When I began to feel the pangs of yet another urinary tract infection yesterday I started to panic and curse my womanly body with all my might, which is the standard reaction for me. “Why urethra? WHY are you so prone to this hellish pain? Why must I survive another bout of utter agony?” I’ve gotten them all my life, even when I was a little kid, and the past few months have proven particularly bad. In between infections, when I’m calm and happy, I think about how I need to work on prevention, but when they arrive all I want is a doctor and the most powerful antibiotics known to man. Antibiotics that might cause diarrhea or yeast infections, fine, but good God, get rid of the pain, the fire and burning.

Yesterday though, for the first time, maybe ever, I decided to calm down. I decided the neverending routine of infection and then treatment and then infection again wasn’t working all too well for me and so I calmed down and turned to the Mecca of all knowledge: Border’s book store. By the time I got there - well, either the relaxation techniques had worked, or these infections just naturally don’t hurt so much after a while (which I’d never know because I drive myself STRAIGHT to the doctor for Cipro) but I was feeling better. Very contented with my new self, full of restraint, goddess of maintaining control, really, I walked over to the women’s health section and got busy looking up my oh so consistent problem. I settled on the newest edition of “Our Bodies, Ourselves,” after a while. I was actually more drawn to the hippie books, the ones that talk about drinking marshmallow root and never taking a drug again, but I decided that it was best to trust a collective of real doctors rather than someone who’d interviewed, oh, witches. Or spiritual healers. Plus, the book I got has both practical medical advice as well as alternative techniques. Perfect. Border’s was warm with Christmas decorations and people and I was being such a proactive non-victim! When I headed out into the damp night I felt nothing but pride. And only a little bit of stinging.

I got home and poured myself a glass of water. I sat on the couch and turned the radio to the classical station. The dogs lay peacefully at my feet, although completely aware that I wasn’t up to their antics. I sat down and read my new book. Neighbors’ windows shown brightly up and down the street. I started to get excited about the season. J came home and asked how I was doing and sat down with me. Everything was so cozy, and then he spotted my new book, said how great it was that I’d bought it and was looking into my health, opened it, turned to a black and white diagram of the female reproductive system, took a sharp intake of breath and said, “Look!”

My new LG phone
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

My new cell phone. Isn’t it lovely?

J had us wake up at 3:30 a.m. to make the Thanksgiving journey to D.C. I can’t complain now because the trip took barely four hours and we encountered no traffic. Plus, as promised, I was allowed to sleep the entire way while he drove. It was a good idea. But at the time I was ready to kill - waking up before sunrise to travel being one of the top 10 things I hate to do.

I must say, however, that the quick trip was a great start to a just-about-perfect holiday break. My new husband spent his first Thanksgiving with the Rotondaros. Over dinner, after each naming one thing we were thankful for (I demanded it), we talked family gossip and about the dogs. My father lamented Lucy’s submissive nature - the fact that she makes a face like a “Chinese whore” after she’s done something wrong, or believes she’s upset my parents in any way. We question the comparison of the labradoodle’s facial expression (when eager to please or scared she’s upset the humans, she shows her front teeth while wagging her tail and peeing on the floor) to something, well, that we hope, at least, my father’s never experienced, but his constant worry about her confidence always rouses the crowd and, personally, I like that he wants the dog to have better self esteem.

After a lot of good wine and a good night’s sleep we headed to the Bay Friday and had a delightful late lunch at Cantler’s Riverside Inn. It’s the kind of place where they lay brown paper down on the table because, yes, you’re going to be that messy. We ordered extra-large crabs and beers and then spent the day watching sweet cable (it might be time for J and I, it just might…) and eating Thanksgiving leftovers. J spotted some ducks.

