As I’ve mentioned before, I didn’t get much of a chance to express any school spirit while at BU. It’s ok. I can work up some school spirit when I want to. Like the time I met Jim Koch in the 96 Rock studio while I was working there. He’s the founder of Sam Adams beer, a Boston staple, and was promoting some new ale he’d created. The bottle had a big X on the label and I’m pretty sure the stuff wasn’t legal but anyway, I met Koch (who told us that his children each received an eyedropper full of Sam Adams at birth - right out of the womb) in the studio, which smelled exactly like a keg party and told him I’d gone to school at Boston University. We did a cheers to Rhett, the university mascot. It was about 8:30 in the morning.

The point is I get pretty pumped to watch athletic events down here in North Carolina because I never really had that when I went to school. Tonight there’s a Duke/UNC basketball game and the town was just totally ready to go as soon as work and classes got out. People shamelessly waving their “I need tickets” signs and everybody in light blue in the Franklin Street windows having a beer and some dinner before the big event.

While I’ve enjoyed many a night out on the town, fists clenched, screaming for the team, I finally got to go to an actual UNC basketball game this weekend when a friend gave me an extra student ticket. The game was on Saturday and the weekend had already been a lot of fun so I had high hopes for more as I donned my “Go Heels!” t-shirt. J agreed to drop me off near the stadium so I could meet up with my friends and just as we got on the road it began to rain. Then J noticed his gas light was on. And then we were in terrible traffic. Next we were in terrible traffic in a one-lane construction zone and J became convinced he was going to run out of gas in that lane, the lane leading to the game and then everyone at UNC and in the universe would hate him. At this point I semi-unfairly fled the vehicle, told him it was ok - I’d walk the short distance so he could get out of there quickly, thus avoiding a fate worse than death, a fate worse than someone spilling what happens in the 6th Harry Potter, which he has yet to read - and I emerged, still giddy, into the rain, now a downpour.

Needless to say, by the time I made my way to the student entrance, through muddy rivers and driven fans, and flashed the student ID I’d borrowed, praying they wouldn’t look too hard, I was soaked, my jeans so weighty that I wondered how I’d keep them on. Once I found my seat and my friends and had removed my sodden sweatshirt I settled in and had a great time screaming and sometimes jumping and sometimes admitting I didn’t know what was going on, until UNC had beat Clemson and it was time to go. I was meeting Chappy, who’d also attended the game, at his car so we could all go out and asked the scientists I was hanging with how to get to the parking lot. Suddenly I was reminded of the time I went to DC with J’s lab and everyone kept asking me what street we needed to turn on to get to such and such, and which bars were good and I realized I didn’t know the place where I’d grown up. Not at all. Same thing with Chapel Hill, except it’s much smaller here and there’s only, like, two major roads. I followed the scientists for a good while before they realized I wasn’t really going the way I needed to be going and I left them to forge my own path. “I’ll ask a police officer or a pleasant student,” I thought. “Hi. I’ve lived here for, oh, three years or so. Can you help me find a major parking lot on a major road that I drive on just about every day?” The scientists ran off to their labs and their potions and I yelled a goodbye as I galloped off in the direction they pointed and suddenly confronted an enormous hill. An enormous, slippery hill that I slid down in my felt flats with little swans on the toes. I finally met up with the swarms of basketball goers after I’d stumbled over the last few rocks and back on to the sidewalk and I even found the appropriate parking lot without the help of police officers or students.

The experience, however nonsensical this reasoning is, left me feeling slightly more qualified as a fan. Attending the game…in the rain and through the mud and with a student ID that wasn’t mine, cheating the system, I felt I’d earned my stripes as a fan. And I don’t mean just a UNC fan, either. I mean a fan of sports. I did a lot of things in college that required facing the elements or cheating the system, including walking all the way to Star Market to ensure we had Oreos when it snowed four feet freshman year. And I never minded Priya using her sister’s license to fill our mini-fridge with Miller Lite. But in the sports arena, my feats had been just about nonexistent. So tonight while watching the game from the comfort of my home, hopefully eating chocolate that my beloved husband has promised to fetch while out (I swear to God, boy, I’m not kidding) I’ll know that when I root for the home team I do so as a fan. Of the Tarheels. And of course when I need to pull it out for purposes of winning the hearts of high-powered beer merchants, of Rhett the Boston Terrier.

I was slumming around the house before work this morning in my hoodie and large, comfy pants, when I came upon this gem in J’s WildBird magazine, which I found on the coffee table:
(From the “Editor’s Note” by Amy K. Hooper)

“An individual in the birding industry recently described me as a ‘know-nothing who calls herself a birder.’ The comment prompted a couple questions.”

