This weekend J and I had the pleasure of sharing a hotel room with our dear friends Jen and Nate during a trip the lab took up to D.C. to take in the sights, eat at good restaurants and see just how boisterous and crude everyone could get without pissing anybody off. Number of times the boys pretended the decorative circular pillow on each bed was a penis: 328,872. Stuff like that.

But my fiancee, he won.

After declaring that everybody better use the bathroom if they needed to before he went in, J took a turn at the Hilton’s delicate plumbing system. The thing is, every plumbing system is delicate to him because the boy can clog a toilet like nobody’s business. Everyone knows about it and everyone mentions it when he exits a bathroom. “Did you clog it again J?” and then he answers “No” like he means it, or “No,” and then looks away and starts talking about something else, which means “Yes.” Sometimes, though, if he’s around good friends as he was this weekend, well, it’s like he’s proud of this capability. Since I’m not a huge fan of talking about poop this has been a little difficult for me to get used to but I’m getting there. What I mean is it’s being forced on me.

This weekend was a good example:
J shouts “undefeated!” from the hotel bathroom as Nate, Jen and I are getting ready to take a nap. “What?” we mutter, giggling, and then the giggling ABRUPTLY stops as J exits and announces that he’s clogged the toilet and then jumps into bed, naturally, as we all do when we’ve just created a living hell for our hotel roommates, especially the one who is getting over a urinary tract infection. We ask “Is it fixed,” and he answers, “Not yet.”

“Fix it!”

“Not yet.”

“Fix it NOW!”

“It will fix itself. The poop will dissolve. I know. This happens all the time.”

The. Poop. Will. Dissolve. We contemplated this brilliant strategy for about .006 seconds before telling the perpetrator that he’d better the hell call the front desk immediately or else. OR ELSE.

J returned to the bathroom. The thought of calling the front desk and explaining to them that his very large dump had clogged their pipes was too much to bear. We heard a flush, and then:

“Damnit.”

Softly. Another challenge. The toilet, he explained, had started to overflow but he’d stopped it by turning off the water and mopping up the floor with one of the towels. One of the four towels we needed for showers. He presented this information with flourish, as though fixing the overflow problem was just as good if not better than fixing the original problem where none of us could go to the bathroom. J had an idea.

“You guys can just go in the lobby!”

“CALL THE FRONT DESK RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD…”

J somehow managed to get his way for a few more hours while he anxiously waited for “the poop to dissolve” but when the toilet continued to overflow he was forced to do our will and call down to the front desk and explain that “Room 770 is going to need some more towels. Also, the toilet seems to be clogged. That’s going to need to be corrected.”

A very nice man with a huge plumbing tool finally came to our rescue, exiting the room just as we’d returned from a trip to get some snacks. “There’s nothing wrong in there!” he said with a smile, as though trying to assuage our embarrassment and appeal to our highly refined manners. Little did he know. Now that the toilet adventure was over those decorative pillows became even more alluring.

“I awoke twelve days after the honeymoon, lit a cigarette and reached for the quickly disappearing bottle of Jack Daniels I had stored in my underwear drawer. After dressing the dogs in their typical garb those days - pink chiffon wedding gowns designed by a student of Vera Wang - I settled into my morning routine…checked the registries to see what in the list of dwindling gifts had been purchased for us, studied the wedding photographs for new details, cut myself a brownie, no, make it two (who cared? there was nothing left to try and fit into, nobody would be calling me “beautiful bride” any time soon), and laid on the couch for the first cry. Today’s tragedy? I had an engagement party to go to in two weeks. It wasn’t for me. I knew I had to get over the post-wedding depression, but Oprah would be good that afternoon, and maybe I’d be ready to go to work the next day. Probably not.”

-Excerpt from “The Honeymoon’s Over: A Rough Guide to Life After the Wedding” by Cara Rotondaro

There are a couple things I really don’t like. I don’t like waking up really early, especially before sunrise, to go on any kind of journey or adventure. I don’t like walking in the woods if there isn’t anyone around. Did you see “The Blair Witch Project”? Do we need to go over this again? Being in the woods is very scary and if you aren’t careful you will die.

