No Agenda

No Agenda has moved

2006-06-25T12:49:00.000-07:00

My blog has moved to another site - please visit www.caramcduna.com.

Adventures in Europe

2006-06-08T08:13:00.000-07:00

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Sent: Sun June 4, 2006
Subject:

Hi, Cara-- Just got back from an afternoon of walking around an old Parisian neighborhood called " le Marais". It was fun. Dad bought a ridiculous pork pie hat that is all different color checks-- he loves it, of course. He is going a little crazy because my blackberry works and his doesn't.

We are going out to dinner later but are now taking a rest. Glad you guys are having a good week.

Tomorrow we are going to Monmartre and the flea market. Then we leave for Istanbul on Sunday.

Talk to you soon.

Love
Mom

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough, Vinnie Rotondaro
Sent: Tue June 6, 2006
Subject: The Turkish cop

Just asked a cop for directions. We started talking, switched hats, and took a picture.

He wore my plaid hat and I wore his cop hat.

Dad

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Sent: Thurs Jun 8, 2006
Sunject:

Dad and I are sitting in a sidewalk cafe in the theoretical high end shopping district. Dad has on a green shirt with blue stripes and his madras patchwork bermudas. He is also sporting his Gerber baby hairdo. Very cute.

Hope everything is good there.

Love
Mom

Move over Terry Gross

2006-06-07T17:43:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, with my trusty friend Max by my side, I did my very first radio show on WCOM, a low-power station in Carrboro. The station is completely volunteer-run, and after several months of providing them with a daily news report (grabbing this and that from the local news websites) the station manager asked if I'd be interested in taking over the Wednesday West End Report. The show features local events listings, interviews and commentaries. I answered with a resounding "Yes!" My very own thirty minutes on air? Definitely. Not that, you know, the throngs would be listening. You can hear WCOM in about a ten-mile radius surrounding the transmitter, but, really, you can hear it best when you drive right up under the radio tower and just, you know, keep your car completely still.

Max B. was in town for my debut (after an on-air training session I'd participated in the week before - in order to learn how to answer the phones on-air, the station manager's daughter called in and read her middle school lunch menu aloud). Since he'd been a DJ in college, playing the latest and greatest in contemporary alternative, Max wasn't nervous. I, surprisingly, was. I don't get nervous that often anymore. Not like this anyway. Sweaty and whatnot. But I was, and have been every week since.

It's an interesting scenario. I don't think that that many people who know me would categorize me as "nervous." I'm not shy around new people, or scared marching up to strangers and demanding that they answer my questions. Part of that is my job, and part of it is just how I am. I don't mind public speaking or big groups. I wasn't nervous on my wedding day, but maybe that was because of the number of bottles of white wine opened by my lovely bridesmaids - or the fact that we were experiencing the "drenching rain" that had been predicted, and when it is drenching rain on your wedding day, you just aren't nervous, because nothing else bad is going to happen.

The radio, however, makes me nervous. Before my show, I actually pace, or sit on the couch, just staring or talking to myself. Things that people in movies do. I'm always watching these people in movies, as they do things like lay on their beds and think about the date they just went on and just - daydream - or whatever, and I decide I should do more things like that. And less watching "Little People, Big World" on the Discovery Channel and Ina Garten on the Food Network, who, by the way, I've finally gotten into - and that woman makes mighty cocktails. I'm serious. I watched her make one recently that was, like, 70 parts vodka, 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice. Party it up, Ina.

Today I interviewed John Heuer, who's heading the N.C. Grassroots Impeachment Movement (G.R.I.M.), part of a larger, nationwide network pushing for the impeachment of President Bush. I was pretty much ready to lose it before I headed over to the station - either throw up or crawl into bed with a vat of ice cream in my sweats, never to emerge again - but J came home and not only assured me that I'd be fine, but that he'd have dinner ready when I got home. This last promise was enough to carry me through, and he was right, I was totally fine. Whatever that radio thing is that makes me nervous, whether it's the fact that I can't see the audience, or that I have to remember so many buttons and cues at once, or that talking into a metal microphone is so very different from talking to a real, breathing person - when I got in there with John, who was extremely friendly, it was just me and him talking, and I sort of forgot that we were on air. I was in my element, just asking a stranger questions.

I was in my element, that is, until I decided to end the conversation roughly a minute before the show's closeout music was scheduled to start up, thinking I'd, I don't know - say goodnight for a really long time? Tell a joke? When I realized a minute of air time is pretty long when no one is talking, I tried to quickly pull up a song, all the while glancing over at my guest, smiling, like, "It's cool - this is Carrboro VOLUNTEER radio, see. Carrboro. Hippies." While explaining to my audience (of, oh, 10 people? 12?) that I was having a few small problems, the closing music started up and I said good night. I will, hopefully, be a little less nervous next week, and the week after and so on, but I have a feeling that the technical difficulties may persist for a little while. I suppose that's why people go to school for broadcast journalism. To learn about the buttons and timing and all. And maybe to be on radio stations you can hear in more than one zip code. But I'll get there, or somewhere. The School of Life for me. At least I'm not paying tuition. Or getting paid.

You can hear me on the West End Report Wednesdays from 6-6:30 on WCOM, 103.5, in Carrboro and Chapel Hill, or by streaming the show at www.communityradio.coop.

A beautiful woman with a beautiful message

2006-06-07T10:35:00.000-07:00

Thanks to J for finding the video of Ann Coulter on the Today Show. For those of you who missed it in the comments, here it is.

Ann takes a jab at widows!

2006-06-06T07:41:00.000-07:00

I'm going to stray from my normal policy of not discussing politics on this blog (because I would become unstoppable, and what's more, unruly, and you guys don't want to read lengthy, unruly posts, I know you don't) and ask if anyone was fortunate enough to catch the always charming Ann Coulter on The Today Show this morning, publicizing her new book, Godless: The Church of Liberalism.

While I don't have a clip of the Matt Lauer interview just yet, I can tell you that I was pretty close to losing it on the television set. Just clawing at her. I know this is coming from the other side - the "Godless" side - and could be construed as un-trustworthy advice, but from the bottom of my heart, Conservatives, you might want to distance yourselves from this woman. She's, um...she's nuts, guys. I know this isn't news to you or anything, but seriously - I'd maybe stage an "accident" - I mean, a non-harmful one, because I'm not for violence or anything. Maybe some sort of spa-incident, like a bad highlighting job. But get her out of the public eye. There are elections coming up, people, and she is crazy. She. Is. Crazy.

Come to Debbie Country

2006-06-05T13:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday J and I took off in his Saturn with no agenda but to do something fun and maybe a little adventurous. Perhaps visit some places we hadn't before. We ended up driving down roads off Franklin St., ogling the huge houses and gorgeous, immaculately-kept gardens. We drove down 15-501 to Fearrington Village where I showed J the barn swallows I'd spotted while covering an event the week before. We took country roads down to U.S. 64, crossed Jordan Lake and drove all the way to Raleigh where we visited the Museum of Natural Sciences briefly, before I started feeling very tired and headachey (nothing more than seasonal allergies) and we headed home after a busy day.

Once there, and I wasn't feeling all that much better, I decided that a night lying on the couch wouldn't kill me and, while J took a nap in the bedroom, I settled into one of my favorite recent activities: watching movies I've seen about 100 times. It's not that I don't want to watch new movies, or that I'm not thrilled with our digital cable (that is absolutely mind-numbing) just that the comfort of movies I've seen over and over is too tempting not to give into lately. I don't know if I'm stuck in a rut, or there just aren't any good movies coming out. I think it's mainly just knowing what's going to happen next in these, my favorite stories, that makes it such an enjoyable experience. And since J won't let me watch "The Office" (British version) over and over anymore, it's come down to movies, like "Best in Show," and "Old School." Sometimes "Ghostbusters."

But last night I picked what might just be the ultimate in this category of movies, "Singles", a movie I watched in high school, after it came out, and shortly after plotted a move to Seattle with friends. We'd rock, we'd dance in the rain, we'd drink a lot of coffee. Of course, that potential Seattle venture was merely a nod to the times. The 1990s were all about that. I mean, I didn't wear leggings and a long flannel shirt just for kicks. I wanted to be an integral part of that whole movement.

"Singles," however, for me, went beyond the whole Seattle thing and into realms much more meaningful. Like the part where Janet Livermore, who loved leggings and flannel by the way, played by Bridget Fonda, decides she'll break up with the commitment-phobe Cliff, and in the next shot we see her sitting atop the roof, happy and carefree - but with the phone within reach. Too true Cameron Crowe! The scene I like best, the one that still moves me after all these years, is when Steve, played by Campbell Scott, sits in the telephone booth at the club after having "many beers" and tells Linda's answering machine that he loves her. That he shouldn't have been Mr. Casual, and wants to be Mr. New to her, and all the while other club-goers are knocking like crazy on the booth's door, because they think it's the bathroom.

I like this movie so much that the actors who were in it can do whatever the hell they want as far as I'm concerned and they're always going to rock. I stumbled upon the award-winning "Lake Placid" the other day on one of our hundreds of channels. Fonda is in that, too, but criticize her for that career move? Hell no. She was in "Singles."

A post which brings to mind the question: Should the razor people be paying me, maybe just a little stipend or something?

2006-06-02T10:55:00.000-07:00

I don't want this to become some ultra-girl-tampon blog or anything, but I recently bought a Schick Intuition razor, which has a blade surrounded on both sides by a soothing skin-conditioning solid, and I must say, shaving with it has been rather enjoyable. Not like shaving one's legs is a remarkable challenge or anything. Would I rather not do it? Sure. I mean, only if my legs would somehow remain smooth going without, but it's more of an annoyance than an actual problem. And one of the major annoyances regarding shaving, in my opinion, is that sometimes when you prop your leg up and get the shaving cream on, sufficient to protect you from nicks and burn, you might change your position ever so slightly, and the showerhead, which someone-who-is-extremely-tall places so that water shoots out and covers the entire length of the bathtub so that he has the most fulfilling lengthy shower experience, is then spraying water directly on your shaving cream-covered leg, and it all washes off.

While we're on the topic, another thing that sometimes, accidentally, happens when you're showering is that, because the showerhead is positioned as such, and is shooting water across the whole of the bathtub, so that it rains against the back wall, instead of pointing an a more acute angle, which causes the water to flow directly into the bottom of the tub and into the drain, well, if the shower curtain is not "sealed," as someone who loves showering more than life itself likes to put it, against that back tub wall, the water can sometimes end up trickling down that wall, and then down the outside edge of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. Which I don't care about so much about as a general principle, as some people do, except for the fact that the floor, by the way, is sometimes covered with little pieces of balled up toilet paper that some people like to use to blow their noses and then throw into the trash basket, but sometimes, the person misses and they end up on the floor, where they get wet, which, I don't know about you - but I think is quite possibly the most disgusting thing ever. Ever.

Anyway, the great thing about this Schick Intuition razor is that you don't have to worry about the shaving cream washing off, because the shaving cream is built into the razor itself. And I may not be up to date on the latest in technology, per se, but I think that's pretty revolutionary.

A little more than we bargained for

2006-06-01T09:16:00.000-07:00

Over Memorial Day weekend a group of us decided to head down to Ocracoke Island in North Carolina's Outer Banks and spend the weekend camping near the beach as we had last year. The island is a gorgeous and relaxing place and so the idea was a popular one. About 20 of us packed our cars with tents and sleeping bags, coolers full of food to grill and beer, our dogs and our favorite beach reading material, and were off Friday afternoon.

Most of us took the Swan Quarter ferry - a roughly three hour drive from Chapel Hill and then, once you're on the boat, another 2 and a half hours. It was glorious. We emerged from our crowded vehicles and passed margaritas and beers around. Just before docking on the island we spotted a group of dolphins swimming beside us. The sky was slightly cloudy but we weren't too worried.

After unpacking and pitching tents all around our campsite, about 14 of us decided to head into the small town and have dinner. We picked a seafood place and due to the large number of our party, had to wait a while. But we settled in with drinks and waited our turn. By the time we got to the table a lot of us were so hungry and tired that all we could think of was a big dinner and the long night of sleep ahead. But you see, that's where we got ahead of ourselves. Thinking we were so worthy, so special, that we deserved anything other than complete and utter hell.

When we arrived back at the site, some three hours after departing, the skies had darkened considerably, the wind picked up, and as we were all dutifully marching back and forth to the muggy bathrooms to brush our teeth, the rain began to fall. J and I were borrowing a two-man tent from friends, and although it would be a tight fit for me, him, Mina and Cecilia, humans and dogs alike were so sleepy by this point that I was pretty sure it would be no problem. It wasn't. Not at first. We snuggled in - Cecilia, after she came to realize that laying her heavy, hot body across the midsection of our sheets and covers (as we did not have sleeping bags, waterproof or otherwise) was not acceptable, went to lay at our feet and Mina curled up tightly in a corner, having heard the distant roar of thunder and getting a little worried.

As we settled in it was raining hard. I felt certain it would taper off as these warm-weather storms so often do, but contrary to my amateur meteorological guess, the rain actually got harder. The lightning and thunder increased, too, tenfold, and pretty soon we were in a full-force gale and I was wondering how in the name of God our tent was holding steady. But it was, and somehow - by some mixture of true fatigue and those margaritas on the boat ride over I fell asleep. That is, I fell asleep until I woke abruptly in the middle of the night to find J sitting up and inspecting his surroundings by the light of a single flashlight. When I asked him what the matter was he informed me "our tent is leaking," and I laid back down, because I was pretty sure that for J, a more prepared and neurotic camper than I, "leaking" meant nothing more than some damp spots here and there. But that's when I felt the distinctly unpleasant and unmistakable chill of sodden bedsheets; the water was coming through the ground and into my pajamas. Our tent had become lagoon-like, and I knew we couldn't sleep there any longer.

