On this very important day, a celebration of civil rights successes in this country, but also a reminder that there is still work to be done, I, obviously, can say nothing better than this.

We all know this speech, at least parts of it. We’ve all heard it before, repeated over and over since we were children, but if you have the time today stop and read the whole thing. Still gives me goosebumps and I’m sure it always will.

From the moment the nice man installed the black box in our home this afternoon I’ve been wild eyed. Right now “The E True Hollywood Story: Meg Ryan,” “Felicity” and “Beverly Hills 90210″ are on. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Three channels, right in a row. Crisis. CRISIS.

Because there are a few people really close to me who never ever - not ever - read my blog (MOM DAD VINNIE JENNIFER GLYNN) I was pleasantly surprised to read the following email last night:

An idea for a column–
What kind of a new year’s dog party would Cecilia have? How would Mena behave?
I hear rumors you did not answer the phone the other day because I had already called you four times and you were watchig Six Feet Under shocked as I was by this rumor, I was even more shocked by the rumor that you made fun of our visits to williamsburg. And this fun appeared in your blog…mocking your sainted father.
I will of course, now that I have learned how to retrieve your blog. begin to read it daily so I can defend myself.
The dad

He figured out, apparently, how to get the censor on the link - the one he sees ever day - and view the web page. When I told him that that was all he needed to do - check out that same page, and that I updated it every day, he seemed to get pretty confused, but then got back on track, and asked, “Like even from old emails? It doesn’t matter?” and I said, patiently, “Yeah. Yeah, always the same.”

And now that I know he’s reading, I think he’ll be pleased to find I’m writing about important issues, like how The Cheesecake Factory is the demise of America. I just went with friends, enjoyed every bite, and decided to bring home a piece of cheesecake because I TOTALLY NEEDED A PIECE OF CHEESECAKE.

Here’s the thing. I got these new sweatpants from Old Navy recently that completely fit me in a baggy-yet-almost-appropriate-to-wear-to-work-if-you’re-not-gonna-see-anybody-way and their existence makes things like The Cheesecake Factory, which is exactly the reason Europeans make fun of us, so divulgent and glorious. Because of their forgiving nature.

One of the things J and I like to muse about as we’re cuddling on the couch, not watching cable, is parties our large, lovable dog Cecilia would potentially throw on occasion. Like for New Year’s, we decided, she probably called her buds Hayden and Raj, boyfriends of hers, and told them to come on over after the owners had left. They’d wear party hats and play with soft chew toys, it would be fun! They’d greet our elderly cat, Teddy, a suave gentleman who’d, no doubt, be sitting in the corner on a pillow or cashmere sweater, slowly sipping on a 12-year-old single malt with his belly hanging out, thinking about the good old days when he used to prowl the town gettin’ it on with the ladies while Barry White played in the background.

Cecilia, she’d have the noisemakers out, and would be laughing and proud of herself…that is, until Mina, her roommate, her sister, her best friend for Christ’s sake, would show up just after midnight, drunk. Mina, small and precious, but full of spit and vinegar as well as smart as the devil, had been invited to, and attended, 8 or 9 parties previous to Cecilia’s. Even after the darling had pleaded with her - begged her - just to stay home and drink good, cold water from the tap and have some old-fashioned fun. No, no, Mina was out on the town and stumbled into Cecilia’s party late, breath stinking of whiskey, pranced over to the rug, peed, and said in a slurred voice, “Take that, bitches.” J and I then reason that Cecilia would slink into the back room and proceed to cry her little heart out.

We imagine too, with all this warm weather hitting us on the east coast, that Cecilia probably recently planned a barbecue for her friends. Mina would listen to the conversations for a while (”Well, I like chasing the squirrels, but not eating them”) before sneaking inside to polish off 3 Coronas. She’d then return to the back yard, tip over the grill and eat all the food. Whole hot dogs in a single bite. She’d laugh maniacally and Cecilia, wearing a flowered apron, would dig a hole, get in, and cry and the afternoon would be ruined. I know this sounds mean-spirited - for us to imagine such disastrously sad outcomes for our dog, but, I mean, let’s say it really happened, which it wouldn’t by the way, because come on, dogs don’t throw parties, they’d all be over it in a heartbeat. I know, because when I try to give these animals sweet memories, like, “Look! There’s our old house. Remember?” or “Look, it’s a photograph of you as a puppy,” they cock their heads and give me blank stares, like, “Listen, what do you think we are? Humans? With feelings? How ’bout you put your dinner plate on the floor and then we’ll talk about reacting to real things that matter.”