Back in the glory days of my youth, nearly four years ago, we all went on a camping trip in Uwharrie National Park. This was the infamous trip where we drank a lot of beer and whiskey, sometimes mixed together, and I got sat down and talked to about the fact that it was very clear how I felt about my now future husband. During this session, where I spilled the sinful feelings I’d been having to my dear friends Karla and Carissa, I said something I will always regret - not because I didn’t mean it, but because, damnit, no one should EVER say anything like it. I told them that “oh, I don’t know, Justin, he…he makes me feel so alive!.” Here’s something totally awesome: J was in the woods, eavesdropping, and heard that part. The boy I was trying to impress. I wanted him to think I was so cool, and that’s what he heard. He still brings it up from time to time, and says that he liked it. I mean, I suppose it’s flattering, sure, but let’s not count on my saying that ever again unless I land an acting role in a porno. Or a religious film. The point is that I don’t mind that kind of trip into the woods.

And it turned out that I didn’t need to worry about J thinking I was cool because we got together just fine. Also because of the story I’m about to tell you, which will make it clear that nobody needs to worry about anybody being cool in this relationship, because we are way beyond that.

J woke up this morning before 6 a.m. after a night of restless sleep. Why? Because we were going to see the bald eagles! He’s been wanting to drive out to Jordan Lake, apparently the best place to spot the elusive creatures on the east coast, for some time now, and going at dawn or dusk, he said, would increase our chances of spotting the birds. He got showered and gathered his binoculars, and I, because I am an amazing partner, pulled on some sweatpants and agreed to go. We had two options - we could drive out to a bridge over the lake and hang out there, or we could park and hike to the actual eagle observatory spot, which, oh, by the way, is also a popular gay hangout. I told J I’d rather the bridge. Not because of the gay thing. In fact, I would have liked it if we’d been joined by some happy lovers. We could have talked about the wedding. I chose the bridge because, as I mentioned above, I don’t like to hang out in the woods, especially if the woods are deserted and murderers could be lurking behind every dense growth of brush, and especially after I’ve been woken up before the sun comes out to head into the deserted, murderer-infested woods.

But when we got out to the Lake, I felt bad and told him we should just go ahead and check out the observation point. The minute we’d started down the path to the water I regretted this decision, and acted out by pouting and scowling and looking behind me every ten seconds or so for dangerous persons. J told me, “You aren’t making this very fun,” and I explained to him that I hadn’t wanted to come. Luckily the excitement of eagles kept J, at least, in a good mood, and our spat lasted only a few seconds. Once we reached the lake, after about a 15 minute walk, I felt better. It was sunny and open and calm and I became more reasonable and optimistic about humans and remembered that most do not want to kill anybody. We immediately saw a white egret, which put us in the mood for more, and finally, after waiting patiently, J spotted a great bird in the distance, raised the binoculars to his face, and declared success. While it didn’t fly close enough for us to determine with absolutely certainty that it was a bald eagle, the white head and large body seemed to suggest that that was all it could be. It felt good. After all, that was what we’d gone out there for. Some of us had even lost sleep over the situation.

After waiting a little while longer and not spotting anything else we started back on the path towards the car. I wasn’t scared anymore. Maybe because we’d lived through so much already, or maybe because of the great magic of birding and its supreme power over one’s soul. Probably not the latter, not for me anyway, but J, he was joyous. He went down to one of the tiny beaches by the water and with a stick he’d been using to clear the path of spider webs (when he did run into one he’d drop his belongings and shriek - we all have fears) to write “Eagles!” in the sand. He ran back like a little boy full of unchecked glee, stood before me and asked, “Do I make you feel alive?”

