These are some worms who live in our refrigerator. The only reason they are allowed is that they are for the bluebirds, and the bluebirds are my favorite, because of their sweet little song and their cuteness. These are two qualities non-birders enjoy. Whereas birders, actual birders, are generally more into what birds are rare and such, I’m into a) birds that are adorable and b) California Condors. Because they’re huge.

These particular mealworms were purchased at Wild Birds Unlimited. When I go to the Harris Teeter in Chapel Hill North to get something for dinner, some paper towels maybe, it takes all my might not to waltz into Wild Birds Unlimited and buy everything in the entire store for J. I know I make fun of him, but if you were to see him in the store, interacting with the store owner, who likes birds so much he’s opened his own bird store franchise, well, you’d understand.

First of all, they’ve got a lot of cool things that you can’t just get at Target, or wherever you choose to buy your birding materials. They have the Flydentifier (which nobody talks about except me, it turns out) as well as a host of other specialty bird items. CD’s and wooden houses and cement bird baths. But I don’t care about any of that. I know many do, but I don’t. What I like is the couple who owns the store. Usually it’s this very friendly gentleman, who sold us the mealworms yesterday, but I hit the jackpot just before Christmas when I got to interact with both he and his wife and I was buying J his advanced pole system (”APS” for short - get with the program!) The two of them proceeded to tell me the story of how she’d bought him the APS system for Christmas one year. How she couldn’t wrap it, because, you know, it’s a bunch of metal poles…the look on his face when he opened it. And while I know I’ll never be that to my husband - a fellow amateur ornithologist, and I’ll never, ever bring binoculars anywhere, much less try and decide which pair would be best to pack for a trip - to New York City - all I want out of life is that kind of love. The kind of love that makes you excited to wrap up birding toys for your partner in life. The kind of love where you’re so into the bird toys, and so into eachother, that you don’t mind telling a stranger all about it.

My friends Sherry, Jess and I have been taking a community college Spanish class for the past couple of weeks and I can sincerely say that my skills in the language are coming along. For instance, I now begin emails to them, “Hey hermanas!” (”Hey, sisters!”) because we’re cool. I might even go so far as to say we’re the cool kids in class.

For instance, last night, our teacher, Don (”sir” - formal) Victor, asked the class to tell him, through a show of hands, who’d rather begin learning numbers that night after the test, and who’d rather begin learning numbers next week - a.k.a. we would have gotten to go home way early. Needless to say, our hands shot up wildly after the go-home-after-the-test option while the other members of our class nerdily decided that we’d be learning how to count that very night. What the hell, guys?!

The class sort of echoes high school in all ways except the age of the students. In fact, it’s a little unnerving. First of all, the class is taught at a local high school. Our classroom is obviously used for Social Studies during the day and is obviously home to a feminist teacher who wants all the kids, even the boys, to be feminists too. The walls are covered in women’s rights posters and murals. Faced with this hearty learning environment, I’m tempted to etch hearts into the desk and make faces at my friends when the overacheivers in the front row do something dumb. Really dumb! Like point out some meaningless misspelling or ask a question that only serves to get them brownie points but not any real depth of education.

When they’re standing in the hallway whispering about, oh, I don’t know, probably how clever they are I just want to throw our youth and cool-factor in their faces. But when it gets down to the real deal, what we’re going to have to do is beat them at their own game. And I’m a little concerned about this considering Sherry, Jess and I have lives which we dedicate to ventures besides reading “Spanish is Fun” cover to cover while nursing a decaf coffee at the kitchen table.

As mentioned, last night was our first test and we laughed in the snack room after it was over about the difficulties we had. One of the sections was to write a five-sentence paragraph in Spanish about a scene pictured on the page of a man with a broken down car. What?! This isn’t Spanish Comprehensive Lit!

My paragraph (translated here for you to read) went something like this:

Pedro’s car is in the garage. Pedro works in a bank. Pedro doesn’t buy a new car. Pedro talks to the man. Pedro rides a bike.