This prompted a few questions for me, the reader, as well. A) Birding industry? and
B) Why did you admit, in your widely distributed magazine, that someone called you a name? What’s more, they called you a “know-nothing who calls herself a birder.” That’s a harsh comment. That’s on par with a Star Trek junkie calling another Trekkie, “A know-nothing who knows nothing about Star Trek.”

The piece did go on to explain her reasoning. Hooper’s point was that all birders are beginners at some point and there’s nothing wrong with that. Agreed. But don’t include any more criticisms of your birding ability in the Editor’s Note, because it makes me question your judgment, alright?

I might have been more hard on this blatant display of - you guessed it - nerdiness (with a capital N) today if it wasn’t for the fact that I had a nice bird experience myself this morning. I know, I know. You’re all, “Stop, Cara. Stop before this turns into a birding blog.” But don’t worry, I’ll keep my references few and far between.

As referenced previously, this morning I was feeling kind of sluggish. The desire to just wear comfortable, unstylish, clothes and go out in the world resembling a college freshman on a Sunday morning overrode my desire to look presentable. The condition was simply the result of too little sleep and knowing I’ve got a busy couple of days ahead. Getting out of bed to begin those days was rough. I’ve been feeling the onset of a cold. I wanted to stay beneath the covers. I wanted a television to magically appear. I wanted that television to be playing back to back episodes of “The Golden Girls.”

But I had work to do and I got up. Mina frolicked at my feet like an exuberant little elf and started doing backflips when I grabbed her pink leash to take her out. As we exited the warm kitchen I felt the first brush of morning air, cold, but not too cold. It was cloudy and I immediately felt better. The fresh air - and then, the birds. Everywhere. And loud as hell. They were swooping above me and chattering in the trees. Some of them were flying quickly above me in formations. All with their unique songs and I thought about how J would be looking up and identifying them all if he were there. Mina was prancing down the street and for a few minutes it was just me and her and all those ridiculous birds, with their ridiculous songs, saying good morning.

I’ve been thinking that perhaps this blog needs more regular features and maybe one of those regular features could be to affectionately, or non-affectionately depending on my mood, make fun of the individuals who don’t read this blog, even though through blood or friendship they claim to be really close to me.

My little brother Vinnie turned 24 on Sunday so I’ll start with him. He’s a pretty easy target because as those of you who’ve visited my parent’s house in Alexandria know, Vin used to be pretty chubby. He also had thick-rimmed dark glasses, but not in a cool way. The reason visitors know this is that I like to sometimes sprint upstairs upon arriving home, rummage around in the huge wicker baskets that my mom uses to “organize” our precious family photographs, and find a particularly embarrassing one of young Angelo (his real first name). Then I like to put in up on the mantel or by the fruit bowl, or near the list of chores my mother has left for us to do that day, even though we are adults, even though we don’t live there anymore.

Since Vin grew up to be a tall, nice-looking boy I don’t feel bad talking about the fat period. It’s interesting, because rather than tone down the nerdiness during those poignant years of childhood (peaking at about 10-years-old) Vinnie amped it up with his hobbies, like developing an intense interest bordering fanaticism with the Titanic, as well as only listening to classical music until he learned about the best band ever: Soundgarden. Posters, magazines and albums ensued. Soundgarden or bust, baby. There was no other music in the world that rocked like “Black Hole Sun” rocked. Save Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture,” for which he still reserves a special place in his heart and CD collection, I’m sure.

One other item of note is that my father and I used to take it upon ourselves to lie to the boy and he’d always believe us. This doesn’t say much for our character, I realize, but it was funny. And it’s important to ensure kids get knocked down a few times in life. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before, the story being such a laugh for my dad and I, still, but one night my father threw some clean laundry into my brother’s bedroom, onto his bed - not saying anything to disturb Vinnie, as he was probably working hard on something at his computer, something maybe related to the Titanic - and my brother turned around, caught the laundry “flying into” his room and immediately ran downstairs proclaiming that his shirt has floated onto his bed, obviously the work of some deranged spirit - a poltergeist. We had no choice but to run with this. My dad sat down and had a serious talk with Vin, explaining to him how the house had been haunted all along - how he and my mother had known, but didn’t want to scare the kids. Vin, naturally, began looking up ghosts on his computer, alerting his friends to the situation and figuring out what to do next while my dad and I congratulated ourselves, in whispers, on our brilliant work. Needless to say, after he’d found out what had happened (thanks, Mom - what? You don’t believe in a little fun?) he didn’t talk to us for a few days. This might be a good point to end all the story telling, because honestly, I didn’t like that, him not talking to me. Because he’s my one and only brother, who I love.

Who used to be pretty fat.