When I was a little cherub of only five years old, my mother took me to a specialist who assured her my recurrent urinary tract infections were no big deal, I just had a short ureter, thus ensuring any bacteria that chose to make the journey would only need to travel a very short distance before getting to my bladder. So these infections, they’re nothing new. But this morning, feeling that old familiar pain, even after days of chugging cranberry juice each morning like some 90-year-old on a juice regime, I decided that this body I’ve known all my life was the enemy, and I lashed out against it. J, lucky boy, got to watch me lose it as I wondered what good going on antibiotics AGAIN would do because I would never, ever be free of this body and its incredibly painful tendencies. I told him I just couldn’t go to the doctor again, because wouldn’t that make me a wimp who can’t stand the pain for one day? But I couldn’t go to work because HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THIS FELT LIKE and how could he even suggest I go to work and try to stand there even though I’d have to run to the bathroom every THREE SECONDS…HOW could I possibly do that? So he suggested I go to the doctor and I told him BUT AREN’T THE DRUGS INFLICTING SOME LONG TERM HARM ON MY PRECIOUS BODY? So he suggested I ride it out for a day and I reminded him that the bacteria can get into your kidneys and that the pope pretty much died of a urinary tract infection.

And even though he falls asleep with all his clothes on and contacts in on the couch regularly and tells me, “I’m not ready to go to BED!” when I try to move him, I do realize that J puts up with a lot like the other night when he was sitting in the bed eating Fritos and said:

J.A.M.: What if I got really fat one day? Would you love me?

C.M.R.: Yes. Will you still love me if I get fat?

J.A.M. Of course.

C.M.R. I’m fat now.

J.A.M. No you’re not.

C.M.R. Yes I am.

J.A.M. You’re not, but why don’t you try and work out every day until the wedding? It would make you feel better.

C.M.R. I’m not working out every day until the wedding.

J.A.M. Why not?

C.M.R. How would I do that? What about when we go out of town to all these places?

J.A.M. You could work out at the hotels…?

C.M.R. No.

J.A.M. What about working out every other day?

C.M.R. I could do that. Maybe you could do that with me?

J.A.M. I don’t need to do that.

C.M.R. Why?

J.A.M. I’m thin.

C.M.R. I’M THIN TOO!

For those of you who went to high school and seemed even marginally intelligent you’ll remember a time of life - those “carefree” years from, oh, about 10th to 12th grade that were actually a motherload of stress - when all anyone could say, upon discovering your age and that you were, indeed, intent upon graduation, was “Have you thought about where you’d like to go to college?” And you’d say, “Well…” and launch into a rehearsed speech that you actually never meant to rehearse but were forced to once you realized that Oh MY GOD this is all you were ever going to be asked about ever again. First you were pleasant and then you started having uncomfortable desires to maybe maim these question-askers, maybe just a little bit because didn’t they just hear you have the exact same conversation with that guy over there how could they not have heard that HOW???!!!

Even if you didn’t realize it, this is usually a young person’s most memorable introduction to the notion that people - they get really really into stuff and sometimes they won’t shut up and this sometimes lends a sort of warped importance to things and can really make a person tense.

It’s a lot like that with the wedding. I have been introduced for the last nine months as “This is Cara she’s getting married,” and that is then all I talk about for the remainder of the social event, period. Ok, ok. A lot of the time I talk about my dogs, also, but I’m not exaggerating that much.

I’m not going to be a fool and say I resent this attention. We chose to have a big wedding and so that is what we will talk about. Plus, this engagement stuff - it’s pretty great. There’s all these parties. I’m wearing this kickass ring that I really like a whole lot. I’m going to Vegas. I’m using a new word (fiance) in regular conversation and I’m buying new clothes because I need new clothes for the honeymoon and parties and so I can be a properly dressed and very subservient wife (who wears ribbed tank tops from J. Crew that were totally, totally on sale big time.)

The point I’m trying to get at here is that people keep asking me these questions that I’m not sure I get - the number one question I don’t get being: Are you getting nervous? Well. I hope not, right? That’s the answer, isn’t it? I’m a little nervous about how the gulls keep pooping on the pier my family just had fixed and how that’s not the best for wedding day pictures, but even that sends a shiver of giddiness through me because all I can think is “WEDDING DAY PICTURES THAT IS SO FUN!”

