose. The wedding was in a bar.

Vinnie did tell me however that it was awesome Ryan and I and all our friends had been able to hang out (I KNOW! That's why we kept TRYING TO CALL YOU!) and proceeded to give me the full rundown of his summer which will involve a) finishing up school b) a trip to Europe c) a summer in Maine with the band and then d) going on tour. I explained to him that this was just perfect because some very key people are planning on taking part in the extravaganza, like Ryan, who could, say, manage the band (we talked about it over cocktails and in between failed phone calls) and me, who will write that Pulitzer winning piece and Max Bobbitt, who'll be taking some photographs of the band for press purposes and J, who will contribute artwork to posters and album covers. Everybody wins. And everybody spends the summer in Maine.

Sure, it may not go down as projected by two optimistic and semi-joking siblings, but why give up totally? The dream of the most radical summer of all times? It's a reality for Vinnie and some of his friends and once again I'm reminded that I don't have to be so practical all the time. Vin suggested that Matt Cutler (a good friend of all the band members, a scholar, and owner, if I'm not mistaken of the game "Pocket Principles," which we played up in Wooster and which, I believe, deserves an entire post of its own) and I start some kind of journal. Why don't we?

The possibilities of the summer are endless and, for now, not quite tangible, but I think everybody better be on the lookout for some - dare I say it? - magic.

I was also made aware at the wedding by my darling husband who'd been planning away that we're apparently having a Fourth of July party in Maryland. I'm told everyone is flying home to attend. This is what happens when you meet up with old friends. When the celebration's on and you're not thinking about the plane you have to catch the next morning and everything is beautiful.

J has fun with my camera phone in NYC

This is the part where we start getting married and enjoying proper cocktails

It's been a good week here in North Carolina. It happens to be summertime. In February. The high today is expected to reach 70. At first I was dismayed at our lack of a winter (especially because of the cute, blue coat I got for Christmas, which is overkill when it's, you know, 70 degrees) but now I'm ready for spring and then summer, two glorious seasons in the sweet-tea-drinking, flip-flops-are-ok-for-work! South.

J and I celebrated the summer holiday of Valentine's Day Tuesday by giving each other little presents and making fondue. Oh, and did I mention that we also celebrated by cleaning up cat puke? Right. We also celebrated with me getting down on my hands and knees and scrubbing up a copious amount of cat puke. No more wet food for Teddy. Luckily, bread and wine-infused cheese, and also wine in a glass, helps quell the occasional stressful situation and we had a wonderful night making dinner and watching cable. Cable that we will never, ever turn off. Remember when I said getting cable wouldn't mean we watched more television? Sure.

Another reason this week has been exciting is our upcoming trip to New York City. My great friend Cate is getting married this weekend to wonderful Brady (who, by the way, has cowboy boots with owls on them and little does he know I'm going to steal the owl boots while he's distracted getting married).

Cate and I met in tenth grade at St. Stephen's and St. Agnes school ("where tradition, pride and honor rule.") She is one of the very amazing people who made my high school experience such a happy period in my life. While others like to sigh and shrug, complaining that high school was about as much fun as a root canal, we hoot and holler about the time we wrote silly poems on notebook paper, taped them up in my locker, and then tore them all down two minutes before the deadline for that month's issue of "Fire and Stones," our high school's literary magazine, and submitted them all. On notebook paper. With little scraps of tape attached.

Or about how our friend Jennifer started a safe sex education club and we hosted a concert in the cafeteria featuring the world famous rock group Ordervish and we gave out free condoms.

Or the time we were drinking at my house and decided we should make some - what else? Amaretto and milk. High schoolers are experts when it comes to mixing drinks! We took the entire gallon of milk from the refrigerator and when my mother asked what we were doing with it, we quickly (and brilliantly) explained that we needed the milk because Cate was lactose intolerant. Then - wait! That didn't make sense, we realized. "She's calcium deficient," we reasoned wisely.