J and I decided we'd have to sleep in the car, but to say it that way you might think we were getting along and working proactively in order to come to a solution. Perhaps I should put it more like: J and I decided, using harsh tones and cursing our fate, to sleep in the car, after basically accusing each other of being no help in the matter - which is funny, if you think about it, because really, what were we going to do? We put on our shoes and faced the very extreme elements to run over to J's Saturn. In a moment of that poignant dog loyalty you're always wishing your own dogs would showcase but they rarely do, Mina and Cecilia obediently followed suit and hopped into the back seat which was crowded with ropes and our clothes, backpacks and beach chairs. They proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as possible (not very) and fell asleep without a whine or questioning look, as if to say, "Look, people, this is what we've got to work with, so shut it, and make the best out of the situation."

The situation, however, was dire. As the windows fogged we wondered how we'd crack them and be able to breathe freely, what with this yet-unnamed hurricane or tornado bellowing just outside. Our clothes were wet and we were cold, but it was hot and stuffy inside the car. I thought about our shower and bed at home and wondered just who we were, thinking it was an ok idea to sleep outside with just a thin layer of nylon to protect us. I could get my seat back a little, but J had to try and sleep sitting straight up since the bulk of our materials was stacked behind the driver's side. It was 2 a.m. and the only semi-positive thing I could think to say was that in 3 hours it would be 5, and then we could get up and go for a walk.

Luckily, J and I both have a gift, a gift of extreme value in such a situation and that's the gift of being able to fall asleep easily. At home it's usually only minutes before we both begin reading in bed that we've tossed our books aside and are out for the night. So when I awoke about three hours later I felt proud that we'd somehow been able to make it, sort of, through the night. We even drifted off for a little longer until the sun was beginning to finally shine, and fellow campers were emerging.

I was primed to tell them all about our nightmarish evening. The evening we'd spent in a half-flooded tent and the cramped and humid car, dogs and all. "We had to sleep in the CAR," I'd tell them, and we'd certainly have had the worst of it, they'd decide.

But when we got out and began to walk around, I found that our story was not the dramatic tragedy I'd thought it would be when compared with the others' tales. First of all, Nate and Ginnie's tent was rippling gently in the wind, sort of sideways, almost, a tarp dangling off the top like a wild beast, some bear or bobcat, had grabbed hold of it. Since they were both still inside, I wondered if maybe their night hadn't been so peaceful, either. Others were greeting each other with wild-eyed stares, no "Good morning" or "How'd you sleep?" as a salutation, but instead, "Oh my GOD WHAT WAS THAT!?" followed by their recounting hours of sleep vs. non-sleep, the latter beating the former by a wide margin.

It seemed, in fact, that while J and I had been angrily running through the mud and wind to the safety of our family sedan, the others, unseen and unheard, were trembling in their own tents, sleepless, being rained on, too. And that, inconceivably, we may have slept better than them all. Except Max, who'd wisely not succumbed to fatigue after a long day, and had just kept drinking at the site long after we others, we who thought ourselves "smart," had drunk big glasses of water and called it quits for the evening. Max, the only smart camper, who'd apparently slept a deep and dreamless sleep, who had the audacity to ask - upon waking up and greeting the rest of us, who, inevitably, at some point the night before, had thought about getting back on that ferry and going home or perhaps plunging our bodies into the icy waters of the Atlantic and letting nature take its course - "Did is rain last night?"

Whereupon the Rotondaros head to various European destinations (except for one, who chooses to remain in the beautiful south)

2006-06-01T06:28:00.000-07:00

From: Angelo Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough, Fred Rotondaro, Kathleen Rotondaro
Date: Jun 1, 2006
Subject: The Trip

Hey, Everythings going great. I'm in Positano. It's beautiful here, we're about to leave for Rome. I'll write you with more details when I get there and have some time. Love, Vinnie

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough, Vinnie Rotondaro
Date: Jun 1, 2006
Subject: Nous sommes arrivee a Paris

We are here and on a "bateau mouche" travelling on the Seine seeing the sites in the rain.

You can email me but not dad, as his blackberry is not working.

Love, Mom

From: Cara McDonough
To: Kathleen Rotondaro, Fred Rotondaro, Angelo Rotondaro
Date: Jun 1, 2006 9:23 AM
Subject: I'm in Pittsboro!

Dear Mom, Dad and Vinnie,

I'm really glad to hear you guys are all safely in Europe and enjoying your vacations. Keep me up to date on the sites, weather, food, etc...

I arrived in Siler City, NC, this morning, quite early, by way of Honda Civic littered with newspapers and a half-eaten scone I've neglected to throw away since last week. I got some coffee on the way at a drive-thru place. It was delicious. You should have seen the way the sun was rising over the Bojangles fast-food restaurant, and the WalMart. It was truly amazing and I felt so lucky to be spending a lovely summer morning in such a place!

After the event I was covering was over I came back here to my office in Pittsboro. I stopped to get a bagel at the local cafe first and was glad to see some of the same faces I see every day. No need for change or new inspiriration! I always wanted to live in a big, thriving city, sure! But this girl can really dig a small town.

Now I'm at my desk, reading the paper and checking emails. I have a feeling it's going to be a pretty good day. If anything, I might take a walk to get something cool to drink at the Snack Stop later this afternoon. On the way I'll wave hello to the local barbers. I'll swap stories with the antiques dealers.

But before all that excitement I'll have a lunch of leftovers warmed up in our 20-year-old microwave and perhaps get a chance to read some of the press releases Josephine just laid on my desk, including one on the newest "designer dog," the Giant Schnoodle!

I hope this email doesn't make you guys homesick. I miss you all very much, and am glad we are all having such a great start to our summer vacations.

Love,
Cara

Who, me? A big liar?

2006-05-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

Recently I wrote on this blog that, as a promise to my readers (and myself), I would write "one post every weekday (at least)" and then I promptly threw that promise on the floor and stomped on it. Let it get dirty. Like it didn't even matter. But the thing is it does matter. It matters for a few reasons.

One of those reasons is that I tend to be a rather weak person in the face of a temptation. For instance, yesterday, once I was was granted an afternoon off, I spent it on a shady restaurant patio with good friends drinking margaritas and meeting fellow porch-drinkers, who'd just gotten married, and by the way, had the Pietasters play at their wedding. Pretty sweet. The point is, though, that I didn't spend that suddenly free time at home cleaning the mold out of the smoothie maker we used last week.

One of my goals, as a semi-new, somewhat-grown-up who thinks about things like buying a home, is to do things I say I'll do, whether or not there is a more tempting option - and that goes for everything from paying the bills to, yes, writing on this blog.

Not that I'm going to shirk all impulsive notions. Balance is important.

The other reason is that, as a dear family friend and writer once told me, the key to becoming a good writer is to "write every day." What I think he meant was, you'd better the hell write every day if you even think for a moment you could possibly be good enough to be called a "writer," because honestly, practice is all you can do - but I got the picture. And remembered it always. And despite the fact that my job does involve writing every day, I see no reason to stop there, especially since I'm not about to write in the newspaper about how all those margaritas prompted me to give full demonstrations of how J likes to fall asleep with his contacts in, or talk all about my newfound love of getting a bikini wax.

That, friends, is what this outlet is for. Stay tuned. I'm going to try. For you, for me, for my grandmother, who now reads this and is probably wishing she'd never stumbled upon it, I'm going to try.

Alone in the cinderblock cottage

2006-05-25T10:43:00.000-07:00

For the past few days, after coming back to Chapel Hill from D.C. and Vinnie's graduation, I've been alone. J was showing off his scientific best at the microbiology conference in Orlando, and I'll admit, when driving home Monday night after a very long, very intense town board meeting, I started to get pretty sad. I thought about our months since marriage and realized that J and I haven't spent much time apart. In fact, we've spent a lot of time doing things together, like trips to see family and friends, attend weddings and such.

Before we got married, I took many a trip up north to decide, you know, what color napkins we needed for the place settings, while J stayed home and did other, arguably more important things, like break down DNA samples of tuberculosis strains. So going up to the graduation without my other half was the first time I'd taken a car trip alone in some time, and Monday was the first time I'd come home to an empty house in what seemed like forever.

We are, in my opinion, a couple that values independence. If I don't feel like going out for a drink with friends, J doesn't make me, nor does he miss out on the experience himself, and vice versa. We both understand that there will be times when one of us, either by desire or necessity, may take a trip that the other won't go on. And both of us, I think, understand the importance of having some time alone now and then. I'm an extrovert by nature. I can only spend so many hours home alone before I'm itching to go out to a coffee shop just to be near people. However, due to a very busy past couple of weeks, I realized these quiet nights alone this week would probably be good for me.

When I was driving home Monday night, though, and knew J wouldn't be there on the couch watching television or in the bed reading the Stephen King series he's recently become obsessed with, I didn't think about how "good" this time alone would be, but only about how I'd be lonely.

And I did miss him. I've missed him all week and can't wait until he returns this evening.

But I did, somehow, manage to get used to being all by myself in our little house. Very used to it. For instance, I don't know if you all are aware, but they've recently starting showing biographies of Food Network chefs, much like the E True Hollywood Story, and if there's no one there who minds, you can watch, two, three - four of them in a night. I realized that my constant desire to clean up every little mess and rid the sink of dirty dishes is, perhaps, more an issue of control, than functionality, because I became totally ok with dropping my pjs on the bathroom floor before my shower in the morning and then leaving them there. All week. Lying fully stretched out on the couch and watching tv while reading a magazine while having a glass of wine while letting the dogs lick my dinner plate after I'd finished. Sleeping diagonally across the bed, with things in there with me, like the book I'd been reading and my work clothes, which I know J hates. I remembered little habits of mine and came to understand that I can sleep hard as a rock all night long with or without someone else in the bed.

This isn't to say I'm not myself when my husband's around. Certainly the opposite. I can be more myself with him than practically anyone. It's just that it's been such a busy period and I'd forgotten what it's like to be ok with your own company, to like who you are when you are all by yourself.

And to be able to be alone once in a while, knowing that you aren't truly alone at all.

My father, who knew I was alone and possibly lonely and possibly getting murdered, called me more regularly than usual to ensure I was alright. Yesterday morning, just after my alarm went off around 7:30 a.m. the house phone rang and I sat bolt upright, wondering why in the name of God someone was calling me so early. While reaching for the phone my mind raced with the possibilities. Could my brother, who'd just arrived the day before in Istanbul for a three week long European jaunt, have been kidnapped by Turkish pirates? Were my parents ok? What about J, so far away in Orlando, and all the recent alligator attack incidents?

When I reached the phone, luckily, it was only my happy father, who greeted me with a good morning song as I sank back down into the cozy bed, surrounded by our cat, the most recent New Yorker, a denim skirt - "Good moorrrrrrnnnnnnniinnnnngggggggggg Cara, best daughter in the world!" Once his song was over he began with the usual, the inevitable, to a daughter, home alone (it doesn't matter if she is 12, or 28): "Hello darling. I just wanted to make sure you were alive."

Of course, I'm not exactly ready to give up the Friday afternoon beers, so maybe we'll give it a few years...

2006-05-23T18:51:00.000-07:00

One annoying thing I'm finding about being 28 is that it seems I can finally say I'm too old for things. I've recently started doing a little bit of radio journalism now and then, and find that the 18-year-old interns can churn that stuff out in milliseconds while I mess about clumsily with the edit program. Maybe "too late" is too harsh, but I'm entering the field somewhat late. And slowly. Of course I recently heard a show in which it was stated that Diane Rehm, of the NPR "Diane Rehm Show" was an intern at 35. And it's not that I want to have my own radio show or anything (but if you are reading this and would like to give me my own radio show, a book offer or job as a travel journalist, yes, yes, I accept), it's just that I'm displeased that I can even say "I might be too old for that" when confronted with certain situations. I know, deep down, it's not true, but admit it, when you're 28 and you've been out, like, four nights in a row, and on the fifth night you say, "Hey guys, I'm done, I gotta stay in on the couch in my pj's and watch TV," there less apt to say, "Shut it, loser!" and hand you a purple shot that reeks of Jaeger, like when you're 27.

But that's not exactly my point. In fact, it's the opposite of my point. One of the things that finally feels appropriate at this age is wanting to have children. Now hold it right there, friends, I'm not actually having children, I'm just talking about the feeling of wanting to have them. For instance today, when a former newspaper employee brought in her toddler and six-month-old and, after playing with them, I got the urge to chuck my birth control in the nearest dumpster. I know the time isn't right right now, so don't worry, I'm not gonna have babies that have to live in our washing machine or anything (because, honest to God, that's where they'd have to live) I'm just surprised at these feelings, especially since as a younger girl I always admired my mother, who had me and my brother at 35 and 39 because, hey, that's what she felt like doing. Of course, I also vowed I wouldn't get married until 30, and that dream went down the tubes shortly after J and I started living together and I began initiating simply delightful conversations that began, "I just...I just don't think it's fair..."

I mean, it could be the whole Hollywood baby surge, what with Britney and her babies (and her very visible underwear) and Angelina and her multi-colored family, and all, but probably not. I think it's a natural part of my getting older. And of course I'll wait until it's a good time for us to have children. It's just a, well - it's a nice feeling.

