Jess, a grad student in J’s lab, passed her preliminary exams (CONGRATULATIONS AGAIN JESS!) yesterday and to celebrate we dropped by her house with wine and champagne and snacks and shot glasses because she had some tequila from Mexico - the good stuff - and had decided that this was as appropriate a reason as any to imbibe.

So we drank and told stories. People came and left and after a while we did our first shot which was incredibly smooth and delicious, enough to cause us all to say, “My God that is delicious tequila,” which is never what anyone says after taking a tequila shot, never, so we knew it was special. Then the conversation turned, as it always somehow does, to the best methods for maintaining one’s bikini area or, in other words, waxing your coochie, as I so gracefully put it after our second shot of tequila when I shouted, “I’m going to wax my coochie!” I thought I wasn’t all that affected by the few beers and tequila I’d had but looking back on the night I guess it’s fair to say, based on the evidence, that two tequila shots still do it for me, the other piece of evidence being that I put a small wind-up rubber penis between my breasts and let it hammer away.

There is a certain wonder that accompanies even the mention of Hair Removal in That Area. For our New Year’s Party, 2004, we placed poster board around the walls of the bay house so that guests could pen their resolutions for the new year. When we stumbled, bleary-eyed with madly aching heads to view the outcome the next day one item caught our eyes immediately amongst the 100 or so resolutions so drunkenly recorded, and we let loose loud rounds of laughter. The resolution stated, simply, “Shave my cha cha everyday.” We’ll never know who she was, or if she has, but I will always admire the dedication with which she made such a promise.

When I was in the ninth grade and hadn’t yet learned about the difference plucking my eyebrows could make, much less manicuring the privates which were so very embarrassingly, very, very private, I attended a study hall session in the afternoons with my friends Matt and Andrew and my then-boyfriend Steve. Because we were 14 or so and the study hall proctor probably wouldn’t have cared if we’d stripped naked and played doctor, the four of us would turn our desks to face one another and pass notes. We passed notes every study hall session we had together and inevitably, one day, the topic turned to - you guessed it - shaved genitals, or “S.G.” as we so artfully dubbed it, our dirty little discussion that went on right under the teacher’s nose. Did we know the first thing about S’ing our G’s? Did we even know much about G’s in general? No. But we could pass notes like nobody’s business regarding the elusive practice and if I remember correctly there were also a few mentions of gays and baseball.

That particular discussion only lasted one day - our normal note-passing was very innocent. Matt quoted Jefferson Airplane, Andrew asked which girls in our class he should pursue and Steve would tell me my hair looked nice - but one day was all it took. The boys took the notes to lunch, probably to flaunt their extensive knowledge of S.G. (”See? I’ve written all about sex and genitals and gays right here.”) and left the crumpled sheets of notebook paper that contained our names - our names for Christ’s sake! - there on the lunch table where Mr. Barbee, the dean, and to make matters worse, Matt’s dad, picked them up.

He invited us into his office and inflicted the worst possible punishment, ever, upon us. He made copies of our insightful comments and told us we were to have them signed by our parents and brought back to him the following day. Our crime? Not what we wrote about, he said, but the fact that we were writing notes during study hall at all. We should have been studying. But I’ve always had just the tiniest notion that the content, just maybe, had everything to do with our getting in trouble.

I found out the next day that Andrew and Steve had brilliantly taken home the two pages of notes dedicated to discussing baseball, and maybe one mention of gay people. Their parents had looked over the fairly innocent commentary, told them they should have been studying, and signed away. I’d taken home all four pages. While my father laughed to himself my mother flipped from page to page over and over again shaking her head saying, “Cara, I don’t think you even know what some of this means.”

THESE PEOPLE ARE AWFUL.

I hit the snooze button and rolled over in bed this morning only to sit bolt upright and think, “Damnit, it’s crunch time.”

I got out of bed, let the dogs out and put on some sweaty gym clothes that had been lying on the floor because there is less than one month - way less - until the all-important first dress fitting when I better like the way I look because that is the body they’re gonna mold that fabric to and that is the body I shall try to maintain until October 8.