All the times we went skinnydipping in the Rotondaro pool. The fact that we announced this to the entire graduating class and our parents during our senior year when the school put on a little get-together to make us all cry, or whatever. Parents and children wrote anonymous notes to one another and then these notes were read out loud to everyone in attendance. "I love you guys and will miss you and will make you so proud." "Thank you for making me the person I am today." "We swim naked."

Besides providing the pool, I was also able to impart a valuable skill upon my dear friends - the ability to drive stick shift. Since that's what my parents had to give me, that's what I learned on and decided it would be fun for everyone else to learn, too. Cate was a particularly apt student, venturing out on the real roads far before the others, exhibiting courage and dexterity. I remember driving up the one bumpy, historic and impractical road in Old Town, Alexandria and Cate wondering just how the hell she was going to parallel park on a hill, on a historically bumpy street. I remember being pulled over by the cops one night after Cate had peeled down a roadway when giving the car a little too much gas. Needless to say, they thought we were drunk. Of course, we weren't. We had our limits. We were just learning how to drive stick, we explained.

When our friend Martha got married several years ago, Cate caught the bouquet during the reception. Yeah, some of you are saying, why don't you tell more of that story. Why don't you explain how some people fell hard on their ass while trying to catch that bouquet? May I remind you that this post is not about me, it's about Cate.

Cate gave me the bouquet sometime after the wedding was over, after we'd all gotten over our white wine hangovers. She explained that since I was obviously the one who'd be getting married next she wanted me to have it. Things changed, of course, and I ended up with Justin (and actually did end up getting married next) but I kept the bouquet as it dried and aged - not for some stupid reason concerning boys or romance, but because Cate gave it to me.

Because I've been secretly in love with her for all these years.

I'm kidding. I may not be in love with Cate, but I do love her like I love all my friends from high school, some of whom I'll get to see this weekend. And that makes this week great. And Cate's getting married! She's getting married to a wonderful boy and I couldn't be any happier.

But just know, Swinburn, that when you're up there all gorgeous and I start to feel emotional, I can always recall that I've seen what's under that wedding dress. In a pool, while we were all young and carefree and drunk. On amaretto and milk.

Whilst cleaning out my computer

I found a picture I took of the old air conditioning unit we used to have in this office. Please note the windshield wipers placed atop the machine. This feature ensured preparedness for any kind of situation. Like, let's say it was hot, but it was also raining on the air conidtioning unit.

Chapel Hill is a great place to see "Brokeback Mountain" and be a generally charming couple

This afternoon J and I decided it was high time we saw the multi-academy award nominated gay cowboy film, "Brokeback Mountain." He called me from the lab and we met up for lunch before the movie, which is playing at the Varsity on Franklin, the theatre we Chapel Hillians can always count on to play the indy (gay) films.

It's finally gotten cold here in North Carolina. Of course, while the rest of the east coast got pristine, white snow this weekend we got hellish rain and wind. The skies cleared today, the temperatures, however, remained low and we linked arms and complained about the weather as we walked from the parking lot to the theatre. I like going to movies in Chapel Hill. The small theatres usually attract a rather eclectic group of movie-goers and today was no exception. While I was a little worried that the seventy-something couple in the back row might be a little shocked when the men-folk started kissing it didn't take me too long to remember where I was. I wasn't on the county backroads! I was in Chapel Hill, a liberal, hip oasis in the heart of North Carolina, redblooded USA.

After the amazing, heartbreaking movie was over J and I parted ways - he went back to his lab, and I drove home, feeling as though my whole world had fallen apart. I decided to stop by the grocery store on my way back because it's brightly lit and no one's dealing with impossible romantic situations while melancholy guitar tunes play in the background. Not usually.

When I returned to our cozy little house, I turned on the television and began to plan out the rest of my evening. My brother called. He was on the way back from the gym, listening to Chicago, his new favorite band, he declared. We covered our normal conversation topics: How I should be more adventurous and how he's so ready to finish school. I told him that J and I have begun to start thinking where we'll move when he's done with grad school, maybe as soon as the end of this year. It was, as always, a refreshing conversation. Because Vinnie is doing things like living in Maine with his bandmates this summer so they can give their all at being the best band ever, talking to him always reminds me that I don't have to follow the rules. Now I've got a bottle of wine out on the coffee table and having some will be a nice end to a weekend that reminded me, once again, how much I've loved living here, how much I'll enjoy it for the months we have left. Because this town has charm and culture. And senior citizens who love gay cowboys.

