Sitting on the couch watching a movie, surrounded by my dogs and cat as well as 10 million different kinds of massage oil, a pink feather boa, erotic literature and some new - ahem - outfits. Checking out pictures from last night’s bachelorette party, including one of me standing atop a barstool sipping a cocktail from a plastic penis-shaped container, which I’m sure would be a big hit as a water bottle at the gym, don’t you? This getting married business? Nothing but classy.

I was just scrolling though some old emails I have saved in my Hotmail account and discovered a couple from my friend Jennifer in which we were sharing stories and poetry and other thoughts about life. This made me happy. Jennifer’s been my best friend since we were little kids and took our first Holy Communion, wearing tiny veils and white dresses. We attended CCD together for years.

I can’t even begin to wade into the Sunday School stories Jennifer and I could share from our years spent in those squeaky-floored classrooms learning about the life of Jesus. I will tell you this, however. One time while visiting some huge Cathedral in preparation for Confirmation, Jennifer forgot, over and over again, the words to the Hail Mary during a very serious rosary session. When it was her turn to utter the prayer ten times aloud in the echoey caverns of that side chapel, she just lost it near the middle on every go-round and we’d dissolve into fits of laughter. That instance, a particularly strange chick named Nicole who’d wear exceedingly short skirts, huge glasses, and read Little Golden children’s books during class when we were supposed to be learning about Christ, and the time that one crazy teacher stuck a tiny metal statue of the Virgin in a cake during a fun game where the person who received that piece of cake (me!) won a prayer card, should tell you a little bit about the memories we have.

That’s just one small part of our friendship, though. It’s been years of private jokes and adventures. For instance, there was that time we smoked catnip.

DISCLAIMER: We heard you could get high from, I think, a reputable source so don’t start making fun before you know the details.

First of all, isn’t the early teens the time for a little rebellion? Dying our hair, piercing our ears, rolling clumps of fresh catnip into a huge doobie that we smoked on the back steps at my house.

We bought the goods one night when we were out in D.C. and happened upon a natural foods store. The place carried a wide array of wholesome treats for the health conscious, including a line of glass containers along one wall holding fresh herbs. Since we both had family cats it was only with slight nervousness, averting our eyes from the salesperson’s only for a moment, that we packed a plastic bag with a choice selection of the plant, and paid up. Oh man, WERE WE GONNA GET HIGH!

Later that night Jennifer and I unwrapped our highly legal drugs and rolled the stuff into the most natural and unhazardous choice for two youngsters to inhale: newspaper. As we sat out back on those brick steps that lead down to the basement with a huge catnip cigar wrapped in that day’s Washington Post, lit up, and inhaled the burning black ink and potent green herb, I knew more than ever that I was a badass.

“I think I feel something.”

We sure did think so. What, I’ve never known. Was it toxic fumes dispersing from our select rolling papers? My guess is it was the thrill two friends feel when they are exploring the unknown.

My favorite part of this story isn’t really any of the above listed antics. My favorite part was when Jennifer reported, a few weeks later, that her cat had been roaming around in her room, clearly on a mission, until she’d pushed aside some items and gotten hold of our secret stash. That really brought it home for me. We smoked catnip. Needless to say the thought that catnip getting people high would be a incredibly popular discovery, and not just something we’d stumbled upon, never crossed our minds.

Now years later, I tell this story happily. It ranks high on the list of life events that changed me for good. One day I was an obedient daughter, reading teen fiction and taking horseback riding lessons, and the next I was on the road to a life of crime, smoking herbs we’d bought legally downtown with that week’s allowance. In the end the cat got the sweet end of the deal, but I must admit that our learning one of life’s great lessons (catnip doesn’t get you high) wasn’t too shabby, either.

No. Definitely not. That wasn’t me driving down the highway with the windows down, loudly singing Spacehog’s hit song “In the Meantime” and moving my shoulders in time to the music. Must have been someone who looks like me.

When a bunch of us decided to spend a glorious weekend on Ocracoke Island at the outset of the summer, my friends Nate and Sherry and I planned a drive out to Hatteras later on that Friday afternoon to catch the ferry due to the fact that we - unlike those other losers who got on the early boat and started drinking at, like, TWO, - we had to work.

