Last night, after an absolutely amazing trip to Ocracoke for a weekend of camping, J and I decided to take on the house again. One is still likely to step on an appliance, into a box full of the stuff we have acquired over our lifespans (note to friends, please PLEASE do not give either of us any more items we may be forced to look at one day, think about throwing away, and then think, “no, no I can’t! So-and- so gave me this precious metal star affixed with pastel ribbons!”), or run straight into a heavy, wooden piece, most likely something picked up on the side of the road.

J decided to move some of the furniture in our “office” (please read: tiny room with washer and dryer and kitty litter) due to a shortage of outlets along one wall. He was moving his desk and it got pretty frustrating. So frustrating that in a particularly infuriating moment - maybe the thing didn’t move the way he wanted it to - maybe he realized the futility of our month-long endeavors - he went to punch the awkward piece of furniture but caught his finger on a shell sculpture instead. This shell sculpture came from a beach junk store in Rehobeth, Delaware, and I’d bought it for J and his roommate Grant one summer after a vacation there. Four seashell creatures sit around a table playing cards. I believe J got one square on the head, as we could later see the wavy shape of the shell in the wound.

Blood gushed as J yelled and I tried to think of the very best way to survive this situation. He was not only hurt, but angry. After all, the injury occurred after a temporary loss of temper, and the shell incident was sure to make things worse. We washed it off in the sink and I got some ice, but after a few moments we decided we’d better go to the E.R. as the cut was really deep and wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Thus, J went to the emergency room yesterday because he cut his right index finger on a seashell sculpture I’d bought for he and Grant at a junk store in Delaware. The shell creatures are playing cards. And, apparently, plotting cruel tricks against their owner.

We spent about three hours at UNC Hospital where everyone was very nice and only laughed with us when we explained, over and over again, that he got the cut because he punched a seashell. “Was it a real seashell?” they asked. “From the ocean?” “No, this was a seashell from a seashell sculpture.” Ok.

J didn’t need stitches, luckily. The resident put some fast-drying sealant on the cut and when we got home I made sure he sat down on the couch and watched some television. It had been a rough evening. We made tacos and looked at our disaster of a house which will one day, some day, be a place where people can move freely without running into furniture, boxes, or kitschy souvenirs.

You might think it’s crazy in fact, you might think it’s totally absurd - but I’m getting email from Charles Kuralt. From the grave. Ok, actually, the emails are from my Dad.

See, he thinks I should take Charles’s place in the world (you know, minus the part about how he fathered children in two different families that came out after he died). My Dad thinks that I’m the perfect type to follow in the former “CBS Sunday Morning” show host’s footsteps, by writing travel books, excelling at broadcast reporting, and accentuating the common things that make this life so beautiful. Actually, that last part - that is exactly what I’m interested in doing. I’ll have to prove my talents in the other two, I suppose.

About a year ago my parents were visiting and we did something we’d talked about doing every time they’d come down, but never had time for. We found Kuralt’s grave. He’s buried in a Chapel Hill cemetery right near the university. Once we found the unadorned tombstone and paid our respects to the man, my father grabbed me by the shoulders and started shaking me semi-violently, asking Charles to enter my body and guide me. Nope. Not kidding. He was kidding, sure. Sort of, anyway. I really hope someone saw that happening. I hope Charles did, at least.

Last night this area witnessed the atrocity of three cross burnings in Durham. I forwarded the story onto my father. He sent back a reply, saying he had heard about it. The reply from Charles was next, who said maybe I could touch on this in my next newspaper column. Also, to “please mention that I’m buried in Chapel Hill and I’m pissed!” I know, Charles. We’re all pissed. I’ll do my best to carry on your legacy, you, my most unusual guardian angel.

This weekend we discovered that Lucy, the labradoodle puppy Vin and I forced on my parents in order to have a glorious and as it turned out, stressful, Christmas morn, is bred for absolute obedience in the fetching sticks department. While she bravely swam as far as necessary in the cool waters to retrieve whatever sticks or logs or what seemed to be small trees that had somehow washed up on shore we’d throw for her…

Cecilia splashed around in the shallow waters, acting as though, you know, she could go out there to get the thing, she just…didn’t want to right that minute…

I caught one glimpse of the swan family, and attempted to wake my mother up who has been talking endlessly about the baby swans. She didn’t respond to my urgent “MOM THE BABY SWANS!” calls at 7:45 a.m. so this picture will have to suffice…

The Blancatos came up for Saturday night. Vinnie grilled and we all relaxed on the deck drinking beer and wine and that’s when I started thinking maybe it would be best if I just didn’t drive back the next day, because seriously, I could get into living there…

especially thinking about Monday morning,

after a weekend like this.