How to get your weekend started right

Play that country song "Mrs. Steven Rudy" very loudly while driving through the UNC medical campus causing your embarrassed husband to, first, simply turn it down, pleading "Please. Please don't," and then proceed to have minor asthma due to the stress.

caramcduna.blogspot.com

Recently I've become slightly obsessed with the idea of becoming more technologically savvy. There are some things that have prompted this desire. For instance, J has had to show me how to use the iPod shuffle more than once even though there are only three settings. Most of my technological aspirations, however, relate to this very website.

While my ultimate goal is to have my own dot com or org, free from ties to a blogging site, I thought I'd try, first, to change my URL because, let's face it, I'm not 26 anymore. I brought this up to J and he said it didn't matter - that the twentysixyears.blogspot.com address was funny. But I want accuracy. I want recognition.

What I wanted was noagenda.blogspot.com but alas, when I tried to republish this site to that address was told it was not available. This annoyed me to no end because if you go to that proposed site address there's nothing there. Try it. You'll see.

Instead of moving onwards in my quest, I moped around for a bit and decided to see who else had set out into the blogging community as I had, proudly stating their age as though it would never change. I found this and way more intriguing, this. Good God.

For now I'll stick with my web address and should it ever change I'll let you know. Because when I'm say, 30 or so, twenty six years just isn't going to cut it anymore. You'll say, "Who are you trying to fool?" and I'll have to explain over and over again that I just don't have the "skills. I lack the skills, people."

Four months

Last night my father called to tell me a) that I "sounded tired," which he does every time he talks to me and which usually tempts me to remind him that I don't have time to take a nap every day. Like some people. Who, I've been told have always done that and who also, I recall, used to walk around their offices in their stocking feet and then leave at about 4 p.m. - at the latest.

He also told me b) that my wedding planner, Michelle, had been nominated for some kind of wedding planning award for the category "Best Wedding in the Worst Circumstances."

You may recall the streams and rivers that materialized in the front yard, or the flattened shrubbery left by the massive busses. The busses that people puked in. Or, you may not. Because of the mojitos.

Today is the four-month anniversary of that blessed event - the rain, the dancing, the speeches that weren't scheduled til midnight, for better or for worse.

Happy anniversary, J. Despite having to give up the melodic cadence of my Italian-American last name, I love being Mrs. McDuna.

And if the Redskins had made it, I might have gotten into football

As I've mentioned before, I didn't get much of a chance to express any school spirit while at BU. It's ok. I can work up some school spirit when I want to. Like the time I met Jim Koch in the 96 Rock studio while I was working there. He's the founder of Sam Adams beer, a Boston staple, and was promoting some new ale he'd created. The bottle had a big X on the label and I'm pretty sure the stuff wasn't legal but anyway, I met Koch (who told us that his children each received an eyedropper full of Sam Adams at birth - right out of the womb) in the studio, which smelled exactly like a keg party and told him I'd gone to school at Boston University. We did a cheers to Rhett, the university mascot. It was about 8:30 in the morning.

The point is I get pretty pumped to watch athletic events down here in North Carolina because I never really had that when I went to school. Tonight there's a Duke/UNC basketball game and the town was just totally ready to go as soon as work and classes got out. People shamelessly waving their "I need tickets" signs and everybody in light blue in the Franklin Street windows having a beer and some dinner before the big event.