I do realize, of course, that once they're past babyhood they reach teenage-hood and however they turn out they are yours for 18 (+) years, and that the desire to have a baby is different than the desire to have a real, full-grown little person, but I'm not too worried, because with J around I figure they'll always have something completely wholesome and amazing to do, like make some art from found plywood or fill the woodpecker feeder with suet, and I won't have to worry about them doing drugs or being sassy until they're about 25.

A little side project

2006-05-23T14:28:00.000-07:00

Because I needed more distractions.

Thunderstorm

2006-05-22T21:03:00.000-07:00

Extremely friendly, needs a home!

2006-05-19T11:58:00.000-07:00

I decided in between work obligations and driving to Alexandria this evening to come home and give Cecilia a bath. J and I, after observing several nights of her cleaning herself obsessively, to the point where we had to yell at her to Stop, Please stop, That's disgusting and you are driving us beserk, decided to take a look at her skin and noticed some red bumpy patches as well as - goddamnit - a flea. When J and I see a flea, we don't think rationally. We don't think about flea medications or shampoos. We think - How bad can this get? Will we have to vacate the premises and let loose a barrage of harsh chemicals? Burn down the house? Sometimes J gets more upset and I have to calm him down, and then we switch roles.

I've found, in fact, that ridding the dogs of fleas, or, more specifically, a flea, is actually no harder than putting the dogs back on the preventative Frontline, which I forget to give them most of the time, until I spot a flea. Buying Frontline is essentially the same as paying rent on another house, but it works, and I love to make veterinarians smile by paying inordinate fees for things to make my dogs happier. Like nail clippings and shots.

Before applying the miracle drug however, I wanted to give the dogs, who both needed it, a bath. Unfortunately the May weather is still on the cool side down here. I'm not complaining - we've had gorgeous, humidity-free days, which is rare for this late in the season, but it meant that rather than torture Cecilia with frigid hose water, I'd have to get her in the bathtub.

She got pretty excited when I got the leash down from its hook, but when I tied it to the faucet and told her sweetly to "Come here," she got the picture and skidded under the coffee table where she placed her hard head on her paws with a resolute expression I translated as something like, "Please, for the love of God, I hope she can't see me under here."

I got it done as I always do, of course, hoisting her back end over her front until she tumbled with a horrendous thud into the tub and I proceeded to pour buckets full of lukewarm water gently over her body and head, telling her what a good girl she was and singing some songs I made up on the spot. She continued to look sullen and desperate, as though she were receiving some great punishment, which bothers me, because I'd give anything for someone to douse me with warm-ish water, rub me down with nice-smelling shampoo while singing me a song about how I was the best thing ever.

I let her get herself, clumsily, out of the bathtub, and proceeded to wash Mina (pick up, hold steady, pour water, scrub down, pour water, pick up) quickly, then let them both out in the back yard to dry off in the sun. And rub themselves in the dirt.

I love watching dogs after they get baths. They always seem to find some untapped reserve of energy for such an occasion and act like idiots, running in circles, so extremely joyful to be free from the torture of being properly cleaned. Today as I watched them I saw that same joy, and I also noticed, for some reason, how they looked without their collars on. Especially Cecilia. Stripey, and big and muddled colors, looking at me with her mouth open and ears perked up, I couldn't help but notice how much she looked like so many of the dogs I'd known while working at the animal shelter. Without her prepster sailboat collar, she could have been any of those dogs. Her face and coloring matched hundreds of others, many of whom never made it out. I took Cecilia home when a foster dog I'd had for a few days starting fighting with Mina. Teary-eyed, I took the foster back to the shelter on a unbearably grey day during one of our infamous ice storms. I felt like I was taking her to her death, having not found a home for her, and thought the least I could do was take someone else. Cecilia's brother had been adopted just a few days before, and she sat in the back of her kennel wagging her tail timidly and bit me playfully all over my arms when I reached in to say hi. I took her home because I felt bad about all the dogs who never find homes. I remember distinctly J's reaction when he came over to see my new foster puppy, like, Oh, I see. That kind of dog. A week later I was lying to people who called in response to the "Adopt Cecilia" posters I'd placed around town, telling them she'd already been taken, and then I stopped lying and just admitted I wanted to keep her.

I'm not very keen on yelling at people about adopting dogs from shelters, telling people how many animals are homeless, and how many die because there just aren't enough homes for them all (unless drinking at times). I just think they should be loved. Of course they should - I'm not sharing any deep knowledge, it just struck me today, looking at my collarless dogs, how randomly they came into my life and how I'm so happy that they did but every once in a while I am totally overwhelmed by how many more need that same chance.

My apologies

2006-05-18T13:11:00.000-07:00

I know my posts have been lacking lately. Short remembrances of conversations. Pictures. Unfulfilled promises. I could say I've been busy, which is absolutely true, but something (the fact that I just browsed The Superficial for half an hour?) tells me that if I had a better schedule, I'd be able to do all the things. All the good work and blogging and planning for the future, as well as having very nice nails and always sporting a fab pair of earrings. So here's some resolutions. Some promises, promises I promise to fulfill:

One post every weekday (at least)
Do some incredible things that will make for good, worthwhile blogging
Find J a birding friend (that one is unrelated, but...takers?)

The things we did

2006-05-18T11:33:00.000-07:00

Pretended to be a flute-playing duck

Played catch

Rode in a convertible

Made a feast

Spent a lot (a lot) of time looking up things on Wikipedia

Morning commute/living without downtime

2006-05-17T11:51:00.000-07:00

"I slept like a rock, didn't dream at all. And I was really, really hot when I woke up."

"I know. Me too. Really hot. Plut, everything is out of control."

"Out of control? Like, our life?"

"Yeah. I feel like - like I just go to work every morning, and then I come home, and there are these people there. Guests. And we take care of them, or not take care of them, but do stuff with them. And it's really fun, but the house is messy, and - is this what it's going to be like to have kids?"

These guys are the reason I haven't written in nearly a week

2006-05-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

Here they are at the Council on Aging when I made them come to work with me last week. Cute, huh? More on my visitors from LA and Wilmington and our North Carolina adventure later when I'm in house and pajamas, praying to my liver, that it forgive me for all my sins, and to God, that he forgive me for my other sins, that include accidentally telling a random guy in a bar a few untruths, like that Max and Justin are gay lovers. Sometimes when you are with your friends you get a little wily.

Post-Starbucks drive to the Mary Ellen Jones Building

2006-05-09T09:42:00.000-07:00

"I know why I'm getting fat."

"Why? You're not getting fat."

"I am. A little. It's because I eat when I'm not hungry."

"You mean you get up and get food when you're not hungry?"

"Well, no. I mean, when I'm full and there's still more on the plate and I eat it."

"I do that too, though. I mean, not only is it good, but there are nutrients..."

"No, I mean, if there is chocolate in front of me, and I eat one piece and then I eat two more even though I'm satisfied with just one, because I figure, 'Well, this day's wasted anyway in terms of being moderate, because I just ate that chocolate...'"

"Yeah, but do you enjoy those extra pieces of chocolate?"

"Yes. Well, no. Yes, but the enjoyment does not outweigh how I feel bad about myself for doing it. Ask any girl."

"Let me ask you a question."

"Oh God. Here comes the Justin-analyze-your-life program."

"Would you rather be shocked right now by X voltage of electricity..."

"How many volts?"

"Would you rather be shocked by X voltage of electricity right now, or by half as much in ten minutes?"

"Well, I don't want to go into specifics, because you're not supposed to do that with these...I'd take it right now."

"Right! They did a study, and most people said they'd like to be shocked right then, even if they'd be shocked by less later. Waiting for pain is worse than actual pain."

"I was going to say, 'Would the electricity have any lasting negative affects...?'"

"No, you're getting too into it."

"I know. That's why I said before that I didn't want to get into specifics..."

"Good girl. You answered the same as everybody else."

"I'd be a good person no matter how I answered because I'm an individual, confident person."

"Right."

"Right."

Is it time to pull the plug on the nation's most interminably long running hospital drama?

2006-05-04T17:39:00.000-07:00

I like to relax on a Thursday evening every now and then, watching the local NBC affiliate, and this is just what I was doing last night when I heard the telltale overly-dramatic music and realized a commercial for the hospital drama "ER" was on, and asked J if he thought maybe it was going to be the "most dramatic show yet?" Because, after their - what, 600 or so? - years of being on the air, that seems their only plug nowadays. "In the most dramatic episode yet, love blooms in the most unlikely of places. But can this couple make it? Their relationship is tested when a bioterrorism threat shakes the hospital. Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse...is the emergency room being taken over by alien forces? Will the patients be asked to serve their county as untrained soldiers in a fight against a deadly group of impoverished tribesmen who'll stop at nothing to kill every last American? A surprise visitor makes tonight's 'ER' the most emotional show you've seen so far, you DON'T want to miss it."

Listen, I've been in my fair share of emergency rooms, and even when we had to go to the one in Atlantic City when Vinnie had an awful ear infection, and there were drunks roaming the waiting room with their pants pretty much falling off, I mean, it was nothing like "ER." I'm all for the show's writers upping the action because, you know, it's a TV show and all and we don't want to sit there bored, but they've gone too far. Truthfully, things started sliding when George Clooney left. That's just my opinion, though.

The latest situation

2006-05-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager my family was on some road trip, careening along in my mother's minivan when we spotted a truck dangling some strings attached to unwieldly objects scraping along the highway just ahead. Before my mother could even utter the words, "Fred, watch out..." one of the objects had gone flying and the next thing we knew this ungodly noise was coming from the bottom of our vehicle. My brother and I looked on excitedly from the backseat as my father pulled the car over, slowly, safely, to the shoulder, he and my mother got down on their hands and knees and withdrew from below our Toyota Previa, a large, plastic duck.

What I'm saying is, I come from a history of ridiculous situations, some, like this one, just a matter of circumstance, and some, like this, are more a product of genes. Genes and insanity.

I make fun of J all the time for just this sort of thing. The time in high school he busted his tooth trying to catch the string to the attic door in his mouth (because it was snowing, and he was excited). The time he allegedly locked himself in a closet in college. But the thing is, I'm no better. And together, well...When we lived in our last rented house - a beautiful, big place - we neglected to tell our landlord upon signing the lease that we had a cat. Hyperactive, at-that-chewing-stage pitbull? Check. 10-pound-monster who would eat her way through your expensive cabinets to get at a cupcake? Yup. Got one of those. But ancient, incredibly well-behaved and practically non-existent cat? We figured that might lose us the house. So we didn't tell her. And every time our kind, easygoing landlord stopped by the house to pick up a rake, or in the later months, show the place to a potential buyer (which happened a lot) we'd - tell her about the cat? - no. We'd hide the cat in the bathroom, guarding the door and making small talk until she left. We'd stick him in a carrier and drive around town until we felt it was safe. Anything to perpetuate the image that we were living in a cat-free environment. How did we get ourselves into this situation? And why did we keep it up? Why, for the love of God, did we not tell the woman, who wouldn't have dwelled upon it for more than half a second, "Hey, we have this old, beige cat"?? Because this is how we are.

In the early months of our relationship I'd spend nights at the bachelor pad J shared with our good friend Grant and we'd sometimes stay up late, snuggling under his flannel penguin-decorated sheets, watching Nick at Nite, "Three's Company" a particular favorite of ours. We loved the situations those guys got themselves into. Jack Tripper always wound up in trouble, whether it was pretending he was gay so the landlord wouldn't mind his living with the two girls, or bringing some hottie back to the apartment, and then realizing he had to figure out - quick! - how to make sure she wouldn't get confused and think he was actually dating Janet. Or Chrissy. J and I would laugh, "How do these guys get themselves into these situations?" We knew better than we cared to admit.

I covered the Chatham County primary election last night, and as usual, the results weren't available until the early hours of the morning. I did what I could from home. Once I'd sent my stories, minus the final tallies to my boss at about 1:30 a.m., I finally got into bed, and it seemed only minutes before my night of sleep was over and J was gently saying my name and giving me information about Enterprise Rent-A-Car. We have two cars, sure, but two cars don't help you when they're broken, each in their own, unique way. Mine had two flat tires. J's Saturn was making scary noises with each application of the brakes and we decided that, for our safety, it would be best not to drive either to work. I sat up, and since I was the one in need of a ride, called AAA to get my car towed to the service center, and Enterprise to explain I'd be needing a car for the day. Suddenly jolted from my sleepy state I realized each would be at our house in twenty minutes or so, jumped in the shower and just as quickly out, put on my bathrobe, inside-out, hence, I could not tie the terrycloth rope round my waist and my naked body was visible every time I moved. I had just gone to put my left contact in when our fire alarm which was installed, brilliantly, just beyond the door to our bathroom, went off, bleating it's alert to the world. This happens just about daily in our house after anyone showers. The dogs retreat under the coffee table, unable to understand why two somewhat-responsible people had to have that awful alarm go off every day Normally J is there to make it stop. His height makes it easy. My lack of height makes it near impossible, and as J was outside awaiting a tow-truck and a rent-a-car salesman, I was on my own, and I was blind. I had to wait a deafening four minutes or so before I had gotten the contacts in my eyes, pulled a stack of cookbooks below the offending alarm, and stood upon them to reach the reset button, my inside-out robe swaying open and closed. Luckily our neighbors' windows don't really look directly into ours because I'm sure there's nothing like hearing an alarm and looking for its source to see what's the matter only to spot a young woman wearing a bathrobe, open in the front, mind you, with sopping hair, standing on a stool made of cookbooks because that's all she's got to work with. Not my finest moment, but at least the current landlord knows we've got a cat.