We canned the idea of leaving Saturday to avoid holiday traffic and decided to round up the troops and head out to DC. First to Vinnie’s apartment where Max, Grant, J and I had a few cocktails - that wedding yielded a lot of leftover vodka - and met up with Abby before heading to the Brickskellar, home of 7 trillion beers. I’m barely exaggerating. We met up with more friends and decided that, despite D.C. being way cooler, we would head into Alexandria and make a stop at Chadwick’s, the bar we love to make fun of but where we always end up at the end of the night due to the magnetic power of the place. It’s unheard of to go and not bump into some old friend from high school. We rallied with the new plan and before we finished the last of our big, fancy beers and got on our way I made a quick stop in the bathroom. I hung my grey pea coat on the back of the door, then grabbed it just before departing from the very tiny stall and whipped it ’round my shoulders, exhilarated by the night, my friends, a great end to a great Thanksgiving break. That’s when I heard a thump, a clatter and realized my cell phone, the one I’d bought after the famed incident at Christy’s party - where I’d dropped my new picture phone into the toilet just before passing out on her bed with her dog and, also, with my rear hanging ever so slightly out of the back of my low cut fashionable jeans which that grad student Brian saw and which, months later, caused him to show me his ass while out in Chapel Hill to make the situation fair, see, because I’d been angry ever since that he didn’t, at least, cover me up with a blanket - had flown from my pocket into the toilet. As I’d just flushed the water rushed around the thing, threatening to take it down into the pipes. Thank the Lord that didn’t happen because I’m pretty sure that would have caused some plumbing issues and I guess I could have been held to blame for that. I reached in and picked it up, not even concerned with it ever working again like I had been the last time. “It’s over,” I thought. “I’m going to have to get a new one.” I headed out to tell my friends the news. Things weren’t so bad. Everyone I would have wanted to call was there with me. Plus, sometimes it’s just time for a new phone. And there’s nothing like a semi-dramatic end to a holiday break, seeing family and friends, and ushering in the Christmas season with a round of laughter from those you love after sticking your hand in a dirty bar toilet.

I thought you might enjoy this picture of a red-eyed tree frog J took in Costa Rica. We saw him on a night tour and said, over and over again, “But that’s just the kind you see on every science book cover!”

Have you ever noticed how every teenager who has premarital sex on the WB show “7th Heaven” gets pregnant? Damnit. Did I just admit that I’m watching that? Damnit.

I was listening to Ira Flatow’s Science Friday segment on NPR recently while puttering around town and heard an interview with Dr. Sylvia Earle, an undersea explorer and marine biologist. Her point: we are ravaging our oceans. One thing I never feel guilty about is eating fish. But when Flatow asked her what fish we could without guilt she paused and her point was clear. No fish. I mean, I don’t know her. I don’t know that was totally her point. But her discussion of fishing practices around the world - how the methods used kill precious sea coral and destroy underwater mountains - made it clear that she believes we gotta work on this, now - how could we not??? And my world view began to crumble. I’ve never been a vegetarian or anything - ok, ok, I have. Once as a teenager I decided that the way cows and sheep and pigs were killed by meat producers in America (the big commercial ones, not organic farms or those who raise free-range animals) was enough reason to stop eating meat entirely. I decided that if I was going to do it right I better do it right and not eat fish either. But when my family went to Maine for a two-week vacation I faltered on the first night, had a lobster and decided that being a vegetarian wasn’t my lot in life. I’ve kept with that ever since. Some people have the will power. I don’t. While I can practice responsible eating, I’m not gonna stop ordering steak when I’m at a steakhouse. It’s funny though. Because lobsters, you know, are thrown into a pot of hot water while still alive, and you’d think if I wanted to do something really humane, I’d give up that, but I didn’t see it that way. Anyway, the point is that I’m not a vegetarian. I do try to do the right thing though and I’ve thought for a while now that doing the right thing is eating fish now and then. The non-mercury laden kind. It’s good for your heart. I never even think about the oceans. The little nettles and brine shrimp and whatever the hell else this lady was talking about. It took me a while, and an assertion from J (”Cara. Our oceans our huge.”) to remind me that she was an extreme person on this one subject. I’m not. I mean, I still, to this day, don’t eat veal because I learned when I was very young how those poor baby cows are treated. You can only live carrying so many torches, though. I wish the world could be a perfect place in this regard but I know it’s not - not yet anyway. And lobsters - I mean, let’s get straight on this, they don’t really have that many pain receptors, right?

Mina
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

You may call me hateful. You may say I’m abusive - but the truth is, I don’t always love my dogs equally.

It’s a lot of fun having a big dog and a small dog. It’s fun to put peanut butter on their noses and watch them try to lick it off one another. It’s fun when the big dog, Cecilia, gets a tasty bone and hunkers down on the carpet, happily chewing, and then Mina gently glides onto her back and goes to town, humping like a horny gerbil on a whale.