Perhaps more importantly, that is the body I’m gonna shake at the longest stretch of parties I’ve ever had planned in row in my life.

While I have admittedly remained very collected (in public) about the wedding planning (i.e. “Everything is really almost done. It’s been so easy!) the honest to God truth is that it’s becoming a really nervewracking experience because while yes, most of the important things are done, all the minor things that aren’t done are becoming ever more important because it - the event - is only three months away. Honeymoon? Unplanned. Gifts for all those important people to be handed out over tears and laughter at the rehearsal? Haven’t even thought about it. Shoes? I have to wear shoes?

That’s where the parties come in. This must be the age old reason why parties often precede weddings: Because if they didn’t, the people involved would suffer at least minor to intense nervous breakdowns and then there’d be gossip. And we all know negative gossip surrounding a wedding is the worst.

So basically how it’s gonna be is I’m gonna force myself out of bed in the early morning to work out my body and soothe my mind and try to achieve a rockin’ bod before the fitting but more importantly the parties and then I won’t care so much how many little details there are to iron out because I’ll be casually lounging by a pool with a rum drink in my hand wearing a bikini with absolute confidence.

Because we flew to Connecticut and back this weekend I allowed myself a favorite airplane indulgence which is to buy magazines I’d normally view as at least a slight waste of time like “People,” or even worse, “Us” and “Star.” Celebrities are totally awesome to read about. And what is even more awesome is the warped sense of importance these movie-star watchers give to their every day activities. Things like, “Mary Kate loves fruit!” Caption: The diminutive Olsen twin munched on an apple as she waited for her bodyguard to clear a popular clothing store of “Full House” fanatics before she entered.

Ok. I made that one up. But FOR REAL “Star” reported in the issue that I was reading yesterday on an encounter that almost occurred between Heath Ledger and Naomi Watts. The problem that could have erupted? Legder and Watts used to be involved and the meeting on Hollywood streets amongst thousands of other ordinary people, the semi-famous and all-out movie stars who’ve most definitely dated one another or at least had relations of some sort could have been awkward. The magazine went as far as to draw out a map of their individual paths, pointing out that they really did - honestly - almost run into one another but thank the Lord in heaven that it didn’t come to that.

Naturally as a result of reading this informative news source cover to cover I started thinking about how I’ll someday probably be at least somewhat famous (maybe like the O.C.’s Rachel Bilson or that girl from Joan of Arcadia) and how the magazines will report on my every day actions and whether or not I should upgrade from my Reef flip flops to something a little more hip and how I probably shouldn’t dance to “Come on Eileen” in the car anymore. Luckily I’ve at least got a little dog to carry around. And she’ll kick your ass, you paparazzi punks.

Just now driving home from a trip to Southpoint mall I had one of those periods of all-encompassing warm feelings that can only occur when driving home after finding the perfect bridesmaid dress shoes with a good friend, running through the buckets of rain, from awning to awning getting soaked and finally arriving in the seat of a dry car. Even if that car is a Chevy Cavalier you rented that morning after being in an accident the day before.

The accident, although it will require my car being at the shop for a couple days hence the ultra-sexy black Cavalier, was minor and, despite the fact that everyone keeps asking if I’m ok, an incident that made me feel lucky it wasn’t worse instead of unlucky that it happened at all.

It’s like the stomach pain I survived after having a caramel Frappaccino from Starbucks today - bad, but more funny than bad. This has always been a problem for me. In college I used to order a coffee drink from my favorite haunt for “studying” but really watching people, Espresso Royale. It had both mocha and rasperry flavors and after drinking it down in a haze of greedy bliss I’d suffer God awful stomach pains that I knew I shouldn’t complain about considering I’d bring them upon myself time and again. I’d wait just long enough to forget the fact that coffee drinks with more than one flavor, the syrup and milk and industrial-strength espresso mixing together to form a substance (each body has such a mortal enemy - my friend told me just last night that he’s never been able to eat sherbert) I simply can’t handle. But one forgets. So I drank the lethal mixture of substances this afternoon and have been suffering since, reminding myself “never again” with each lower stomach cramp.