Last night Jen and I went to get our nails done in this place in the mall that had a flowing wall of water and gentle new age music playing. As I chatted with my manicurist and watched other women get pampered, whether it be a pedicure complete with foot massage, nail polish application, or some other procedure to make one feel beautiful, it became very clear to me that I never wanted to leave. Just like I feel when it comes time to leave the warm enclosure of my parent’s home, complete with food and good wine, trips to the bay to do nothing but watch movies and the water - last night, too, did I feel the sadness at having to give up something I love. The employees all had perfect eyebrows and nails and were making every single customer happy. They were adored and I wanted to bask in that adoration.

Carissa and I met for lunch on Sunday at Brixx Pizza. Bottles of wine were half price that day and so we decided to take advantage of warm afternoon, have a bottle of Chardonnay with our pizzas, and make the gossip and overall relaxing that much more enjoyable. “This,” I told her, “is what we did in Italy.” Ok, so it’s not what we did every day in Italy, and besides that, telling someone that you “did” something while “in Italy” makes it sound like you lived there and not merely visited for two weeks while your little brother was abroad, which was great because you saved money on hotels by sleeping on his floor. This is all besides the point, however, the point being that we did have this one amazing day in Venice, where we stumbled off the train into the supposedly most touristy place in the world and found our way to the most charming and untouristy restaurant where we sat for several hours and had a delicious lunch, complete with a couple carafes of good white wine. There was even a little dog running around the place.

Naturally, the flowing wine, great food and atmosphere led J, my little brother Vinnie, and I to discuss things at great length, including, and most memorably, my brother’s idea that maybe, just maybe, it would be a good if he could teach a class on his thoughts. The students would come to hear What Vinnie Thinks. “Cocky,” I proclaimed, and Vin explained that this was exactly the point. It got philosophical. “If what I think is what I think is right, than what makes it wrong, or untrue?” Cocky? Sure, but students could get into it. J was quick to agree and the two of them had suddenly created this grand masterpiece of a school, dubbed Cock University. Never mind that the “cock” in that phrase doesn’t indicate “cockiness” but instead a crude word for the male reproductive organ. They, and even I, decided it had a certain ring, and our fair institute was born. Now, if J gets a little snobby about something I ask if maybe he’s going to teach that at Cock U. and usually, because he’s already in the mood, he might say something like “Hell yeah!” It’s just the nature of that particular university of thought. Applications are currently being accepted in the form of hi-fives and reckless assertions, like, “Fuck you! I’m accepted!”

I’ve decided that it must remain important to try new things, like say learning a new skill or attaining a new hobby. A class. Living in the Triangle there are no shortage of educational outlets and I’m wondering if I should choose something to further my career, like a writing class, or maybe learning Spanish, or something more frivolous, like sculpture, or dance. Whatever the case, this is my pledge. Not that I have a daily pledge or anything like it, but perhaps that, too, would be a good idea. A daily goal. Today - sign up for a class. Tomorrow - who knows? Let’s just say for now, Tomorrow - drink a cup of coffee. This is a favorite I often add to to-do lists just so I’ll have something to immediately check off. Drink a cup of coffee. Done!

Pittsboro is overrun with roaming salespeople. I know because one just visited. They’re often young, and always talking the talk. But the most notable thing about these salespeople is the items they sell.

“How ya doin, sweetheart?” (for real)

He had a light up aquarium complete with fake fish that appear to swim, and a ratchet set, both at “unbelievable” prices.

He said that because of the low cost, “people are picking them up!” But I don’t believe him.

All I wanted to do was let him know that I currently live in a house filled with more crap than even the most talented of salespeople could get rid of, as well as no electricity. The fish wouldn’t appear to swim, which would be more depressing than any of us could handle.