Luckily, we think Don Victor, who’s a pretty easygoing guy, won’t grade us too hard. And if he does, well, it’s kind of badass to be a slacker anyway.

At Cate and Brady’s wedding this past weekend - an amazing weekend during which I kept looking around at my friends and thinking about how lucky I am, and how, by the way, AWESOME we are to have at weddings (just keep it in mind when you get to that invite list) - we ran into Ryan Hanson, the brother of Nick Hanson, who just happens to be a card-carrying member of the rock band Buffalino. And you know who plays drums for that band? That’s right. My little brother, Angelo Vincent. Although I’d appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself when I try to sell my story, “Rock ’til you drop: The Buffalino Story,” to Rolling Stone because it would be bogus if they knew I was the sister of a band member.

Ryan and I had met up in Wooster, Ohio, on a beautiful, bleak winter weekend. But even if we hadn’t we’d be BFF anyway. Because that’s what being siblings of Buffalino band members, not to mention being pretty cool people yourselves does for a friendship.

Ryan and I spent a good portion of the evening trying to call young Vinnie and leave him a message about the serendipitous meeting up in New York City. However, when I talked to my brother yesterday he told me he’d received not a single phone call. This is interesting but not unexpected, I suppose. The wedding was in a bar.

Vinnie did tell me however that it was awesome Ryan and I and all our friends had been able to hang out (I KNOW! That’s why we kept TRYING TO CALL YOU!) and proceeded to give me the full rundown of his summer which will involve a) finishing up school b) a trip to Europe c) a summer in Maine with the band and then d) going on tour. I explained to him that this was just perfect because some very key people are planning on taking part in the extravaganza, like Ryan, who could, say, manage the band (we talked about it over cocktails and in between failed phone calls) and me, who will write that Pulitzer winning piece and Max Bobbitt, who’ll be taking some photographs of the band for press purposes and J, who will contribute artwork to posters and album covers. Everybody wins. And everybody spends the summer in Maine.

Sure, it may not go down as projected by two optimistic and semi-joking siblings, but why give up totally? The dream of the most radical summer of all times? It’s a reality for Vinnie and some of his friends and once again I’m reminded that I don’t have to be so practical all the time. Vin suggested that Matt Cutler (a good friend of all the band members, a scholar, and owner, if I’m not mistaken of the game “Pocket Principles,” which we played up in Wooster and which, I believe, deserves an entire post of its own) and I start some kind of journal. Why don’t we?

The possibilities of the summer are endless and, for now, not quite tangible, but I think everybody better be on the lookout for some - dare I say it? - magic.

I was also made aware at the wedding by my darling husband who’d been planning away that we’re apparently having a Fourth of July party in Maryland. I’m told everyone is flying home to attend. This is what happens when you meet up with old friends. When the celebration’s on and you’re not thinking about the plane you have to catch the next morning and everything is beautiful.

It’s been a good week here in North Carolina. It happens to be summertime. In February. The high today is expected to reach 70. At first I was dismayed at our lack of a winter (especially because of the cute, blue coat I got for Christmas, which is overkill when it’s, you know, 70 degrees) but now I’m ready for spring and then summer, two glorious seasons in the sweet-tea-drinking, flip-flops-are-ok-for-work! South.

J and I celebrated the summer holiday of Valentine’s Day Tuesday by giving each other little presents and making fondue. Oh, and did I mention that we also celebrated by cleaning up cat puke? Right. We also celebrated with me getting down on my hands and knees and scrubbing up a copious amount of cat puke. No more wet food for Teddy. Luckily, bread and wine-infused cheese, and also wine in a glass, helps quell the occasional stressful situation and we had a wonderful night making dinner and watching cable. Cable that we will never, ever turn off. Remember when I said getting cable wouldn’t mean we watched more television? Sure.

Another reason this week has been exciting is our upcoming trip to New York City. My great friend Cate is getting married this weekend to wonderful Brady (who, by the way, has cowboy boots with owls on them and little does he know I’m going to steal the owl boots while he’s distracted getting married).