As most of my friends know, Mina will always claim a special place in my heart. I might go as far as to say that she claims the part of my heart that keeps me alive, that if anything were to happen to her I’d die, my heart would simply stop beating. But I must admit that as of late my attentions have been diverted. Cecilia’s been campaigning hard. We took a walk in the woods with her recently, something she’s always enjoyed. We hadn’t gone in months and the leaves, the creek, the sheer joy of life - it was all so thrilling to her that she filled with love and practically floated above the footpath. She and I have been taking jaunty walks along Barclay Road, checking out the mailbox scents and shooting one another adoring looks before coming home to cuddle on the floor. She’s a little much, admittedly. When visitors arrive Cecilia nearly faints with excitement. Her energy is vertical. Her ebuilliance, however, is growing on me in ways I never thought it could. She wants to please her fellow beings on this Earth. When she comes on too strong it’s followed by remorse. When she acts angry, it’s because of fear.

Mina has been watching our suddenly frequent lovefests with the disdain that she has come to perfect. While Cecilia is compassionate, Mina is manipulative. While Cecilia is generous, Mina stands over the cat’s head while he eats his food every night, which takes forever because he has practically no teeth, until he’s finished the last crumb in the faint hope that she’ll be provided a tiny morsel and thus will deny this morsel to anyone else.

Today, though, today something happened.

The dogs were out in the back yard and I was inside waiting for our new couch to be delivered. I visited them, taunting them with my hot coffee and my thumbs, giving me the ability to go inside and do whatever the hell I wanted, when I noticed Mina was shivering. It has gotten colder, and she’s a ham for attention so I put on her nice knit sweater. She’s got a couple and her wearing them - in addition to providing her warmth - provides me with humor.

When the couch and delivery men finally arrived I expected a typical uproar from the tiny animal, but there was none and after they’d departed I rushed out back to see what in the world was the matter. Mina was in the the yard, her tail down, her clothing crooked. I’m not sure what kind of incident occurred to cause her such distress. Perhaps she’d had a particularly jarring memory from childhood or maybe she’d been caught on a twig. You never know because of the complex nature of her mind, but occasionally she does have her moments. And she needs support.

When I brought Mina inside she immediately retreated to her safe place under the bed. I coaxed her out but she was not recovering from the unknown trauma well. So I did the only thing I knew to do. I brought her into the kitchen and held her while I fed her treat after treat from the cylindrical glass canister on the counter. She ate. She gave me kisses. I didn’t even care about the poop that might result, I just wanted my baby back. When she seemed satiated I put her down. She wagged her tail and was off to explore the new furniture. Her calorie-induced euphoria didn’t last all that long. Soon she was back in the bedroom, this time up on the bed at least, her head upon her paws and her eyes hard and serious, thinking about whatever she’d experienced earlier, and perhaps delving into other philosophical quandaries. I peered out the window and saw Cecilia standing on a plastic lawn chair looking for squirrels.

I love them both, but my heart only aches for one dog and that is my trailer park princess.

But I cannot lie. I enjoyed a few good moments of hysterical laughter when I saw this on the five o’clock news.

(Please watch the video. You might have to sit through a commercial, but please do. Also, please don’t hate me for finding this so humorous.)

Monday night J and I went to our first electronic music show and it was incredible. We saw LCD Soundsystem, which consisted of an entire band, and not just some guy with a synthesizer, as well as movie screens above the stage depicting various seemingly drug-induced images that were really just real-time shots of the band members as they totally got down. I actually was worried before the show. I asked J, “Hey, is everyone going to be doing ecstasy? Am I going to see every hipster I’ve ever met in North Carolina?” He assured me that, no, there’d be no drugs, more like “nerdy computer guys.” I asked all these questions because I was cranky. I was tired and knew we’d be up late and I felt that I’d rather spend that quality time focusing on my inadequacies as a human. So I laid on the couch while poor J tried to soothe me. I blathered on about how my clothes were tight and how I had not done one important thing that day. It was quite an unattractive state, I’m sure, but my loving husband simply snuggled up next to me on the plaid fabric and told me I was important. When one is in a mood such as I was Monday night the best thing that can happen is for someone that person loves to sit down with them and listen, but not judge, even if the complaints, uttered in serious and dramatic tones, often accompanied by tears, delve into the “I just want to eat tons of ice cream, I just want to but I can’t,” or the “I’m sitting here, watching TV when I could be doing so much more so much MORE,” realm. I’m enjoying being a newlywed. Sweet words of love and rockin’ concerts. When we got to the show I discovered I was right. Every supercool individual I’d ever known, all with jagged haircuts and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans in their hands, was there. We also quickly encountered two sexed up music lovers locked in a passionate make-out session. “See,” I said knowingly. “I told you there’d be ecstasy here.”

Very end of the night, our wedding.