Today, while driving back from eating Japanese food with my coworkers, I realized with a start that it is hot. I heard a meteorologist say 85 degrees but all I know was when I got into my car after lunch the steering wheel was too hot to touch. Then, while driving down the road I noticed people’s windows open like mine, some were holding cigarettes, I could hear their radios. I was reminded of trips to the beach, stopping for cold drinks and feeling the salt water get sticky in my hair and the particles of sand between my toes. Opening the windows and belting out the lyrics to some song we all love. So today I rolled my windows down and played my new Spoon CD as high as I wanted and wore my sunglasses because I needed them and rejoiced in this beautiful North Carolina thing, this hot, sultry state.

The dogs are enjoying their new backyard. J and I are enjoying cold showers and candlelit bedtime reading.

When I said, weeks ago, to many people, that I wanted to move into our new place “slowly over many days” there was some undercurrent of truth to the statement. But for whatever reason…because the new place was being worked on, because we didn’t have enough boxes, because I’m lazy, and a liar, that’s not really what happened and we spent all weekend long moving. This process included roughly a bazillion trips back and forth to the new house in both our cars packed to the ceiling with material goods. We should be put in jail for the amount of goods that were transported, or at least should have to pay some sort of tax for harboring so many unnecessary items. Like all the Maxim magazines you ever got in the mail, J. Like those.

But, with Dan’s help (thank you thank you thank you Dan!!!), we moved. Now we live in an cute house packed wall to wall with our joint furniture and books and other things with sharp edges that you can easily cut your eye on or maybe stub your toe. That happens when your house is packed wall to wall. And oh yes! Did I mention we have no electricity?

Our landlord called last week and explained how the town has issued some recent statute and long story short, because she had upgraded her system she has to get the power lines buried. She just found out about this, and has been completely apologetic, but we didn’t really mind. After all, this procedure should happen early this week and all should be back to normal. Until then, we figured - what, one or two nights with no power? We did it during the ice storm. Plus, there is one outlet that works, and to that J brilliantly plugged in an extension cord so that we had three, strong lamps to light the house. Not bad at all, considering it’s not very big. However, peering into the dim chaos of our belongings with any hope of organizing proved too big a challenge for me last night after all the weekend’s activity. We ate some Wendy’s on the floor of the new place, locking the dogs into the bedroom with a baby gate. It was silent. No television or radio. To entertain ourselves we’d place french fries right outside the gate in order to frustrate Mina. She tried to get them by pushing both her paws and tongue through the little openings. Maybe we won’t need a TV, ever.

We both slept well but this morning was a new challenge. We couldn’t shower because there’s no hot water so I brushed my teeth and got dressed slowly in the bedroom. The nights are still cold here, and I felt like I was at sleepaway summer camp. When you’re dirty, but can’t take a shower every day and you’re sitting there putting your underwear on freezing to death and sort of wishing you could die. This is a different feeling than waking up on a Sunday morning, having nothing to do, throwing on whatever’s around and taking the dogs out before getting back in bed and reading the paper. That is a different sort of not-showering. It’s classier, more indulgent.

Furthermore, I managed to hurt myself, badly, several times before leaving for work. Interesting how when your home is packed wall to wall with items like random drawers and buckets full of statuettes that getting through any doorway is a significant challenge. This might be why I slammed my head into the edge of the kitchen cupboard after getting back from walking Cecilia. The walk was a bright spot. She needed some exercise, although she does have a new fenced-in yard where she can frolic all she pleases. And eat tall grass. J and I watched in wonder yesterday as she waltzed around grazing like a cow. “She’s gonna throw up,” he said. “What are we gonna do?” I replied. Although I’m as worried about that as he is. Dog puke is particularly hard to get out of rugs. How do I know? Oh, because I spent ALL DAY YESTERDAY scrubbing it out of the expensive fibers at our previous home. The fact that she has a sensitive stomach does not make me love her less, but I do wish she could speak English and I could explain to her that eating certain things - grass, plastic - will certainly wreak havoc on her system.

I decided I needed a present and I decided that present should be a toffee nut latte from Starbucks, which, as I’ve mentioned is now on my route to work. I got a great spot on Franklin and found a lone quarter for the parking meter. I’d only be inside a minute, but they are unmerciful in Chapel Hill. Upon approaching the meter, however, I discovered that someone had left twenty minutes on the clock. Twenty free minutes. That small, but beautiful, victory on such a morning…I nearly wept. Here was my reward.