Cate and I met in tenth grade at St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes school (”where tradition, pride and honor rule.”) She is one of the very amazing people who made my high school experience such a happy period in my life. While others like to sigh and shrug, complaining that high school was about as much fun as a root canal, we hoot and holler about the time we wrote silly poems on notebook paper, taped them up in my locker, and then tore them all down two minutes before the deadline for that month’s issue of “Fire and Stones,” our high school’s literary magazine, and submitted them all. On notebook paper. With little scraps of tape attached.

Or about how our friend Jennifer started a safe sex education club and we hosted a concert in the cafeteria featuring the world famous rock group Ordervish and we gave out free condoms.

Or the time we were drinking at my house and decided we should make some - what else? Amaretto and milk. High schoolers are experts when it comes to mixing drinks! We took the entire gallon of milk from the refrigerator and when my mother asked what we were doing with it, we quickly (and brilliantly) explained that we needed the milk because Cate was lactose intolerant. Then - wait! That didn’t make sense, we realized. “She’s calcium deficient,” we reasoned wisely.

All the times we went skinnydipping in the Rotondaro pool. The fact that we announced this to the entire graduating class and our parents during our senior year when the school put on a little get-together to make us all cry, or whatever. Parents and children wrote anonymous notes to one another and then these notes were read out loud to everyone in attendance. “I love you guys and will miss you and will make you so proud.” “Thank you for making me the person I am today.” “We swim naked.”

Besides providing the pool, I was also able to impart a valuable skill upon my dear friends - the ability to drive stick shift. Since that’s what my parents had to give me, that’s what I learned on and decided it would be fun for everyone else to learn, too. Cate was a particularly apt student, venturing out on the real roads far before the others, exhibiting courage and dexterity. I remember driving up the one bumpy, historic and impractical road in Old Town, Alexandria and Cate wondering just how the hell she was going to parallel park on a hill, on a historically bumpy street. I remember being pulled over by the cops one night after Cate had peeled down a roadway when giving the car a little too much gas. Needless to say, they thought we were drunk. Of course, we weren’t. We had our limits. We were just learning how to drive stick, we explained.

When our friend Martha got married several years ago, Cate caught the bouquet during the reception. Yeah, some of you are saying, why don’t you tell more of that story. Why don’t you explain how some people fell hard on their ass while trying to catch that bouquet? May I remind you that this post is not about me, it’s about Cate.

Cate gave me the bouquet sometime after the wedding was over, after we’d all gotten over our white wine hangovers. She explained that since I was obviously the one who’d be getting married next she wanted me to have it. Things changed, of course, and I ended up with Justin (and actually did end up getting married next) but I kept the bouquet as it dried and aged - not for some stupid reason concerning boys or romance, but because Cate gave it to me.

Because I’ve been secretly in love with her for all these years.

I’m kidding. I may not be in love with Cate, but I do love her like I love all my friends from high school, some of whom I’ll get to see this weekend. And that makes this week great. And Cate’s getting married! She’s getting married to a wonderful boy and I couldn’t be any happier.

But just know, Swinburn, that when you’re up there all gorgeous and I start to feel emotional, I can always recall that I’ve seen what’s under that wedding dress. In a pool, while we were all young and carefree and drunk. On amaretto and milk.

I found a picture I took of the old air conditioning unit we used to have in this office. Please note the windshield wipers placed atop the machine. This feature ensured preparedness for any kind of situation. Like, let’s say it was hot, but it was also raining on the air conidtioning unit.

This afternoon J and I decided it was high time we saw the multi-academy award nominated gay cowboy film, “Brokeback Mountain.” He called me from the lab and we met up for lunch before the movie, which is playing at the Varsity on Franklin, the theatre we Chapel Hillians can always count on to play the indy (gay) films.