Don't judge me

2006-05-03T10:46:00.000-07:00

Things I thought about Monday, because Monday is a downer

2006-05-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

The baby bluebirds
Driving with the windows down
Mina's purple velour track suit
Wine, a new bottle
Warm nights
The sound of bugs, but not bugs in our house
The Go Team album
Food Network on satellite radio
Cute shirts that are inappropriate for work but appropriate for after
The May primary being nearly over
Getting a drink before dinner at a favorite restaurant
A hot shower when allergies are particularly bad
The prospect of new flip flops that are not falling apart
Staying home summer weekends
Lifetime movies, both awful and compelling
The story my Dad once told me about the guy who put his sheets in the freezer to ensure his bed was ultra-cool and refreshing each night
Soup
Clean, professional offices
"The Backyardigans", which follows "Face the Nation," which follows "CBS Sunday Morning"
Charles Kuralt's legacy

The Coalition for Happier Music

2006-04-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

April, which first brought sunshine and warmth and the promise of a lengthy summer, has turned on us as of late. Cold rain has begun and ended several days over the past week. This being the current state of affairs, I was not very excited to attend an outdoor concert last night.

Friends had discovered that the band Guster would be giving a free concert at Duke and we decided to go. Here's where I get in trouble, especially with the JMU alums who may boot me from the inner circle for the following admission: Guster is not my favorite band. I admire them, think they are infinitely talented and very cool people, but, you get my point right? They're not my favorite.

After leaving the show last night J told me he'd envisioned the whole thing as us standing in the sun upon fresh grass enjoying the music. I tell you this part first, so I can now tell you what actually happened, and how much what actually happened differed from this rosy projection.

First, I wasn't much in the mood to go out, but did because the event started early, at 7, and because it's important to go to out and experience things like rock concerts in the rain. I picked up J at the lab and after we met Sherry and Christy we were off to the Duke campus.

Where it was the last day of classes!

It's interesting. I mean, maybe I should have realized it was the last day of classes when a 12-year-old dressed in patterned pink pants and a button down came stumbling across the lawn in front of Duke Chapel. But, I was like, "Well, this is North Carolina. That shit happens."

It took assessing the situation further and listening to nearby conversations spoken in very loud tones to get the picture. Classes were over, baby. Not only were classes over, but Guster wasn't playing til 9! Not only that, it was starting to smell a little bit like puke!

Pretty soon after one of two opening bands started playing some college-esque love songs the muddy field started getting pretty packed with intoxicated youngsters, some of whom were drinking actual beers, the 21-year-olds or those with damn good IDs, I figured, and others who were drinking neon pink and orange liquids out of plastic water bottles and Nalgenes. Oh, you guys. I went to college. I know what's up.

I forgot about the fact that I hadn't really wanted to come see my non-favorite band in a rainy field on a Wednesday night and got rather into the scene. I became an equally surprised and delighted observer. Especially when hip hop artist Razell (I've searched the Net to no avail on how to spell this guy's name) took the stage. I'm pretty sure there were some other, older Guster fans, like our group in that quad, but we had somehow gotten right in the midst of the-last-day-of-classes glee club and when I wasn't witnessing up-close, highly sexualized dance moves, I was picking up an empty bag of Franzia from the mud and handing it to a concert-goer behind me. Really. He wanted to make sure it was totally gone.

At one point during Razell's performance - which was amazing by the way, the guy could imitate the beats and lyrics to complex hip hop tunes using only his voice - I felt someone softly grip me around my waist and lean his chin on my head as everyone swayed to the music. Justin? No, a teetering gentleman who all too soon left us for the great unknown of the crowd beyond. Romantic.

It became dark quickly, and the pulsing crowd reached new heights of excitement as drinks were circulated. Besides the adorable conversations I heard, including, "I need a beer. Dude, I need a beer. Dude. I need a beer." and (from the more innocent among them) "HEY! Let's totally take a road trip up north this summer! Are you in? I'm in! I'm so in! I'm in!" I noticed the very sensual interactions between the students. I thought back to all the times Erin G. and I had danced to "Only the Good Die Young" at one of our favorite bars in Boston, sung by a local cover artist, and wondered if we, too, had been so sensual. I am saddened to think that, no, we didn't quite have these moves. Taking tequila shots in the freezing cold landscape of New England, I suppose, doesn't yield the same results.

When Guster finally appeared onstage, after we'd been trampled a little and separated from our friends, the students reached a peak. The band played Alice Cooper's "School's Out" two times as well as made many references to it being the last day of classes, and the students accepted the kind gestures well. There was crowd surfing. There was singing, guys belting out the lyrics to every last song just as powerfully as the girls.

Our good friend Tara, who went to JMU with J, has a boyfriend Mike, who I will give major thanks to for the rest of our lives because he rescued me from certain situations. Certain situations like J and all his friends suddenly forming a tight circle and dancing rambunctiously to a song I didn't know. Or breaking out the guitars and singing a tragic ballad. At a party, say. They all have great voices and can harmonize, and it's very, very sad. Mike and I formed a coalition and last year he bestowed me with a wonderful present - a t-shirt with our group's name, "The Coalition for Happier Music," emblazoned on its front.

At one point during last night's concert the Guster band members started plucking their guitar strings in a deliberately slow manner and I thought, "Dear God, no," but yes, they were playing one of these tragically emotional songs J and his friends like to sing in harmony. I looked around and thousands of drunk Duke students had lifted their mouths to the skies and were singing like their lives depended on it. I told J I was living my worst nightmare, but after a bit had to smile. It was funny. It was more than funny. There we were, packed like sardines with what seemed like a million carefree students, stepping on beer cans and each other, the smell of mud and grass, cigarettes and puke mingling - college! The smell of college. The picture of college - their bare feet and rolled up jeans, their clear bottles full of whatever they could get their hands on. The sounds of college - their singing, but loudly, not like the too-hip concerts we now attend, their conversations, their calls to friends and their declarations of joy in the form of fists thrust upwards and a piercing yelp because classes were over...what I'd spent the first hours of that concert thinking of as "their fun" had suddenly become mine and I was overjoyed that I, all at once, had no desire to experience it over again as I did in that cold, New England urban landscape, but that it still exists in such a pristine form, the music made even happier by the fleeting circumstance of such young, unburdened life.

More on Delilah

2006-04-25T10:31:00.000-07:00

I was driving home from a town board meeting last night in the previously-mentioned satellite and CD-free atmosphere when I happened upon a soft rock station that I just knew was featuring Delilah dedications at that time of night and so I waited though the commercials. That's how much I dislike Delilah.

Sure enough, piano music soon rose to a crescendo, a chorus of heavenly angels sang "Deeeeeeee-li-lah," and I waited eagerly to hear what atrocity the woman would shell out to her next avid, and undoubtedly emotionally impoverished listener.

The caller, who'd "put Dad in the ground" that very day (mark, my words, if any of you call Delilah on the day you "put me in the ground" there will be hell to pay) and, having a five-week old baby, the poor man was sad, but also felt fortunate that his father had held on, five years past the time doctors had given him, to see his grandson.

Listening to this particular call, I learned that Delilah doesn't know the difference between playing a song to make someone feel better, and playing a song which simply has lyrics that relate to a given situation. Like, you'd never play the song "Breaking up is Hard to Do," by Neil Sedaka for someone who'd just broken up with someone. You'd be subtle and play "No one is to Blame" by Howard Jones.

I waited in the brief, quiet moments just after Delilah said she wanted to play something to honor this man's father and bless his newborn son wondering what soft rock gem this woman could possibly pull from the vaults when the opening notes sounded...and yes, of course, she'd chosen Mike and the Mechanic's ultra-sentimental and tragic "The Living Years," a song that features the troubled relationship between a father and son littered with "crumpled bits of paper" and quarrels "between the present and past." The singer wishes he just could have told his father how much he meant to him in "the living years," but, here's the winner, thinks he just may have caught his father's spirit, post-death, in his "baby's newborn tears."

I couldn't stop listening so I drove and wondered about the others affected by the radio show. The caller, perhaps writhing on the floor, reduced to a mess of tears, and the radio queen herself, smug in her studio, lecturing the timid crew, "Did you see that? A father's death and a newborn baby in that song. Now that's award-winning programming."

Monday and I feel:

2006-04-24T14:10:00.000-07:00

Today was a day I truly wished I worked in a bigger town, so that when I was getting annoyed about the seemingly endless humdrum work I was producing, I could have exited out the front door and onto a sidewalk teeming with interesting people. In bigger places, in cities, you can lose yourself in that. In smaller places, like the very small southern town I drive to everyday, you don't get the same.

I don't think there's anything wrong with either situation, just that some people prefer one or the other. I'm not a huge fan of the quiet. While I appreciate the occasional foray into the wilderness and certainly everyone needs some solitude once in a while, I often wish that I worked closer to Chapel Hill, even, and that I might be able to energize myself every once in a while with a nice crowd of people. People make me happy. People I don't know, even. Sometimes that's better.

These writers who surround themselves with bottles of vodka and don't leave the house for ten days, I mean, that's not for me.

Today as I sat, sinking lower and lower in my chair becoming more and more despondent by the minute, wondering how much more of this I could take (this is a good one - when you are married, and healthy and employed and absolutely fortunate and you begin to wonder "how much more of this" you can take) I began thinking of my younger days, and by "younger" I mean "more nonsensical," when bad moods were never, ever the cause of something practical, like losing a contact or a bad grade, but were always the result of some deep chasm in my soul. Really. This coming from a girl who used to fill her diary pages with elaborate descriptions of how much she loved horseback riding.

I know I'm not surprising any of you because, admit it, you felt that way too. Listening to Nirvana. Reading "The Sorrows of Young Werther," whatever. Life is sometimes just a little much when you're young, and as I discover from time to time, you can slip right back into the same woeful mood when you are 28.

It's not Monday. It's not your job. It's not your allergies, especially not your allergies. It's just everything.

When my upper back had reached the topmost portion of my chair and I was actually staring into space, not for effect, but because, well, that's what I could muster, I realized that there wasn't any more of this I could take and made a quick move towards the back door and stepped out onto a small wooden landing there. This is where I enter the office every morning, sometimes carrying coffee, and try to unlock the door without putting anything down. Often, this ends in disaster, like coffee on my shirt and in my bag.

The sun was warm and comforting. I hadn't really been outside all day. Just a few individuals were scattered in a nearby parking lot and I spotted a small bird in the grass that flew away at my arrival. I decided to go for a quick ride to the grocery store to get some water and a snack before my evening meeting and rolled down the car windows while turning the radio up. J and I have both become accustomed to the almost constant presence of satellite radio and CDs in the vehicles we drive, but today I had neither. Just a few commercial stations.

I rode past the grocery store when "Scar Tissue" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on and turned it up louder, a very good song. I kept driving when "Drops of Jupiter" by Train came on, a very bad song. I drove until there were no houses or anything, just trees and quiet all around, except for me, who was being very loud.

My point isn't really that I suddenly realized the quiet of a small town can be really wonderful or anything like that. I'd still rather the people and noise. I think, rather, that I simply needed to remove myself from the situation briefly to realize how childish I was acting, ignoring the obvious factors leading to my slumped posture and lack of productivity. The fact that it was hot in our office. A sinus headache due to allergies, Monday, the government, a meeting tonight, a small southern town and all the mundane things that, when we grow up, mean so much more than we ever wanted them to.

Like...a nurse who bathes old people

2006-04-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

"What's it going to be like when we get older?"

"It'll be great. We'll have a wet nurse."

"Um, what?"

"A wet nurse. Like a nurse that comes to your house when you're old."

"What? That's not a wet nurse."

"Yes, it is."

"No - a wet nurse is a nurse who breastfeeds a baby that's not hers. Like, if the mother can't do it."

"What are you talking about? A wet nurse is a nurse who comes to a house, and takes care of older people. Sometimes if a bunch of older people live together in a house, they get a wet nurse to take care of them. What you're thinking of is probably the historical definition of the term."

"Why is it called a wet nurse, then?"

"Because it's..."

"Because it refers to breastfeeding."

"No, it's like Daphne. On "Frasier"? She's like a wet nurse for Frasier's dad. She tends to his wounds..."

"He doesn't have open wounds..."

"And bathes him..."

"I think we need to look this up."

"Ok. We'll look it up. But I'm right."

(He was wrong.)

Recently

2006-04-17T18:28:00.000-07:00

The unthinkable happened when Cecilia spent the week with my parents...in our bluebird house...looking for squirrels...front porch...my Easter basket...J's first cup of coffee after going so long without...Mina/jellybean...

A mood, a season, our high thread count sheets

2006-04-17T10:47:00.000-07:00

Last night I arrived home after an evening out at a friend's house for an Easter celebration and to continue gorging on chocolate, as I'd been doing all day. It was the last of several weekend events, including a night out on Franklin St. - bustling with activity now that it's so warm - and a cocktail party where I had enough wine to think dancing to "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers was a pretty good idea. I mean, it was, and it wasn't.

When I got back last night I took a good look around the house and decided that doing the dishes wasn't happening. J was at a baseball game and I opened the front and back doors, letting a breeze in, settled on the couch and proceeded to declare myself in a slightly depressed mood. Yes, the kind that occurs when a long weekend ends and Monday is fast approaching, but there was something else. Was it the wine? The candy? The pounds and pounds of candy?