See, we went to this party over the weekend. Our friend Tom and his family have an annual bash in their back yard. We all drink beer from kegs in bathtubs, and Tom and J and their friends play music and sing on a makeshift stage. Now my fiance (now regular in my vocabulary) was up there playing his guitar and singing and he looked very, very cute and I felt just like I did when I first met him in a crowded room the night before our mutual friends got married and he said “Hello” and I thought, “Oh dear Lord this is going to be a problem, but a good problem,” so no, see, I’m not nervous. I’m just fulfilling this thing that started - this thing that had to happen - nearly four years ago. It’s easy. The college thing? That’s a little harder. People love to talk about college endlessly and how it was the best time of their life and all, and you should just tell them to shut it, honestly. Actually, I take that back. They could be on the board of one of your top five and could score you some points so talk the talk, but just don’t worry is all I’m saying. Once you get in and situated you can sleep in late and eat pizza at midnight, drink beers out of the mini-fridge in your room and probably gain a little weight that first year but it’s cool. It happens to everyone.

Sunday J and I gathered with the family at the bay house to pick up the dogs and have lunch before we hit the road home. I asked my brother, Vinnie, what he’d done the night before, to which he responded, “I went out.” Of course. “Partied.” Why not. “In the Presidential suite at the Ritz.” What? WHAT? Vinnie explained that his friends, J.D. and Brendan, the elite founding members of Top Notch event planning in D.C., had gotten the soiree together. He’d been an innocent guest who’d just happened to join in the festivities and was not, he assured me, part of the Top Notch crew. The thing is, about these guys, Vin explained when I told him it sounded like they were actually pretty savvy, is that they’re not really, um, established yet. Like they’ve thrown about two parties where they get a little classy, throw on some slacks, and give the ladies subtle hugs and a peck on the cheek at the door before delivering the goods: some Hypnotic and Hennessey. “Like they’re mobsters?” I asked. “No,” my brother explained. “Like they’re rappers.” There are differences. My dad asked if maybe they were drug dealers, in between bites of our brunch Sunday at Pirate’s Cove in Galesville, where I forced my sibling to share his adventure with the entire table, Grandmom included, and Vinnie said, no, but they wouldn’t mind doing that if, you know, it wasn’t for the drugs. They just want to be cool guys. “Classic Fellas,” said my dad and we all laughed, not because of his quick wit in naming them something as cute as “Classic Fellas” but because this is what Vinnie and his friends called themselves in high school. I’m not going to try and tell the story about the time the Fellas “fun punked” one of their buddies on a cross country trip this fateful summer several years ago - so much so that he ran away in the slums of New Orleans and caught a plane home without his belongings, including money and ID, because that story really requires a first-person telling. Especially the part where they captured the little sneak during his FIRST escape attempt in Las Vegas and stuffed him into the car while they played old Red Hot Chili Peppers as loudly as the stereo could go and told the guy, “Don’t EVER, EVER try that again!!!” Oh those Classic Fellas! The thing is - it’s that story, and others, like the time they acquired (stole) some lawn ornaments from around the D.C. area and “redecorated” their high school that make me think that if anyone is going to try and do something as insane as adopt the lifestyle of wealthy rappers when you’re really just in your early twenties and actually pretty wholesome, good kids, and start a company called “Top Notch Productions” complete with business cards and establish yourselves by throwing parties in the Ritz, well, there really isn’t anyone better for the job.

The other day I was chatting with my dad on my cell phone when I went though an area notorious for fuzzy reception and the call was dropped. When I got him back on the line I said something like, “I don’t know what just happened there. My phone died for a while,” instead of saying “Hey dad I’m driving and going through some rural parts so don’t be surprised if the line goes dead again.” The reason I didn’t say the latter is because one time a few years ago my father dragged me to the Radio Shack to get me one of those hands-free headsets you can use to talk on the cell while driving, and what followed, every time we talked, was this conversation:
me: Hi dad!
him: Hi honey. You in the car?
me: Nope.
him: Are you in the car?
me: Ok. I am.
him: Using your headset?
me: Yup!
him: No you’re not.
me: I AM!
him: Are you?
me: Ok. I’m not.