We piled into Nate’s car, which is always impeccably clean and cool and nice smelling. It’s like staying in a hotel where someone makes the bed for you and vacuums daily and you feel so taken care of. You would understand this comparison if you saw the inside of my car, which is, shall we say, unlike a hotel.

Our drive was four hours of amazingly entertaining conversation. As we’d never really taken that drive to the coast, at least not in recent years, the scenery provided a lot to talk about. That open field. That flock of birds. That run down shack and how it really wouldn’t be surprising to see a crack addict murdering someone or a crystal meth laboratory in full production mode down here in these parts.

Towards the end of the trip we even started saying things in unison. You know, reading road signs together and laughing at how funny it all was and in love we all were with one another. What great road trip partners! “To Cape Hatteras!” “25 miles per hour!” “Scenic lookout point!”

What made the trip even better was despite the fact that it was a pretty long drive, a holiday weekend and we’d taken the time to stop for some delicious Taco Bell to re-energize, we were all set to catch the 10 p.m. ferry to Ocracoke. We would speed if we had to. Speed big time.

When we started getting close to the coast and mile markers indicated that getting to the ferry on time would be a little tight, Nate put the petal to the metal and we cheered him on. He knew how to work it, too. With a mere five minutes or so til 10, Sherry and I were getting more silent realizing we just might not make it. And then Nate turned to us with a grand sparkle in his eyes, pointed to his car’s digital clock and said, “Guess what, ladies? It’s fast.” With that he zoomed forward like a gallant knight atop a white steed and we cheered again. There was no way in hell we would miss this boat.

Except there was.

With less than ten miles to go a sheriff’s deputy pulled his car out in front of ours and we uttered a collective expletive as we realized that this guy, he had a lot of time on his hands. The speed limit was 25 and this totally kickass law enforcement officer on a power trip proceeded to go 24 miles per hour forcing us, of course, to do the same. When the speed limit increased to 35 he went 34 and he played this little mind game almost all the way to the ferry when he took a quick, reckless almost, turn into the sheriff’s office, we guessed to punch his time card and go home. Or maybe go out and get wasted with his buddies and talk about “the time he had screwing with these out of towners!” We don’t know.

We arrived at the Hatteras dock, literally, as the 10 o’clock ferry was pulling away. The very nice guards on duty told us, “Oh you just missed it!” Yes, we knew. It didn’t turn out so bad, really, because we called the others, the ones who’d
taken the day off and the early ferry - the ones who’d had margaritas once onboard and basked in the afternoon sun? They’d forgotten to collect firewood for the campsite. So we opened a few cold ones and enjoyed Nate’s nice clean car, and waited for the 11 o’clock ferry. We were first in line to get on board.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATHAN!

J.A.M. - I just want to wake up in the morning, us in bed together, make some coffee, relax, look at the birds…

C.M.R. - That is what we do every morning. That is, literally, exactly what we do.

This morning I walked out into the living room where television reporters were excitedly talking of the space shuttle’s return to Earth while an infrared camera shot images of the craft shooting back into orbit. J, on the couch, looked up and without saying a word pointed down to the floor. I looked around, but not having gained my full daytime vision or thought process capabilities yet after a night of deep sleep, couldn’t get what he was after. He pointed again. “What?” I asked him. “Poop,” he said, and then I saw the three little dog turds on the rug.

Our Mina, after staying at my parents’ house, often has this problem. The weekend of ham and peanuts and crackers and Brie and other gourmet treats that my father throws to the dogs, quickly and behind his back so that we think the hunks of food have just landed in their mouths by accident, are a lot for 10-pound Mina to handle, and since she isn’t the best at letting us know when she needs to go out anyway, poop on the floor is usually the result.

You would think we would have wizened up to this occurrence and, you know, would maybe take her out more often or something after she’s gained about five pounds in two days, but laziness presides. We go to sleep with happy dogs, absolutely beat from their weekend of gorging and then running around the backyard and sometimes being thrown in the pool (I’m not gonna say by who…) and then we wake up to a surprise and Mina lays on the bed wagging her tail, beating us down with her cuteness so it’s never even really that upsetting.