While I've enjoyed many a night out on the town, fists clenched, screaming for the team, I finally got to go to an actual UNC basketball game this weekend when a friend gave me an extra student ticket. The game was on Saturday and the weekend had already been a lot of fun so I had high hopes for more as I donned my "Go Heels!" t-shirt. J agreed to drop me off near the stadium so I could meet up with my friends and just as we got on the road it began to rain. Then J noticed his gas light was on. And then we were in terrible traffic. Next we were in terrible traffic in a one-lane construction zone and J became convinced he was going to run out of gas in that lane, the lane leading to the game and then everyone at UNC and in the universe would hate him. At this point I semi-unfairly fled the vehicle, told him it was ok - I'd walk the short distance so he could get out of there quickly, thus avoiding a fate worse than death, a fate worse than someone spilling what happens in the 6th Harry Potter, which he has yet to read - and I emerged, still giddy, into the rain, now a downpour.

Needless to say, by the time I made my way to the student entrance, through muddy rivers and driven fans, and flashed the student ID I'd borrowed, praying they wouldn't look too hard, I was soaked, my jeans so weighty that I wondered how I'd keep them on. Once I found my seat and my friends and had removed my sodden sweatshirt I settled in and had a great time screaming and sometimes jumping and sometimes admitting I didn't know what was going on, until UNC had beat Clemson and it was time to go. I was meeting Chappy, who'd also attended the game, at his car so we could all go out and asked the scientists I was hanging with how to get to the parking lot. Suddenly I was reminded of the time I went to DC with J's lab and everyone kept asking me what street we needed to turn on to get to such and such, and which bars were good and I realized I didn't know the place where I'd grown up. Not at all. Same thing with Chapel Hill, except it's much smaller here and there's only, like, two major roads. I followed the scientists for a good while before they realized I wasn't really going the way I needed to be going and I left them to forge my own path. "I'll ask a police officer or a pleasant student," I thought. "Hi. I've lived here for, oh, three years or so. Can you help me find a major parking lot on a major road that I drive on just about every day?" The scientists ran off to their labs and their potions and I yelled a goodbye as I galloped off in the direction they pointed and suddenly confronted an enormous hill. An enormous, slippery hill that I slid down in my felt flats with little swans on the toes. I finally met up with the swarms of basketball goers after I'd stumbled over the last few rocks and back on to the sidewalk and I even found the appropriate parking lot without the help of police officers or students.

The experience, however nonsensical this reasoning is, left me feeling slightly more qualified as a fan. Attending the game...in the rain and through the mud and with a student ID that wasn't mine, cheating the system, I felt I'd earned my stripes as a fan. And I don't mean just a UNC fan, either. I mean a fan of sports. I did a lot of things in college that required facing the elements or cheating the system, including walking all the way to Star Market to ensure we had Oreos when it snowed four feet freshman year. And I never minded Priya using her sister's license to fill our mini-fridge with Miller Lite. But in the sports arena, my feats had been just about nonexistent. So tonight while watching the game from the comfort of my home, hopefully eating chocolate that my beloved husband has promised to fetch while out (I swear to God, boy, I'm not kidding) I'll know that when I root for the home team I do so as a fan. Of the Tarheels. And of course when I need to pull it out for purposes of winning the hearts of high-powered beer merchants, of Rhett the Boston Terrier.

We love the Superbowl

A post in which I tread the delicate line between enjoying my surroundings and letting my husband think he's converted me to his ways

I was slumming around the house before work this morning in my hoodie and large, comfy pants, when I came upon this gem in J's WildBird magazine, which I found on the coffee table:
(From the "Editor's Note" by Amy K. Hooper)

"An individual in the birding industry recently described me as a 'know-nothing who calls herself a birder.' The comment prompted a couple questions."

This prompted a few questions for me, the reader, as well. A) Birding industry? and
B) Why did you admit, in your widely distributed magazine, that someone called you a name? What's more, they called you a "know-nothing who calls herself a birder." That's a harsh comment. That's on par with a Star Trek junkie calling another Trekkie, "A know-nothing who knows nothing about Star Trek."

The piece did go on to explain her reasoning. Hooper's point was that all birders are beginners at some point and there's nothing wrong with that. Agreed. But don't include any more criticisms of your birding ability in the Editor's Note, because it makes me question your judgment, alright?