The mood did not disperse entirely over the course of the evening, and was slightly less intense this morning, until it was nearly 8 a.m. and I realized I had to get up and go to work. The bed was so comfortable. The shower, so far away.

Needless to say I did what needed to be done and got out of the house with only time to grab a cup of coffee and blow my hair halfway dry before driving away, through Chapel Hill, into the county. I was half-heartedly listening to Lindsay Lohan's true Hollywood story on my satellite radio, trying to sympathize with her, having had such trying times (the stress of upholding all those social obligations, those crazy nights out) when I realized that I, like Lohan, really had no right to complain. Ok -her dad lands himself in jail now and then, and mine, thankfully, does not, so maybe she's got an advantage on me when it comes to sulking. The point is, occasional mood changes are normal, especially for me, it seems, during transitions, whether that's from a long weekend to the work week or an entire change of a season - or even going from eating no sweets, to eating icing straight out of the container while decorating cupcakes, because Goddamnit, you sacrificed for 40 days.

When I was little my mother talked about this type of mood change all the time, ensuring me it was perfectly acceptable. It might happen due to something that would normally make someone sad, like the end of a particularly wonderful vacation at the beach, but also might occur when something as small as a friend leaving after a sleepover happened, she'd explain. Transitions, no matter how minor, could be tough, she told me. Similarly, before I got together with J, and in the beginning stages of our dating (just after ending a long relationship with someone else) my friend Max used to tussle my hair or put his arm around my shoulder when we were all hanging out and announce to everyone, "Cara is going through her transitional stage." And in the midst of explaining to everyone that what I was doing was right, and that I knew I was making major life changes, but that they were important ones, this was exactly the encouragement I wanted. That was exactly what I was going through, I felt.

It's not as though every time the seasons change I need to sit home wearing huge sweatpants and watching Lifetime for days or anything like that (although that does sound pretty great). Instead, I think every now and then one is entitled to eat more than their fair share of peanut butter and chocolate candy eggs and allow the dishes to go unwashed. It helps rejuvenate the senses, somehow, to shirk responsibility, just briefly, and commiserate with Lindsay Lohan. I doubt my mood will last much longer than it takes to get back into the swing of things at work. In fact, it may be fading now, even against my will as I'd like to chalk up another night of lazy television watching to a state of mind I just can't shake. Let's face it though, people who like Michael McDonald Doobie Brothers songs just aren't fit for melodrama.

Almost summer in Chapel Hill

2006-04-14T08:44:00.000-07:00

It's official. Yesterday while driving home I saw a shirtless, scruffy-haired boy wearing a hemp necklace and talking on his cell phone in an old mercedes with the windows down, no doubt off to some friend's house for an afternoon beer and I thought, Ah, yes, the season has arrived.

Blue-grey tiny tufted flycatcher (I know I keep saying I won't write about birds anymore, but the material...it's there)

2006-04-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend, being the awesome wife that I am, I suggested to J that we finally go take a walk at this biological reserve mentioned in his books as an absolutely great place to go birding. The place is serious business. We had to go to the North Carolina Botanical Garden first to get a pass allowing us into this holy place. While at the front desk of the information center at the Garden, a weekend volunteer - a tall man wearing glasses, peach turtleneck and matching peach button-down - told us, after we'd asked for a pass, "Yeah. That's where, um, the birds are," as though we'd just asked for the keys to the nerd museum.

As I've mentioned before, walking in deserted wooded areas isn't my favorite thing. I realize this is pretty silly, but still, I couldn't help but notice we were pretty much the only people around. My guess is that was because a person really, really has to want to go to this place. You've got to get your key, and then you've got to follow the rules, including the no-dogs rule and also the rule where if you are not interested in looking for new species, well, you'd better just chill and enjoy the walk.

Admittedly, it was pretty there, and it is rather hard to find large plots of land that are so undisturbed in developed areas. Also, the new bird J saw that day, and consequentially added to his Life List, was precious.

As J practiced his healthy, semi-adorable hobby, I, of course, fell to needless self-scrutiny, specifically: why didn't I have any pastimes like this? Something to soothe the soul? Something I could lose myself, or find myself, doing?

I voiced my concerns to J, who lowered his binoculars and told me that of course I had hobbies. I liked to knit and read and write. And socialize with people.

And although that last one bears little resemblance to the bird-watching, stamp-collecting, gardening-genre of ways to spend one's time, I realized, with my husband's help, that I'm certainly not a passionless person, and happily resumed the stroll, always watching over my shoulder lest some crazed lunatic should emerge from the vast woodlands, because I swear to you - the thing is, if he did - no one would hear it. Except those birds and honest to God, what help are birds?

Is it just me, or are there more and more crazy - just absolutely insane - people coming out of the woodwork every day?

2006-04-10T09:45:00.000-07:00

This morning I was watching CNN's "American Morning" and caught a segment they did on Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise's potential plans for a "silent birth." Apparently Scientologists believe that a birth should be a somewhat quiet event, so that it may be more "natural" for the mother and child. I learned from the story that they don't so much mean that the mother should be quiet, but that the doctors, and others in the room should be quiet. I learned this from a Scientologist who shared her thoughts on the practice, which she had experienced herself when giving birth to her son a few years ago. If a "moan is done" by the mother, that's ok, she said. But she didn't want a doctor yelling "push, push!" to her while she was in labor, because, as she explained very practically, she didn't want her son, when he was learning to ride a bike years later, to hear her saying "push, push!" and for him to become inexplicably stressed and have a headache.

Some might say the crazy part is that these Scientologists believe that some baby is going to have even the slightest memory of their birth. But what I want to know is who the hell yells "push!" when they're teaching their kid to ride a bike?

You can watch the story here.

A billion McDonoughs, a blogger's convention and more thoughts on the Food Network

2006-04-07T13:36:00.000-07:00

Last weekend J and I flew to Connecticut to attend his cousin's wedding. It was a McDonough affair, meaning his J's father, J's father's twelve million brothers and sisters, and their children were in attendance. In other words, the night was a hysterical and joyous celebration that included wild dancing to "Come on Eileen" as well as late night hastily-concocted drinks whilst swaying to Frank Sinatra. But I'll get to that later.

Upon landing that morning J and I went to meet his parents for the drive back to Orange when I felt an all-too familiar sensation grip my insides like some vile devil. A urinary tract infection. In times like these - times when I get a urinary tract infection immediately upon landing in Connecticut, where we're staying for only one night to attend such a lovely occasion as a wedding and I'd really like to be comfortable, if not having fun - I try and remember the worst experience of this sort, that plane ride back from London, where I'd spent a semester my junior year. The one where I felt the pangs of horrid pain the minute the plane had taken off and I was forced to endure the entire seven-hour flight having to pee every two seconds knowing there was nothing I could do. The worst part? I had antibiotics the doctor had prescribed for just such a situation. In my luggage that had been stored safely in the luggage compartment far below and out of my reach. The point is, when I feel I've been dealt a particularly unfair hand, I remember that plane ride and how whatever I am dealing with is just simply not that bad.

Luckily, the women in J's family get urinary tract infections just as often as I do and when I shared my news his mother responded with amazing speed. She had a prescription from the doctor, just in case she needed it, and she, so very graciously, filled it for me. After an afternoon lying in bed, drinking water and holding emergency conferences with J's mother and his sister Megan, during which we commiserated about how there is nothing worse - support that, of course, made me feel so much better - I was able to get up and into my dress. With the help of various medicines attacking the infection and the pain I was ready to begin an evening of wild debauchery.

After the ceremony, held in an charming, historic church we went on to the reception, where we met up with the above mentioned brothers and sisters, including J's Uncle Bobby. Uncle Bobby has a highly entertaining blog, and he, J and I quickly got down to the business of holding our first ever blogger's convention (you can read Uncle Bobby's account here) at the table where we talked about the importance of getting more people to read our blogs. Meeting adjourned. I would think that our incredible dance moves (at least Bobby, his family, and I along with other McDonoughs...J can't be counted on to dance even at weddings lest you slip him something mighty strong) might have been reason enough for all those in attendance to quickly look us up online and become avid readers. People who dance like us can obviously write an awesome blog.

Once the reception was over, and since J's parent's house was nearby, it seemed obvious that everyone was coming over. When we arrived, Megan's boyfriend Matt and I got busy making everybody drinks, including a shot of vodka and cranberry juice that we served up in tiny espresso glasses. Those were a kind of hard sell, but nonetheless I found several takers and everybody cheered to whatever. Frank Sinatra was playing and soon people were dancing and I was passing out on the couch. It was great, as I told my father the next day when he was driving us home from BWI, and he promptly stated, "It sounds like your mother's family when they get together. Those Irish."

Nearly a week later I'm spending the afternoon at home flushing my body with gallons of water again. The doctor I saw this morning determined that the wonderful gift of medicine I'd received from my mother in law hadn't quite knocked out the infection and I'm now on something new. I'd normally get pretty bummed about a situation such as this, especially since my parents are coming to visit tonight. But I'm staying positive. I've been watching the Food Network for a couple hours, the Mecca of all that is frivolous, and therefore, ultimately comforting. While I'm on the subject, I'd kind of like to know where these cold-hearted individuals who can't get enough of making fun of Rachael Ray are when Paula Deen is on? God love the woman, but come on.

The more important thing keeping me happy though is the memory of all the help I got last week when dealing with this annoying and persistent ordeal from J's family. Even his grandmother, another fellow sufferer, encouraged me to stay strong. When you aren't feeling well, the one thing that can make you feel better, and not alone, are people who have been there. And believe me - if you haven't been there you DON'T KNOW.

J and my kids are screwed, I realize. They'll be born blind and in immediate need of some Cipro, but they'll have a support system in the form of laughter, understanding and late night Irish-jam sessions, and they'll be just fine.

"I gave my love a..."

2006-04-06T08:44:00.000-07:00

While staying at my parent's house this weekend, J and I noticed, upon retiring to my old bedroom for the night, that a perfectly charming ceramic piece of two young sweethearts (no doubt from the heart of the American farmlands) had been turned rather disturbing when someone had placed the head of the male figure in his hands as he coaxed his would-be lover.

I had broken the piece several months ago when coming home late from some night out in D.C. In an effort to not wake my parents, I stumbled around getting my pajamas on very quietly until ramming solidly into the bureau which resulted in the statuette toppling down and crashing. The young man's head broke off and I placed it at his feet thinking surely no one would notice this. Especially since my father's on an African American art kick and he was sneaking new stuff in every day, hoping my mom wouldn't notice.

Needless to say someone came across the broken part and decided it would be better to place the head in his arms, like a sick, sick gift he was offering his coy lady friend.

My genetic inheritance

2006-04-03T14:50:00.000-07:00

I can write about this now because my condition has changed from life-threatening back to healthy and normal again.

Ok. I never had a life-threatening condition. Outside of my mind, anyway.

This is my father's fault and he admits it. Through nature or nurture the man has instilled in me a worry so great it can only be classified as, well, crazy. As in: You. Are. Crazy.

Let me tell you about my cyst. Or, more aptly, my panic-driven frenzy.

A few weeks ago I noticed a slight pain on the left side of my pelvic region. It was very minor pain, just enough to make me realize it, but not enough to keep me from eating, drinking, sleeping, or complaining about other things. I thought maybe it was gas. Gas specific to the lower left quadrant of my pelvic region.

I don't necessarily deem myself a hypochondriac. When I'm sick, I know I'm sick, if I'm sick enough that I have to stay home and rest, I do that. But I don't tend to make things up. What I do tend to do is run absolutely wild with possibilities once they're presented to me. This is why no one should present me, or my father, with possibilities, unless those possibilities are a) you are the healthiest person on the planet and b) your family will never be in harm's way.

After several days of wondering about my slight pain, and why it was so specific to only one area of my body, J convinced me to go to the doctor. He said I'd feel better once I at least told a doctor about the issue and found out it was nothing, and let me tell you, he was wrong. He was so wrong it was unbelievable. It wasn't his fault, but Jesus - wrong. After talking with my general practitioner that afternoon - explaining my symptoms and a small examination - he said it sounded like what I had was an ovarian cyst. Since the pain was only on one side of my body and I noticed it just before I got my monthly period ("Gas," he explained, "Doesn't, you know, usually come in cycles...?") that was the most likely culprit. While this wasn't my favorite explanation in the world he assured me that cysts were extremely common, totally harmless and would have no bearing on my fertility. I'd heard as much and was satisfied with my visit, and went home with a hand over my cyst, cradling it. It hurt a little more once it had a name.

In order to understand what happened next you might need to know a little bit about my family. Skinned knees as a child, nothing more than a hindrance to whatever rough-and-tumble game my brother and I had gotten into, were reason for nail-biting and moans on my father's part. Every doctor's visit was like a test we were trying to pass. Healthy? Hooray, father can get on with his life! This may sound pretty neurotic, and believe me, it is, but it's merely a matter of my father worrying (too much, true) about his family. That part is sweet. I remember a particularly endearing afternoon just after my mother had suffered a pulmonary embolism and was staying in a hospital in Houston, Texas (where she'd been on business). I flew out to visit and witnessed my father, sitting in a hospital chair by my mother's bed, vigilantly watching the monitor near the ceiling which measured how much oxygen she was getting into her lungs each time she took a breath. Higher numbers were better. My mother, who is way too cool for all this nonsense, and would have probably gone straight back to work the day after collapsing in a hotel lobby had the docs not insisted she needed immediate medical care, was chatting with me while my father sat, fingernails in his mouth, interrupting us every three or four seconds. "Kathy! 95! Good. 94. Ok. 96!! Kathy. 96!" She had to tell him to stop.