When my phone rang last night during a particularly gripping episode of “Six Feet Under” and I noticed it was my father calling for the fourth time that day I didn’t pause the disk but instead decided to call him back at a more opportune time - i.e. when I wasn’t on the sofa in sweatpants, wondering how many more episodes we could get in that night before officially becoming lazy. And obese.

In his message he said he had an “idea to run past” me and I called him back, excited, and then very excited because lo and behold, this idea? We should all go to Colonial Williamsburg for a weekend.

When I didn’t say anything right away and heard my mother laughing in the background I think my father got the picture that I’d had enough of that town growing up. It was the Rotondaro family tradition, for years, to go - me, Mom, Dad, Vinnie and Grandmom, of course - down to Williamsburg for the New Year’s holiday because what way better to celebrate the coming of a new year than to don white cotton bonnets and pretend it’s 1786.

Vin and I used to happily walk those worn dirt roads, musket balls heavy in our pockets, just cheerful as hell because the wooden prisoner’s stocks were just ahead, and damnit! We were gonna get our pictures taken! Then maybe we’d score some rock candy at the general store or, better yet, warm up by a bonfire right there on the cobbled street. Then it was off to dinner and back to the cozy hotel before things got, you know, too crazy downtown.

My father wrote me some emails today, explaining that Vinnie would be up for it if I was, and although I’m not sure J is prepared for a weekend of colonial fun like only our family can have, eating pheasant at Chowning’s Tavern and all, I guess I’ll take on the challenge. I guess despite the fact that my father’s grown fond of the finer things in life lately - good wines, nice hotels - the charm of that Virginian hideaway just never lets up. Hey, I might even feel generous and spring for tin whistles. For all of us. At least now, out of the realm of deep adolescent embarrassment and insecurity, we can be proud of our purchases, rather than hide them deep in our pockets, thinking, “Wait a second. It’s not cool to be pumped about a feather pen, dried ink and parchment, is it?”

Last night I had a wonderful birthday dinner at one of my favorite Italian restaurants, Trilussa, in Chapel Hill. We noticed a big table set up across from ours and wondered what the occasion was as it was filled up by a large, happy group. Before I could get up the courage to go and ask them what they were celebrating, I said to my friends, laughing, “Now isn’t this like a reception of sorts? Should I make a speech?” and tapped a knife against my water glass as if I were going to do just that. It being rather loud due to the number of people I, naturally, did this in jest not expecting to be heard, or heeded so, needless to say, I was surprised when the entire restaurant became silent and expectant faces turned to hear my announcement. I explained, quickly, that I had nothing to say, and my friends rushed to the rescue, exclaiming “It’s HER BIRTHDAY!” You know what happened? Yes you do. They sang to me, the whole place, an unintelligible slur where my name should have been.

After this grand display I visited my fellow restaurant-goers to uncover their story.

“We work for a company called Vietri…”

“WHAAAATTTT? WHAT? Vietri!? Vietri??? I looovvveeeee Vietri! I registered for Vietri pottery for my wedding! The plates? With the fish? And the rams?”

“This girl registered for Vietri! This girl!”

I was whisked around the table and introduced to several key players as my wildest dreams came true. Becoming friends with employees of my favorite Italian pottery company
on my birthday? And hanging out with all my favorite people? And delicious food and wine? JESUS CHRIST TWENTY-EIGHT IS WHERE IT’S AT.

The excellent mood carried on to the next bar, even when the new electronic jukebox (which we HATE, do you hear me jukebox vendors?) wouldn’t play “Brandy” by Looking Glass no matter how many dollar bills we fed it. Paying roughly $20 or so to hear “Brandy” on your birthday seems worth it at the time.

Today I’m thinking it wasn’t the best decision. But it doesn’t matter. I had a short work day, and (parked illegally because I so desperately needed it) went to Panera Bread so I could get some lunch to go and made it home just in time to catch the last 15 minutes of “Starting Over,” which is like “The Real World” for housewives. And people who don’t have cable. I mean, I don’t like that show or anything. I don’t get excited when I get to watch it (don’t tell you are not allowed to tell anyone).

Fred Rotondaro
Sent : Tuesday, August 3, 2004 3:54 PM
To : cara rotondaro
cara darlking..I don’tr even want to see memois about your cats..I w9ould of course gleefully drown them and your dogs–well maybe not meba… your loving daddy…