I might have been more hard on this blatant display of - you guessed it - nerdiness (with a capital N) today if it wasn't for the fact that I had a nice bird experience myself this morning. I know, I know. You're all, "Stop, Cara. Stop before this turns into a birding blog." But don't worry, I'll keep my references few and far between.

As referenced previously, this morning I was feeling kind of sluggish. The desire to just wear comfortable, unstylish, clothes and go out in the world resembling a college freshman on a Sunday morning overrode my desire to look presentable. The condition was simply the result of too little sleep and knowing I've got a busy couple of days ahead. Getting out of bed to begin those days was rough. I've been feeling the onset of a cold. I wanted to stay beneath the covers. I wanted a television to magically appear. I wanted that television to be playing back to back episodes of "The Golden Girls."

But I had work to do and I got up. Mina frolicked at my feet like an exuberant little elf and started doing backflips when I grabbed her pink leash to take her out. As we exited the warm kitchen I felt the first brush of morning air, cold, but not too cold. It was cloudy and I immediately felt better. The fresh air - and then, the birds. Everywhere. And loud as hell. They were swooping above me and chattering in the trees. Some of them were flying quickly above me in formations. All with their unique songs and I thought about how J would be looking up and identifying them all if he were there. Mina was prancing down the street and for a few minutes it was just me and her and all those ridiculous birds, with their ridiculous songs, saying good morning.

Only because I love you

I've been thinking that perhaps this blog needs more regular features and maybe one of those regular features could be to affectionately, or non-affectionately depending on my mood, make fun of the individuals who don't read this blog, even though through blood or friendship they claim to be really close to me.

My little brother Vinnie turned 24 on Sunday so I'll start with him. He's a pretty easy target because as those of you who've visited my parent's house in Alexandria know, Vin used to be pretty chubby. He also had thick-rimmed dark glasses, but not in a cool way. The reason visitors know this is that I like to sometimes sprint upstairs upon arriving home, rummage around in the huge wicker baskets that my mom uses to "organize" our precious family photographs, and find a particularly embarrassing one of young Angelo (his real first name). Then I like to put in up on the mantel or by the fruit bowl, or near the list of chores my mother has left for us to do that day, even though we are adults, even though we don't live there anymore.

Since Vin grew up to be a tall, nice-looking boy I don't feel bad talking about the fat period. It's interesting, because rather than tone down the nerdiness during those poignant years of childhood (peaking at about 10-years-old) Vinnie amped it up with his hobbies, like developing an intense interest bordering fanaticism with the Titanic, as well as only listening to classical music until he learned about the best band ever: Soundgarden. Posters, magazines and albums ensued. Soundgarden or bust, baby. There was no other music in the world that rocked like "Black Hole Sun" rocked. Save Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture," for which he still reserves a special place in his heart and CD collection, I'm sure.

One other item of note is that my father and I used to take it upon ourselves to lie to the boy and he'd always believe us. This doesn't say much for our character, I realize, but it was funny. And it's important to ensure kids get knocked down a few times in life. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before, the story being such a laugh for my dad and I, still, but one night my father threw some clean laundry into my brother's bedroom, onto his bed - not saying anything to disturb Vinnie, as he was probably working hard on something at his computer, something maybe related to the Titanic - and my brother turned around, caught the laundry "flying into" his room and immediately ran downstairs proclaiming that his shirt has floated onto his bed, obviously the work of some deranged spirit - a poltergeist. We had no choice but to run with this. My dad sat down and had a serious talk with Vin, explaining to him how the house had been haunted all along - how he and my mother had known, but didn't want to scare the kids. Vin, naturally, began looking up ghosts on his computer, alerting his friends to the situation and figuring out what to do next while my dad and I congratulated ourselves, in whispers, on our brilliant work. Needless to say, after he'd found out what had happened (thanks, Mom - what? You don't believe in a little fun?) he didn't talk to us for a few days. This might be a good point to end all the story telling, because honestly, I didn't like that, him not talking to me. Because he's my one and only brother, who I love.

Who used to be pretty fat.