So he worries. We worry. But the other trait, not as endearing, and which I seem to be developing rather rapidly, is making a mountain out of a molehill - a brain tumor out of a head cold.

Not the serious stuff, mind you. My father has been faced with serious medical conditions and pretty much remained calm. I bet I'd be the same way. It's when the doctors say you're ok and you decide they might be wrong. The doctors. Who've gone to medical school. For seven years.

After I learned about my potential cyst I decided to research the issue until I found something to worry about. I conducted my research on the internet, the haven of all that is good and true and reliable. While all the medical sites echoed my doctor's words - that cysts were normal and harmless usually - I noticed something else. Women on birth control, it seemed, weren't prone to getting these "functional" cysts as they were caused by ovulation. Birth control, in fact, was prescribed to help women avoid cysts a.k.a. since I was on birth control it was pretty weird that I had one a.k.a. I was going to die.

I was going to die and I was never going to be able to have children. Surprisingly I was slightly more worried about the latter, although if the former was true, it didn't really matter, did it? I wrote my mother and J emails expressing my new fears. I called the gynecologist office, where I'd scheduled a visit to follow up at my doctor's suggestion, and left a message for the nurses. It went something like, "Hi. This is Cara McDonough. I'm coming in next week to check out this ovarian cyst I might have and I just read that I'm not supposed to have a cyst because I'm on birth control and I think I'm going to need to come in immediately. Alright. You can call me back."

I emailed my father, too. We agreed. The doctors weren't taking me seriously enough. Not at all.

J and my mother didn't really follow. While both were happy that I was getting everything checked out by the gynecologist, and assured me this would make me feel better, they didn't get it. They didn't get the fact that I couldn't go about my daily life - making dinner and having normal conversations and whatnot - until this was settled. I couldn't wait until the next week, but I had to. My doctor wasn't going to be in the office until then. I know because I called about three times.

In the meantime all I could do was wait. Wait and go a little bit more crazy. I heard back from a nurse, assuring me everything was ok. J reminded me that since my regular doctor and my nurse seemed to think I was going to be just fine, I could probably calm down. My father spent his time researching my condition in his millions of medical books. During one phone conversation I was rattling off some details regarding cysts and he said, "I already knew that." When I asked him how, he said he'd asked his cardiologist to educate him on the subject during his checkup that day.

All the while my cyst ached. It didn't hurt very much, but I'd prod and push it until it ached sufficiently comparable to the dread I was feeling in my heart.

Somehow, mostly through the infinitely comforting power of wearing sweatpants and watching DVDs I'd watched a million times already all weekend long I made it to the next week, which was busy. My full schedule helped Thursday, that fateful day of my doctor's visit, come faster.

When Thursday morning arrived I showered and dressed like I normally do, but with the added knowledge that today might be The Day I Get to Start Living Normally Again and whatever I wore and did mattered more than usual. I got in my car with plenty of time to spare and made my way to my doctor's office. Nervous. Excited. Total nutcase.

When I arrived I checked in and sat in the waiting room with a pregnant woman. I pretended to read. I imagined that the nurses in the back were getting out my file and whispering, "Uh-oh. It's that crazy girl. Called three times to see if she could get an appointment sooner than today? Left messages on the nurse's line? Yeah, she's out there pretending to read."

I was escorted to the back, had my blood pressure taken and was left in the examining room waiting for the doctor to give me my sentence.

I love my gynecologist. He's calm, but thorough. Funny, but takes me seriously. Allows me to talk as much as I want, which was obviously going to be an issue. I told him about the pain, how it wasn't very much pain, but that my doctor thought it was probably a cyst. I hadn't been in pain for several days and told him so. He asked if I was still on birth control and I said yes and then told him in a nervous rant all about how I'd researched cysts and knew women on birth control didn't usually get them. Suddenly a ray of light broke through the clouds, at least concerning the fact that everyone thought I was crazy, and my doctor explained that what I'd read was, in fact, correct. I was right. It would be unusual for someone on the pill to get one of these cysts. He didn't think I was crazy. I knew it. I'd known it all along.

My doctor suggested a vaginal sonogram, which is exactly what it sounds like. I was taken to a quiet, dark room where I undressed from the waist down and waited while an extremely friendly woman got the equipment ready and in it went. I've never minded going to the gynecologist, I think in part because I've always had good ones and also because I'm completely fascinated by what they can do. The nurse kept me updated the entire time, explaining that she'd be getting a good look at my uterus and ovaries and could see if anything was there. I liked this. Take all the time in the world, I thought.

I told her about work and laughed until the fact that she had something up inside me was nothing more than a minor circumstance surrounding the girl talk we were enjoying. Plus, she wasn't interrupting any of her or my thoughts with "Uh-oh. What the hell is that?" like I thought she might.

Quite the contrary. Uterus. Totally normal. Right ovary. Totally normal. Left ovary. Totally normal.

Totally normal. Totally healthy. Perfectly good working order. No cyst. I didn't have a cyst.

I didn't have a cyst.

In a mere three minutes my condition had done a 180. My doctor and I sat in a waiting room where he told me my pain could have very easily been due to a "muscular or skeletal twinge." A twinge. I, of course, wondered immediately if my pain could have also been due to self-induced neuroses but kept that thought to myself. He assured me that I'd been right to be a little worried, and that there was nothing wrong with taking your health seriously. "Thank you," I told him. "Because I was worried and people thought I was crazy." He'll never know, of course, about the phone calls - six or seven a day - between my father and I. He'll never know about my crumpling on the couch and crying completely out of the blue one night as J told me over and over again that everything was fine, which I couldn't accept. He'll never know, but I bet he does know, sort of. He's a good doctor, and I'll bet there are a few more like me out there.

After departing the office and getting into my warm car I called my parents to assure them everything was alright, and that I not only had nothing seriously wrong with me, I had nothing wrong with me at all.

My mother was happy like a normal person gets happy when their child is finally free of worry.

My father, like me, understood that now we all could return to our regular lives. That a huge impediment had been moved. Knowing I'll always have him as an ally when the others say everything is ok is important. I wouldn't like being all alone in such a state.

But while we find comfort in the humor of such melodramatic reactions to ordinary news, I realize my week-long obsession was extremely selfish.

Poor J had to live with this extreme version of the person he married. A person who couldn't hold a conversation longer than 5 minutes before veering the topic towards her own physical state. I appall this sort of narrow-minded thinking, and often have reminded J, when he or I is suffering a particularly bad headache or a bout of allergies and complaining, that there are much bigger things going on in the world.

And there are people who are actually sick. There are people who go in to their doctors worried and come out with bad news, rather than my "twinge." And I feel that behaving the way I did somehow disrespects those who are actually dealing with life-threatening illnesses.

This experience (once I'd returned from the depths of crazed indulgence) also reminded me that while my doctor's visit allowed me to carry on the happy, healthy person I'd been before I got scared, life won't work like that every time. Good news can only bring as many elated moments that are possible before there's something new to worry about, and I hope to God that I'm able to deal with my life's challenges with more dignity than I dealt with my 100 percent non-existent ovarian cyst.

The thing is, I bet I can. Perhaps the reason my father and I are stronger in the face of real danger is that those instances require true heart and dedication. Working yourself up over something that you, really, somewhere deep inside, know isn't going to be a big deal, lends comedy to an otherwise annoyingly stressful situation. Don't get me wrong. I still think the way I acted was insane. And my father? He's far gone. No matter, though. Our friends and family will always have a good time chiding us (and then, perhaps, screaming at us) regarding this horrid method of dealing with potential health issues.

During my ordeal my father sent me many emails expressing his empathy, including this one:

March 27, 2006
Subject: If you are still breathing
From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough

I woke up this a.m. with:
A sinus headache
A stomach ache
And sore feet
I expect to have the stigmata by this afternoon.

It's funny, sure. But don't even think that he didn't, if only for the tiniest fraction of a second, believe it.

When I was little I asked my mother, "What will I be?"

2006-04-03T14:23:00.000-07:00

My friend Erin, who teaches darling eight and nine-year-olds, was recently talking to the class about various professions and told her students that she knew a reporter (THAT'S ME). The kids wrote up a list of questions and Erin asked if I would mind answering them and sending them back to her. Mind?! I'm guessing these kids thought they'd get quick, well-written responses back from the journalist-girl. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I haven't felt this important since I got elected president of my third grade class (I wasn't even a candidate). I not only had a great time answering these questions, I learned a lot about myself, like that it's maybe not all that awesome to brag about the time you met Des'ree.

1. How much work is it to write a story?

Sometimes it is a lot of work to write a story, but sometimes I can write a story in about ten minutes! It depends on what I'm writing about. If I’m writing about a really interesting person, like an artist, or if I’m writing about a really big event, like a music festival, or a really important event, like election day, it sometimes takes me a long time to talk to all the people I need to talk to and put everything they say in my story. But if I’m writing about a really boring meeting, I like to write it fast and get it over with.

2. How long does it take to write a story?

Sometimes I can write a story really quickly. But sometimes it takes a few hours. I get writer’s block sometimes, when I can’t think of a good way to get my story started – then writing a story can take all day. I hate when this happens.

3. How hard is it to come up with ideas for stories?

This depends on the time of year. Right after Christmas and other holidays, when it’s winter and very cold and everybody is getting back to work and school...it always seems like there are no stories to write! It happens in the summer too, when everyone is in vacation mode and nobody wants to work (including me!) At those times of year we all have to work extra hard to think up good stories. I do have to go to town meetings almost every week, though, and I almost always have a story to write about those.

At other times of year there is so much going on that you have lots of stories to write. Right now people are starting to think a lot about the upcoming elections so there are lots of stories to write.

4. How do you find your information for stories?

I find my information in a lot of different places. I work for a weekly, county paper, so we mostly cover things that happen in this county. I get a lot of my information from town board meetings – that’s when the mayor and other town leaders get together and talk about what’s going on. I also get a lot of information from people who work for the town and for the county, like the town manager, the police officers and the sheriff.

But being a reporter sometimes means getting information from unlikely people – like the barbers down the street, or people who work in the shops around here. They all know what’s going on because they spend so much time in town. Sometimes people walk right into my office with story ideas, and that’s always really helpful.

5. Have you ever met any famous people?

I've met a couple of politicians. I’ve interviewed a U.S. Congressman and a Senator. I’ve also gone to some musical events where there are bands that are pretty well known.

When I was working at a magazine in London while I was in college I met a couple of famous people. One was this British guy who everyone said was pretty important (but I didn’t know who he was). The other was a singer, Des’ree. I’m not sure if you guys know who that is, but she was really nice and fun to interview. I was asking people what they were planning to do for New Year’s and she said she was planning to spend it on a beach with all her friends.

6. Is being a journalist really hard?

There are some things that are hard about it, like with every job. One thing you have to do when you are a journalist is call up complete strangers and get them to tell you about their life. This can be hard, especially if they don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes you have to interview people about crimes, or about something they did that people didn’t like, or maybe the person is just shy. This can be a little hard. Luckily I really like talking to new people so I don’t mind too much. I think everyone has strengths and what’s hard for some people isn’t hard for others. My husband is a scientist and I would be very bad at his job, doing experiments all day. I’m pretty sure I’d get frustrated and give up.

But also you get to talk to people about things that are really happy – like if they’re opening a new business, or won an award, or if you’re just writing a nice story about what a great person they are. That can be a lot of fun.

I like to write so the writing part isn’t too hard (except when I get writer’s block!) You have to turn your stories in by a deadline, which can be tough. Since we are a weekly paper, though, I usually have a lot of time to write my stories.

7. What do you like best about your job?

The thing I like best about my job is being able to talk to people about what they love to do. There are a lot of interesting people in this world and I’m lucky enough to have a job where I just get to sit and talk with them for a while and then write about it. I learn a lot, too. I’ve always loved talking to new people. Sometimes I just walk right up to strangers and start talking to them. So to have a job where I get to do that and get paid is really great.

8. What has been your best idea for a story?

This is a really hard question, but a good one. I can’t think of just one answer, though. I once wrote a story about this creek in town. The name of the creek is spelled all sorts of different ways and nobody knows the correct spelling – even people who’ve lived here all their lives. That was a fun story to write because I got to learn some history about the town and talk to interesting people.

Once I wrote a story about what kinds of rings people have on their cell phones. That story was my editor’s idea, but I had a lot of fun writing it. I’ve written a couple stories about how roadwork and money and other things are affecting the people who live and work in this town, and it is always really interesting to interview people for those stories – they have a lot to say.

I also write a column. This is where I get to say whatever I want. This is one of my favorite things to write because I get to choose the subject and just write about how I feel. I’ve written about getting married, politics and my dogs, just to name a few.

9. Is your job fun?

My job is really fun. Like I said, I get to talk to all sorts of interesting people – I get to interview chefs, musicians, teachers, businesspeople, and a whole lot more. Plus, I get to go to a lot of fun events.

On a few occasions I was able to participate in the stories I’ve written. I once rode 75 miles all over the place on the back of a motorcycle because I was writing about a fundraiser all these bikers were participating in. Another time I got all dressed up in a fireman’s uniform – including a heavy oxygen tank and mask – and got to do a safety drill with the local firefighters.

It’s also really exciting to see your name in print every week. That is definitely fun.