I’m not even going to go into my reasons for thinking those hands-free headsets aren’t really that much safer than talking on the cell phone using your goddamn hands in the interest of the length of this post, but the point is when I talk to my father on the cellular, I like for him to think I’m not driving or think that if I am I’m using the headset, which I assure you, I’m not. You’d think I’d use it. After all, I am in the car constantly and love to talk on the phone, but there are so many wires and it still scares me when I see people using those things and, for a second, think they’re nuts and having a little conversation with themselves before I see the equipment and realizing they’re actually talking to another person.

I’m not going to try and defend my actions because talking on the phone in the car? How am I going to sit here and say that’s a really good idea? However, I would like to talk about the hypocrisy of my father’s constant nagging regarding my in-car practices because
1) Have you seen him drive?
and
2) This morning I called my dad from the car using my cell phone without the headset to get some information I needed. He was in his car, too, on the way into the city. I asked my question and he told me to hold on and then recited some specifics to me from an email he had stored in his Blackberry. Then he said, “You should get a Blackberry.” And I didn’t say anything like “WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD - DID YOU JUST CHECK YOUR EMAIL WHILE DRIVING???” because I trust his judgment, but if you live up in the D.C. area maybe it would be a good idea to just watch out on your ride home tonight.

Last night J and I cuddled up to watch “Red Dragon,” which is the prequel to “Silence of the Lambs,” but is actually pretty much the same movie as “Silence of the Lambs,” and I eased into my favorite scary movie pastime, which just so happens to be talking throughout the film, especially making funny but not that funny comments because, you see, this helps me to feel less scared.

One time my brother looked on in awe as I chattered away nonstop through the first fifteen minutes or so of “The Exorcist.” He, unlike J it turns out, found it funny. He found it amusing, I think, that I displayed my weakness and fear so easily in the form of incessant yammering and even encouraged the habit through repeatedly exposing me to images of horror in even not-very-good movies. “The Exorcist,” now, that’s a work of art despite the fact that the possessed victim projective vomits and stabs herself with a cross while muttering really dirty things, and you, the audience, is sitting there hoping to God that your mother isn’t anywhere near the television because that would be kind of an awkward moment, even if you’re all grown up. Kind of like the time two friends and I sat in the living room at my parents’ house with this woman my mom went to college with and watched in horror as comedian Margaret Cho made crude jokes about “fisting” on the Comedy Channel.

As for movies that aren’t even good, but also are scary, the one that comes to mind most readily is “Event Horizon.” Vinnie told me, because I hadn’t heard of it, that it was a good picture about outer space or something and I LOVE outer space so I tuned in enthusiastically and then, what do you know, all of a sudden we’ve got actor Sam Neill with charred skin uttering horrifying phrases in Latin. In Latin. Also, did I mention its the worst movie ever? If you are going to be forced to deal with the charred skin and a dead language and references to the devil than at least the story should be interesting or moving, or in some rare cases romantic.

As for “Red Dragon” I was talking up a storm the minute the rating (R) flashed on the screen with mention of “grisly images.” J had to stop the DVD about four times during the first three minutes (”Oh my God!” “Hannibal Lecter!” “I like Anthony Hopkins in the movie “‘The Edge.’” “What’s that she’s eating?” “Where does this story take place?” “Let’s get a blanket.”) before I finally submitted and said, “Ok, I’ll shut up.” Luckily, that’s about the time Edward Norton showed up and since I’m movie-star-in-love with him (which is allowable) I calmed down considerably.

Somebody needs to find out if this is true right now because I cannot take the suspense.

Looking over the song list for the band that will play at our wedding is an exercise in various forms of self-control. The band’s manager has asked us to cross out (”sparingly please!”) any songs we absolutely do not want played, as well as some we’d really like. And I’m starting to feel like a bitch.

Celine Dion? Get the hell out of my wedding tent! “I’m Walkin on Sunshine”? Hmmm. Mayb…Oh wait! That song sucks! The thing is, though, I’m no fool. I know exactly what I’m gonna be doing if, by chance, our wedding band decides to strike up a rousing rendition of “Come on Let’s Sweat,” by C&C Music Factory. I will be dancing, friends.