Going out to get the shoes helped me to forget about it, because, like the accident the torrential rain that has been falling all night due to tropical storm Cindy, the stomach pain incurred after indulging in something I knew I shouldn’t indulge in is fleeting. So as I drove home in the dry Cavalier listening to soft rock I felt happy and safe and started looking forward to this weekend we will spend in Connecticut for my Aunt Betsey’s wedding. I drove home and got into the most comfortable pajamas. Cecilia whined and placed a heavy paw in my lap over and over and we all, the dogs and me, got on the couch, turned on “The Office” for about the hundreth time and listened to the storm.

alumni pic
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

Steve Artabane, Cara Rotondaro and Max Bobbitt, ‘96, met up in Wimington, NC this summer to celebrate the Fourth of July with friends and a lot of beer. “It was just like high school!” said Cara.

Dear Blog,
Happy birthday America! Today I baked like a domestic goddess should! I made brownies, blueberry cobbler, and a nice dent into two bottles of wine with my friend Jen! Things are great, Blog. Despite the fact that I keep creating to-do lists with 10 plus items, things that are never going to be done in one day, much less the week, I am starting to realize that stress, Blog, stress is a piece of shit. Screw that! Here’s to Sam Adams Summer Ale! Here’s to grilling out! I’m 27 this year. It’s my least favorite birthday, and my most favorite time. Oh, Blog! That’s confusing, isn’t it?! LOL :) What I mean is that the birthday…well, it was pretty anti-climatic. I mean, 25? That was a fuckin’ party! 26? A calm year, but exciting, nonetheless. 27? That’s the age where you start freaking out about how you haven’t made a lot of money, or lived a life of moral ambiguity, or all of the above! However, I am getting married. And I do have the best friends in the world, so it’s not that bad!!! What I mean is…oh, Blog! What I mean is, I’m really happy. Tipsy? Sure, a little! But things are going great! Maybe I’ve got some things to figure out, Blog. But…really, they couldn’t be better. I do a lot of fun things. I’ve got a lot of fun friends. And I’m getting married to my dream guy. Btw, Blog, tomorrow I’ve got to work, and I probably won’t feel that great. You know what I say to that? Screw it! Here’s to the summer of 2005! Here’s to America, independence, summer ale, friends, beaches, birds, secrets, lovers, minnows, sharks, dolphins, and horseshoe crabs. Here’s to life…here’s to life.
HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!

Like that time Tom and I spotted that license plate that said “MCDUNA” and we were like, “Hey, there’s your last name, J,” and he corrected us, several times, on the proper spelling of his last name. And then, while lying around rejoicing in the glory of a summer Monday holiday this morning, J sniffles and,

C.M.R. - Sneezy McSneezums.

J.A.M. - Justin McDonough.

Reality television never attracted me much. When friends were all about “The Bachelor,” I kept asking, “Doesn’t that seem unnatural to you?” Of course it’s unnatural! Stop the fucking philosophizing and get hooked! Some shows I’ve seen from time to time make me cry, like “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” where audience members are manipulated horribly into crying - sobbing sometimes - during the last five minutes with the music and the family’s situation and the new theme-based rooms. Because my mother works in public housing I know that the gritty truth of poverty in this country is best not left to Sunday night programming, but still, even if I only catch the last 20 seconds, the tears flow. I’m not going to be able to watch the new season of “The Biggest Loser,” because just the commercials get me emotional. Reality programming is something I hear about rather than watch regularly so far. It just seems such a huge investment.

So when J and I settled down to watch some non-cable programming the other night and caught, by chance, “Average Joe, The Joes Strike Back,” I just expected some one-night-only entertainment.

Then this one guy said that despite his tough appearance he had a cat named Rachel and I felt real love surge through my body. I hope that no Joe’s heart is too badly wounded over the course of this saga because I do not think I’ll be able to take it.