10. What made you decide to be a reporter?

When I was in sixth grade I wrote this paper that the teacher decided to read out loud to the class. She said it was really good. I’d always liked writing but I remember at that moment I thought that maybe not only did I like it, but was good at it too. So I decided to be a writer. I was an English major in college and when I graduated I worked at a couple jobs that were fun, but not exactly what I wanted to do, then decided I wanted to write. So I wrote letters to all the papers in the area until one of them would hire me. Really, I did that.

11. Where do you work?

I work in a town called Pittsboro, North Carolina. It’s pretty small. Everybody knows one another.

12. How do you decide what to write about?

I have to go to certain meetings – like town meetings, and other events – and get a lot of stories from going to those. I also have to go through all the sheriff’s and police department reports and get stories from those too. I also just watch what’s going on in town and see if there is anything worth writing about. A lot of times people come into the office or call and ask if I’ll write about something and a lot of the time my editor (he’s my boss) will ask me if I can write a certain story. Sometimes he and I talk about story ideas and come up with what I can write about that week.

13. Have you ever interviewed and dogs or other pets?

I haven’t really interviewed any animals, but I wish I could. I have, however, written about some animals. I’ve written a few stories about our local animal shelter. I’ve written a story about a dog trainer, too. I once wrote a story about a horse farm. I have two dogs and a cat and sometimes I talk to them, but I’ve never put that in the paper.

14. How often do you get a day off?

I get vacation time, just like most working people do. I get weekends off too, unless there is something I need to cover. Since I work at a weekly paper, things are a little more relaxed. If I worked at a daily paper I’d probably have a much more stressful schedule. I work with really nice people who are very understanding if I need to take a day off if I am sick, or have something I need to do and I really appreciate that.

15. What is the best part about your job?

I don’t have to sit in an office all day. It’s part of my job to get out there and talk to people and be there when something important happens and I like that.

16. Have you ever interviewed your family members?

I ask them all sorts of questions but I haven’t interviewed them for a story here at the paper. I do write about them in my column a lot though. Once I wrote a whole column about how my Dad isn’t a very good speller, even though he’s very smart.

Once for our Christmas edition of the paper all the staff members interviewed one another about what their family does for the Christmas holiday every year and then we all wrote stories about each other. That was a lot of fun.

Somebody is the first boy of the block when it arrives at one from these vecindarios, and that not always is easy

2006-03-31T10:41:00.000-07:00

Sherry, Jess and I finished our Spanish I class this week. I was unfortunately unable to attend the last class (held at a Mexican restaurant) but was still determined to finish with all assignments completed.

For one of our assignments - translating several stories from the local Spanish newspaper into English - our teacher, Sr. Victor, said it would be ok to use Babblefish, or other translating tools if we needed to. While I originally thought going that route would be somehow cheating, or at least not the most effective means of learning a new language, upon waking up this morning I decided that having such a busy day ahead of me, as well as a weekend of traveling, I'd better just do whatever got the exercise done the fastest. I still couldn't get over my snobby desire to learn and only used the online translating tool for every other paragraph, if not less than that, but after I while I found the system hysterically ineffective anyway, my rough translations just as good as any it could churn out. Luckily, in addition to the stress I was feeling, I had some good laughs sitting at my desk, typing in Spanish paragraphs, and checking out the result displayed on my computer screen. Kind of like Shakespeare. For crazies.

On a rabid raccoon discovered in Carrboro:

The dog was playing with its owner when I descry to the raccoon near the routes of the train, I attack it frontally and later I cause the death to him.

In the heated duel that maintained, the small animal but did not let emit unrecognizable sounds and showed a very hostile attitude.

Since several cases of the virus have appeared, the Service of antirabic bovine Animals this offering for mascots to very low cost.

I do not like my winter sweater, I do not like it in a box, I do not like it with a fox

2006-03-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

Don't get a Brazilian lest you wish to reverse the entire feminist movement

2006-03-24T08:43:00.000-07:00

Several months ago when deciding to attack any health issues head-on, rather than go, once again, to the doctor for another dose of antibiotics to cure my 145,276 millionth urinary tract infection, I went to Border's and bought the most recent copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves," that age-old bible of women's health. Much like "The Joy of Sex," the book, even in its most recent edition, takes on a solid hippie/I-am-woman-hear-me-roar approach to health matters. All I wanted to do was look up herbal remedies, but I was sidetracked along the way by a picture of a large-nosed woman next to the headline "Why I love my nose" (an essay on the evils of plastic surgery). The very first of such educational essays, right when you open up the book, is on waxing our - uh - privates, and how in doing so women are trying to recreate themselves in the image of prepubescent girls, which men love. "Why do this to ourselves?" the book argues. "I don't know, because it's sexy?" my non-educated self wonders back. I happily showed J a drawing of a naked women complete with a diagram of her reproductive system. Her pubic hairs were drawn in full - a veritable forest of self-worth and independence. The book is full of such subtle (read: completely in your face) suggestions, and I love the authors for their completely non-hidden agenda. My favorite, however, is the section on vitamins, specifically pre-natal vitamins, and conceiving. Half the page is taken up with a large picture of two happy lesbians with their African-American child, like, "By the way, if you want to have a baby this way, we think it's totally awesome!"

Nothing like a presnt from your father-in-law

2006-03-24T08:36:00.000-07:00

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Justin McDonough
Sent: Fri Mar 24
Subject: Graduation presnt

Kathy and I would like to continue our new tradition of giving a gift of travel as a graduation present
We start this in may when vinnie graduates-well sort- of and then goes to istanbul. And. Would like to do the same next year for you.
We would like yo to take cara but this is not manddatory.

Fred

She says "No one will ever hear of this conversation, ok?" and then proceeds to write about it on her blog

2006-03-23T10:27:00.000-07:00

"If you could pick three characters from Harry Potter, past or present, to have lunch with, who would they be?"

"Well...I think Harry, Hermione and Ron, actually."

"That's what I was going to say! Because it would be so much fun to see them interact. Ok, if you had to pick three characters besides Harry, Hermione and Ron, who would they be?"

"Dumbledore...Sirius..."

"Nice!"

"...and...Hagrid, maybe?"

"That's awesome. I wouldn't have thought of Sirius. Not sure if I would have picked him though."

"Yeah, he's a little much."

"What if you had to pick three characters to go drinking with?"

"Easy. Hagrid, Fred and George."

"Yeah...I don't know if I'd pick Hagrid...I mean, he'd partake and all, but I don't know...I'm thinking Lupin, maybe Tonks..."

Anatomy of a road trip

2006-03-21T10:34:00.000-07:00

Most of us are taught, as very young children, the difference between "driver" and "navigator" when people are in the car, particularly our parents, and usually while headed on some trip to see the family for some holiday, which is normally plagued with traffic and bad weather.

The "driver" is usually the man and he can do no wrong, and the "navigator" is usually the woman, and she can do all kinds of wrong, wrong punishable by the driver. He goes on and on explaining exactly how exasperating it is when she decides to tell him to take an exit mere seconds before the turn-off. This goes on until a fight occurs and then the children take sides and everyone is yelling and crying.

You know. Sometimes. Sometimes that's what happens, admit it.

One thing particularly unnerving to me about this scenario is how unshakable the setup (driver, carrying no blame and navigator, carrying all the blame) is. Let's say we were headed to, oh, my father's hometown of Pittston, PA, where he grew up. A place he's driven to, and from, hundreds of times. Let's say we missed an exit, or got into traffic, even. Mom's fault. This might also occur when we'd go into D.C. for dinner, sometimes. D.C. where we live. D.C. where my father would drive every day. Every. Single. Day.

Another important landmark of the road trip is when a scary situation occurs - say, we almost run into a truck - and the passenger yelps, shouts, or says "Oh no." When things have calmed down the driver shouts, "Don't DO THAT! You almost got me into an accident!" Interesting, because a) the driver, not the person in the passenger seat, almost got into the accident (it's just logic) and b) if the person you're riding with ever has no reaction whatsoever to a near loss of life, check em' out. Because they could be comatose or psychotic.

Not to paint a picture of my father as a tyrannical authority figure. Those of you who know him know that simply isn't the case. Furthermore, this doesn't just happen with them. It happens in my life too. J, before you scoot on down to the comment line to refute my claims, c'mon, think about it. It's happened.

Luckily my husband is a really laid-back guy, far more upset when I see a hawk or something swoop overhead and he misses it than he is when we make a wrong turn. J and I, actually, have our own little version of road-trip stress. See, these weekend trips we sometimes take are normally to visit with friends, and that means staying up late and all sorts of debauchery. When we drive home Sunday, usually in J's car, because it's bigger and not a stick-shift, we are beat.

Everyone gets tired in different ways. Some get silly. Some get cranky. Some complain. J simply can't stay awake. He just can't. Which is as endearing as it is impractical. He gets this way on car trips a lot. If he's in the passenger seat, forget it. He's out before you hit the highway, awaking every now and then, maybe after you've calmly changed lanes or the radio station, to sit buck upright and yell, "What happened?! Are you ok?!!" before drifting off again. Endearing. And sometimes less endearing.

When he's driving he gets tired, too. I found this out early in the relationship and was quick to coddle the boy should he seem even remotely sleepy. "Do you need me to drive? Do you want to stop and get some coffee? Pull over and let me drive. It's fine!" Now that we have been together for several years I find less need to baby him and more often wish he would just get to the point when he's acting out the whole "I'm-tired-and-don't-want-to-drive-anymore" scenario which goes something like this: J gets hot and hungry and/or thirsty all at the same time, struggling to get his fleece off and turn on the AC. This is, of course, difficult while at the wheel, and so he gets frustrated. Sometimes he slams his head back against the seat and mutters, "tired" over and over. He makes other noises, showing me he's annoyed and not feeling up to the job. Back in the day, like I said, I'd be quick to jump all over this, ensuring him I could drive and that he didn't need to worry about a thing. Now I like to play a game, a game called, "Why don't you tell me, in a full sentence, what you want from me?"

I mean, we are husband and wife, and before this we were a dedicated boyfriend/girlfriend team. I've never been much for people trying to get me to do or say certain things by passive/aggressive behaviors, so if he wants me to drive, why doesn't he just ask me?

Have I asked him this? Sure, and he's explained. His reasoning is actually very considerate - he doesn't want to ask me to drive because he knows I'll do it and he knows I'm tired, too. But, I explain back to him, we know I can handle my tired self on the open road far better than you. I mean, if one can stay awake, and one physically cannot, what's the best option? I thought so. Plus, my driving while you sleep means constant listening to E! Entertainment radio on XM, which would be strictly unheard of otherwise.

One more scene is normally played out in this oft-repeated show and that's the part that occurs while we're exiting the highway and J, in one last attempt save me from driving and getting to listen to celebrity gossip for hours, explains that if we just pull off the road for a while he could take a quick nap and then he'd be ok to drive again. Taking a little nap in your car when you could be speeding home to a real bed is absolutely not an option for me, so I always refuse this kind gesture.

It works out. He drives for me, too, when I'm feeling tired, which happens less regularly, of course, but it's still great to have backup. Plus, I've gotten to be a pro at ignoring those sudden but bleary-eyed check-ins delivered when I'm the one behind the wheel. It's a pretty good way to become a calm and collected person, when your passenger slams his palms on the dashboard and asks "What happened?? What happened!!!?" after you've simply turned up the radio to hear exactly what is going on with Tom and Katie.

Birding in Crozet, VA

2006-03-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Tom for snapping these pictures of J Sunday morning in the woods near Keith and Megan's house.

Monday haikus (on Thursday)

2006-03-16T14:20:00.000-07:00

By Eric

Blogging is easy.
You write whatever you want.
Even on Mondays, too.

The dog barks freely.
Something is not right for him.
Must need his walking.

Daughter learns to read.
So much for reading captions.
Bad words are easy.

By Chappy

East coast birds chirping
Pacific waves in my head
Just took the red-eye

No Wilco
Two mini-break-ups
The quote list!

By Jeff

What could that smell be?
I don't know I can't tell you.
Oh I hope it's food.

Girls are the devil.
You can hate me if you want.
I like the devil.

What a bad haiku.
Don't even read this poem.
You are now dumber.

haikus are quite fun.
It's much more fun than i thought.
Gotta love haikus.

By Tom

Jeff writes good haikus
He makes me laugh in each verse
I wish I wrote good

By Mother of 3 Guys
Haikus not easy
My boys wrote pretty good ones
Mom needs writing school.

This post is for Bob Nastanovich and my best friend Jennifer, who never reads my blog

2006-03-15T12:10:00.000-07:00

Last night J and I went to Cat's Cradle, a music venue in Carrboro, to see the Silver Jews. They're on their first tour ever and last night was apparently their fifth show, causing lead singer David Berman to mention a couple times, "This is number five," and then tell us that he "didn't feel comfortable" because of the size of the room, which is actually not very big. It was adorable.

The Silver Jews is a band that sounds kinda like the most rockin', sometimes emotional guitar music you've ever heard crossed with...people who can't sing too well. People who are maybe trying not to sing too well. But it's beautiful. If you don't believe me, don't ask my friend Tom, because he hates them. This is the sound Tom Owens makes when J and I put the Silver Jews in the CD player:

"AAAauuuuuuuuuggghghHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

He calls them the Silver Chickens for no good reason except, I suppose, he thinks they deserve that.

For those of you out there who like this band, you know what I'm talking about and how great this concert was. It wasn't like the band's performance was even top notch or anything. It was more like we were in the company of heroes. Heroes of rock.