But what does amaze me is the ability to look at poop on the floor and not immediately react. Not run to the bathroom, tear off a huge amount of toilet paper, pick up the load and dump it into the toilet to be flushed from our minds forever. Then what follows is at least a spraying and disinfecting, if not thorough cleaning, of the area affected on the rug.

I don’t know if my reaction is normal, or if I’m picking up some of my dad’s completely neurotic tendencies. When we were growing up, a hairbrush anywhere near the kitchen counter meant we might as while not eat any of the food in the refrigerator for a good, long while. Sightings of my mother’s “snotrags,” a term he used to describe the pieces of tissue she’d keep tucked away in her purse if she had a cold and needed easy access to them, were cause for not only a grimace, but full covering of his face with his hands and sometimes, having to leave the immediate area.

I don’t think I’ll get that way, necessarily, but I’m pretty damn sure that pointing to poop on the floor, looking up with wide eyes, and saying “poop” is not the best way to deal with the problem.

Listen. I’ve been playing the I-want-to-do-something-with-my-life/I-want-to-go-have-a-beer-with-my-friends/I-want-it-all game too long. Now maybe I’m not one of the best bloggers. Writing on the internet is getting to be quite the professional gig and sometimes I just spew out my thoughts. But let’s say you guys paid me to do this. Or not even you guys. What if we got some strangers, people I’ve never heard of or from in my life, to pay me, and then we all sat back and relaxed and had a good laugh. It would be great, because:

- I’d get in shape. There’d be no more of this running to the gym at 7 a.m., when I barely have time to stretch after doing a half-assed workout on the elliptical before I have to start thinking about driving back home to get in the shower, throw on some clothes and get to work with my hair mostly wet and then looking like some kind of river animal upon arriving because I chose to drive with the window down and the wind’s blown that side of my head into an awesome, totally awesome, hairdo. I could get up at a decent - not late, mind you, I’d still be working - but decent hour, go to the gym, and when some poor fool looked at his or her watch and said, “Damnit! I’ve got to be at work in five minutes!” I’d say, “Oh man, I know how that is, but now my job is to write a blog.”

- I would become much better at this because, see, it would be my job. I’d be totally pumped everyday to entertain my (five or so) readers that I’d think up the neatest shit to share with everybody. Do you have cocktail parties, readers? ShhhhhhZAAAMMMMMM! I’d be AWESOME at cocktail parties. Your guests would be all, “Oh, hi, how are you, and what do you do?” and I’d be like, “I write this blog…” and they’d say, “Oh (all knowingly), is it about politics, the war or the entertainment industry?” and I’d say, “No, it’s actually just about my life and, you know, the adventures I go on. Sometimes my dogs, or about how I’m getting married.” And then (this is the best part), they’d go, “You are so interesting! Can I get you a drink?” And I’d say, “Well thanks! And sure! My wine glass is looking a little empty,” and then we’d chuckle and all become best friends!

- My house would be cleaner, the bills would be paid on time and I’d be a better cook, philosopher and overall person. Let’s say writing a really righteous blog post, when I get really good at it that is, takes 20 minutes - or maybe half an hour if I’ve got to use the thesaurus and all. That leaves me a day to do all the things I’d really like to do. I would vacuum once a week and create highly specialized manila folder systems for all my credit card bills. I would grow amazing plants and, get this, I’d give them away because I’d have so many species of flora and fauna in the house, doing so well, that I’d just put a potted, flowering beauty right in your hands and say, “Hey. This is for you. Because we’re friends.” Then I’d hand you a homemade piece of apple pie, and go, “Here’s to friendship. It’s the one thing that never needs any rationalizing.” We’d kick back on the porch, watch the day go by and life would be a little better in general.

I was just perusing the Crate and barrel website looking at items to add, and not add, to our blossoming registry. I was checking out two different kinds of cocktail shakers, one “hammered,” and one smooth, and thinking, “Goddamnit how do I CHOOSE?” Then I remembered that we are picking out things, at random, for people to buy for us when, I mean, really, we’ve already got stuff, but we just want nicer stuff. That takes the stress away, when you put it that way. Furthermore, we got our first wedding present last night. Awesome mixing bowls, and in the excitement of first-wedding-present bliss, J put one right on his head. Like a hat. It is important to remember that life is so fun.