It’s finally gotten cold here in North Carolina. Of course, while the rest of the east coast got pristine, white snow this weekend we got hellish rain and wind. The skies cleared today, the temperatures, however, remained low and we linked arms and complained about the weather as we walked from the parking lot to the theatre. I like going to movies in Chapel Hill. The small theatres usually attract a rather eclectic group of movie-goers and today was no exception. While I was a little worried that the seventy-something couple in the back row might be a little shocked when the men-folk started kissing it didn’t take me too long to remember where I was. I wasn’t on the county backroads! I was in Chapel Hill, a liberal, hip oasis in the heart of North Carolina, redblooded USA.

After the amazing, heartbreaking movie was over J and I parted ways - he went back to his lab, and I drove home, feeling as though my whole world had fallen apart. I decided to stop by the grocery store on my way back because it’s brightly lit and no one’s dealing with impossible romantic situations while melancholy guitar tunes play in the background. Not usually.

When I returned to our cozy little house, I turned on the television and began to plan out the rest of my evening. My brother called. He was on the way back from the gym, listening to Chicago, his new favorite band, he declared. We covered our normal conversation topics: How I should be more adventurous and how he’s so ready to finish school. I told him that J and I have begun to start thinking where we’ll move when he’s done with grad school, maybe as soon as the end of this year. It was, as always, a refreshing conversation. Because Vinnie is doing things like living in Maine with his bandmates this summer so they can give their all at being the best band ever, talking to him always reminds me that I don’t have to follow the rules. Now I’ve got a bottle of wine out on the coffee table and having some will be a nice end to a weekend that reminded me, once again, how much I’ve loved living here, how much I’ll enjoy it for the months we have left. Because this town has charm and culture. And senior citizens who love gay cowboys.

Play that country song “Mrs. Steven Rudy” very loudly while driving through the UNC medical campus causing your embarrassed husband to, first, simply turn it down, pleading “Please. Please don’t,” and then proceed to have minor asthma due to the stress.

Recently I’ve become slightly obsessed with the idea of becoming more technologically savvy. There are some things that have prompted this desire. For instance, J has had to show me how to use the iPod shuffle more than once even though there are only three settings. Most of my technological aspirations, however, relate to this very website.

While my ultimate goal is to have my own dot com or org, free from ties to a blogging site, I thought I’d try, first, to change my URL because, let’s face it, I’m not 26 anymore. I brought this up to J and he said it didn’t matter - that the twentysixyears.blogspot.com address was funny. But I want accuracy. I want recognition.

What I wanted was noagenda.blogspot.com but alas, when I tried to republish this site to that address was told it was not available. This annoyed me to no end because if you go to that proposed site address there’s nothing there. Try it. You’ll see.

Instead of moving onwards in my quest, I moped around for a bit and decided to see who else had set out into the blogging community as I had, proudly stating their age as though it would never change. I found this and way more intriguing, this. Good God.

For now I’ll stick with my web address and should it ever change I’ll let you know. Because when I’m say, 30 or so, twenty six years just isn’t going to cut it anymore. You’ll say, “Who are you trying to fool?” and I’ll have to explain over and over again that I just don’t have the “skills. I lack the skills, people.”

Last night my father called to tell me a) that I “sounded tired,” which he does every time he talks to me and which usually tempts me to remind him that I don’t have time to take a nap every day. Like some people. Who, I’ve been told have always done that and who also, I recall, used to walk around their offices in their stocking feet and then leave at about 4 p.m. - at the latest.

He also told me b) that my wedding planner, Michelle, had been nominated for some kind of wedding planning award for the category “Best Wedding in the Worst Circumstances.”

You may recall the streams and rivers that materialized in the front yard, or the flattened shrubbery left by the massive busses. The busses that people puked in. Or, you may not. Because of the mojitos.

Today is the four-month anniversary of that blessed event - the rain, the dancing, the speeches that weren’t scheduled til midnight, for better or for worse.

Happy anniversary, J. Despite having to give up the melodic cadence of my Italian-American last name, I love being Mrs. McDuna.