Before the show started, and after we'd bumped elbows with a few friends with similar excellent taste in music and chatted with them for a while, J and I were standing in the back of the building near the bar sipping some PBRs because that's an incredibly hip thing to do when you're at any kind of indy show. I actually think it's required.

J looked over at a nearby couch and saw Bob Nastanovich sitting there drinking a beer and watching the UVA game.

"That's Bob Nastanovich," he said. "He's watching his team."

I know that most of you probably don't know who this guy is, nor will you care when I tell you. Bob Nastanovich was a member of the great, now dissolved, band Pavement. He's a drummer/manager for the Silver Jews, which is why he was there last night. Pavement featured singer/songwriter Stephen Malkmus and an assortment of totally kickass guys who prospered in the 90s. If you were at a college party and you liked Pavement, Goddamnit, you were cool. Especially if you whipped out some knowledge regarding "Wowee Zowee" or any of their other early albums.

Bob Nastanovich, he didn't really do much in Pavement. He kinda danced around, and was the guy who answers "I know him and he does," after Malkmus questions, "What about the voice of Geddy Lee, how did it get so high? I wonder if he speaks like an ordinary guy?" ("I know him and he does") in the song "Stereo" which got mainstream radio play, people.

This doesn't make it any less incredible that he was just sitting on the couch hanging out and all the hip concert goers who totally knew who he was weren't even approaching him. So J, who normally flees from situations like this - never encourages them - told me I should go talk to him. I think it was the PBRs because at a concert in Raleigh once I threatened to go talk to Caitlin Cary of Tres Chicas/Ryan Adams fame and I think the boy considered getting in the car and leaving me there. Really. He gets nervous.

Since J knows way more about music and bands than I do, I wanted to figure out exactly who I'd be dealing with and so I asked the only question that mattered:
"Was that guy in the "Carrot Rope" video?"

The song "Carrot Rope" is on the Pavement album Terror Twilight, and is a happy, catchy tune that doesn't really make much sense. I've always liked it, but then I saw the video which is perhaps the best video in the history of music video production. Honestly - you can dislike the Silver Jews, and even Pavement, but don't go disliking the music video for "Carrot Rope." That's not acceptable.

The video features the five members of Pavement, in raincoats, standing in front of a blue tarp on a sunny day, dancing and singing the song. That's all. But as they're dancing and singing, they're fooling around, walking on their hands, laughing, being cute and by the end of the thing you're pretty sure you want to marry them all.

My friend Jennifer was visiting me once when we happened upon this video. It's one of many on a DVD J has about the band. We proceeded to watch it 12 million times until we were able to perform Stephen Malkmus's moves right on cue with him. We watched it a lot of times. Too many? Maybe.

The point is I wanted to know if this guy Bob Nastanovich was in the video and J told me, excitedly, "Yeah, he was!"

After that it only took a few more minutes of encouragement before I got up the nerve to go over there. And it turned out that this guy is so genuinely nice that I'm happy I did. Before I could even gush about how much I loved Pavement he had asked me what I did for a living, where I'd gone to school, how I ended up moving to North Carolina, all the while shaking my hand and saying how nice it was that I'd come over to talk. I was thinking, "Jesus, you were in Pavement and you want to hear about where I went to school? Well, ok!"

This was a highlight of the evening, but the evening as a whole was a great one. When we went home J and I promptly put in the Pavement DVD. Soon after we retired to get in some good hours of sleep before morning. I'm tired today, nonetheless, but it doesn't matter because I met someone who was in Pavement, and I know...I know...some people like four-part harmonies or the dulcet tones of a country ballad, and that all has it's place, but give me a little cacophony and five guys in raincoats any day.

The World (online) is a vast and wondrous place

2006-03-14T10:42:00.000-07:00

Or do you really want a man who likes the booty?

"Before I came to the college, I had all the dreams about being with angels in the Heaven, and every weekend sit in my room and play simple games like candy land with friends or people passing by the hall I am living in. I forgot since when, I started to like going to parties, enjoying drinking with people, and being mad and angry with the world surrounding me."

ROCK N'ROLL!

"Gutter cleaning," eh?

Doppleganger.

Haikus for Monday

2006-03-13T10:36:00.000-07:00

Good morning! Wait. Oh.
What's that terrible feeling?
Weekend is over.

I love Mondays, yes!
I love them more than ice cream.
Just kidding. I don't.

Starbucks? Sounds real good.
Starbucks on my way to work?
Let's scrap the "work" part.

Please send your Monday haikus to me in the comments section for publication on this prestigious blog.

A good documentary about man-eating beasts

2006-03-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of talk amongst my friends recently about the documentary "Grizzly Man" by Werner Herzog. One thing we enjoy asking one another is, "Do you think that guy Timothy Treadwell maybe deserved to get eaten by a grizzly bear?"

I know. I'm going to hell. One is not supposed to contemplate whether any human being deserves to be eaten by a grizzly bear, or any ferocious, man-eating animal. I hear you. But have you seen this film?

In the IMDB synopsis, "Grizzly Man" is described as a "A devastating and heartrending take on grizzly bear activists Timothy Treadwell and Amie Huguenard, who were killed in October of 2003 while living among grizzlies in Alaska."

Hmmm. One heartrending part occurs when Treadwell, who has named all his wildlife friends, discovers that Mr. Fox has stolen his hat. What begins as a gentle game of chase between the two soon turns into a threatening competition between man and beast, with Treadwell shouting things like, "Mr. Fox! I swear to fucking God if you don't give me back my hat you'll be sorry!"

So, so sweet, he is. Don't get me wrong, the guy loves the animals and I know he never would've hurt Mr. Fox. He would have never hurt any of the bears, like Mr. Chocolate or Booble. He loved them, he really did and if you see the film there's just no doubt about this. Treadwell loved the bears so much that you kind of almost understand it when he spends, like, a really long time lambasting the US Government and all for not protecting the grizzlies. Oh, did I mention he's hanging out with these bears while camping at a bear sanctuary? Which was, you know, probably created by the government.

I don't know. In just writing this I feel bad. Questioning whether or not someone deserved to be eaten by a bear! Of course he didn't. Well. Watch it. You decide. You'll get a kick out of it no matter what you think. Especially entertaining is the song an airline pilot sings at the end of the documentary - a brillant move by Herzog. It's goes boooo-yooooo boooo-yooooo booooooooo. Booooo do boooooo yoooooo booooooo yoooooooo dooooooo.

You'll be singing it for days, believe me. Just remember that you're singing a song from a movie about a man who died because he was eaten by a grizzly bear when you start humming cheerfully, ok? It's hard. But try.

Things Cara likes

2006-03-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

I hope that my darling husband won't mind my stealing his blog idea for one post. I drove to work today under blue skies listening to radio DJs make predictions for the upcoming basketball tournament and couldn't help but think, "Damnit. Life is grand." I shook off the grumpy mood I'd allowed myself to succumb to this morning (after asking J in a typical whiny tone, "Why is it that our mail is always all over the house and never organized in a nice, organized fashion?" The challenges we face!) and started thinking about, not only what a fabulous life this is, but what a fabulous day I had ahead. Thursday. In North Carolina. Near springtime. Basketball. The fact that my giving up sweets for Lent does not, I decided, include 5,000-calorie coffee drinks. I can still have those.

Here are some other things I like.

The Ricky Gervais show podcast, which you can learn more about here. Not only is this podcast, created by the team that produced "The Office" (the British version, my favorite show of all times) hysterically funny, but I get to feel cool and hip, because I'm downloading and listening to podcasts - by their very nature modern and technological. Never mind the fact that I download them and burn them onto CDs instead of the ipod shuffle we have. Because I don't know how to do that. Also, I can't get the headphones to stay in my ears.

Four-year-old Mina. This year Mina has developed behavior so precious that I dare even the most fervent dog-hater to resist her. She's developed tactics performed, mind you, to get our hearts to melt so that we might open the refrigerator and let her have at it. But I don't care. She may be wily, but she is also ten-pounds and has a curly tail. In the morning Mina likes to pop up between J and I. Sometimes she places her body against my chest and rolls onto her back looking up at me with smiling eyes and placing her paw gently on my nose. At times like this I have to remember certain events, like yesterday when I came home and the heavy, metal trashcan had been knocked to the floor, the contents carried to all corners of the room so the dogs could enjoy every last scrap properly. I know this was Mina's doing as she is the miscreant in our household. I have to remember moments like these, or else when she snuggles her body against mine like that, I would probably give her all my money and my car out of pure love. Incidentally, I think that's her ultimate goal.

Taco Bell. Should any of you choose to question my choice of this fast food establishment, don't tell me passing Taco Bell doesn't give you a barely supressible urge to stop by the drive-thru and buy several items. For, like, two dollars. Don't lie to me. I know you think it's great, if only secretly.

J's sudden fascination with Harry Potter. Because there is nothing like waking up in the morning, lying in bed for a while and hearing another conspiracy theory about what really went down in the sixth book...the dogs awaiting a run in the back yard, tails wagging frantically ("They're awake!"), in a house with mail all over the place because all we want to do is sit together and watch a movie at the end of the day...just lying there, having your husband pretend to cure any aches or pains you may have with some kind of spell he learned through reading about lessons at Hogwarts. It's a wonder that I ever make it out of bed.

"Suck and Blow" frozen liquor treat vs. Coors Light (the Silver Bullet wins)

2006-03-07T15:50:00.000-07:00

This is what mothers are for

2006-03-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

Jen wisely told me while we were sitting at the bar the other day that everyone would notice the burst capillary on my nose if I told everyone about it.

So I continued to tell everyone, when asked how I was doing, "Well, I have a burst capillary on my nose," and then point it out.

It's a small-ish red dot. If you think I'm crazy enough to post a picture of it here, you're wrong. I took one. But that was to send to my parents, so they could feel sorry for me.

In real life - when not magnified my the photo lens pointing directly at the imperfection - it's not that noticeable. To other people anyway. I notice it when I look at it in the mirror 10 - 30 times a day though, that's for sure.

I decided to visit the dermatologist, a rather pleasant experience (clean office, great magazines such as the Britney Spears issue of "People," and a friendly staff) except when I was told, "Yeah, nothing to worry about, but those tend not to go away."

That is precisely what I was afraid I'd have to worry about.

They sent me home with some literature about laser surgery, my best option. I'm pretty sure I'll schedule the removal of this new "character-building" flaw (thanks for the advice, friends, but my character was built up plenty with the braces for four years and the plastic pink granny glasses). That will be that, I figured.

When I was checking out my spot this morning, however, the spot that I was told that will not change or go away most likely - and which I was checking to see if maybe it had changed or gone away - I noticed small veins on the side of my nose. You know, the kind people get on their body when they get on in their years. And when I say "years" I never mean the age that I am. I mean, you know, 50 or 98. Just small. Just a few. But they were there. I thought maybe I should heed Jen's warning and just forget about them. Just not mention them. But then I thought it might be better to write about them on my blog and ensure the next time I see anyone who reads this they'll be looking at me, judging.

I immediately retreated to the computer to share the unbelievable news with my mother as well as explain that I wouldn't be leaving the house, and that I was extremely depressed. "Well, at least I've scored a husband," I thought, trying, at least, to think of something positive. My mother wrote back quickly. I thought maybe she'd share in my misery but, as always, she was pragmatic and I quickly realized she was right. Because what are you going to do? Plus, there are always clean dermatologist offices with good magazines and laser options and everyone has their weaknesses but luckily, their strengths, too.

From: Kathleen Rotondaro
To: Cara Rotondaro
Date: Mar 3, 2006 10:28 AM
Subject: RE: going downhill

Probably inherited but on the other hand you have inherited a tendency not to get
wrinkles.

Throwing around some ideas on Ash Wednesday Eve

2006-03-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

"Maybe meat? I've given up meat before. But meat can be important. For iron?"

"Don't give up meat. What if I gave up reading Harry Potter?"

"There's no way. That would be torture."

"What if I gave up bird watching?"

"You're not going to give up bird watching. What if I gave up holding Mina?"

"I'm going to give up taking the dogs out in the morning."

"Right. I was going to give up alcohol, but that won't hold up."

"I'm going to give up coffee. No more coffee."

"There's no way I'm giving up coffee. I'm going to give up sweets. Is that a good one?"

"That's a good one."

"I love Lent."

Birding post #54,768

2006-02-27T16:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-23T08:31:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-13T13:46:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-12T18:08:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-10T07:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-09T12:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-07T16:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-02T09:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Whilst in the monastery

2006-01-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-01-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-25T11:42:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-24T14:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-23T07:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-01-19T16:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-18T14:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-16T14:49:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

A dream deeply rooted in the American dream

2006-01-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

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."

2006-01-13T15:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-12T18:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-11T10:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-09T16:25:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-08T10:38:00.000-07:00

Birthday with friends and strangers

2006-01-06T10:59:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-05T14:13:00.000-07:00

Freshman year, over the Charles

2006-01-05T14:07:00.000-07:00

Regarding some cats

2006-01-05T13:58:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-01-05T13:41:00.000-07:00

Mazzy, who got a wonderful home.

From father to son

2006-01-05T13:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-05T09:12:00.000-07:00

What I like

2006-01-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-01-02T06:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Sweet sweet, sweeter sweeter

2005-12-29T13:22:00.000-07:00

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

2005-12-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

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

2005-12-22T08:58:00.000-07:00

(HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!)

Papa Rotondaro takes all

2005-12-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

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

2005-12-16T09:10:00.000-07:00

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."

2005-12-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-12-14T13:37:00.000-07:00

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

2005-12-12T15:55:00.000-07:00

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.