Recently I wrote on this blog that, as a promise to my readers (and myself), I would write “one post every weekday (at least)” and then I promptly threw that promise on the floor and stomped on it. Let it get dirty. Like it didn’t even matter. But the thing is it does matter. It matters for a few reasons.

One of those reasons is that I tend to be a rather weak person in the face of a temptation. For instance, yesterday, once I was was granted an afternoon off, I spent it on a shady restaurant patio with good friends drinking margaritas and meeting fellow porch-drinkers, who’d just gotten married, and by the way, had the Pietasters play at their wedding. Pretty sweet. The point is, though, that I didn’t spend that suddenly free time at home cleaning the mold out of the smoothie maker we used last week.

One of my goals, as a semi-new, somewhat-grown-up who thinks about things like buying a home, is to do things I say I’ll do, whether or not there is a more tempting option - and that goes for everything from paying the bills to, yes, writing on this blog.

Not that I’m going to shirk all impulsive notions. Balance is important.

The other reason is that, as a dear family friend and writer once told me, the key to becoming a good writer is to “write every day.” What I think he meant was, you’d better the hell write every day if you even think for a moment you could possibly be good enough to be called a “writer,” because honestly, practice is all you can do - but I got the picture. And remembered it always. And despite the fact that my job does involve writing every day, I see no reason to stop there, especially since I’m not about to write in the newspaper about how all those margaritas prompted me to give full demonstrations of how J likes to fall asleep with his contacts in, or talk all about my newfound love of getting a bikini wax.

That, friends, is what this outlet is for. Stay tuned. I’m going to try. For you, for me, for my grandmother, who now reads this and is probably wishing she’d never stumbled upon it, I’m going to try.

For the past few days, after coming back to Chapel Hill from D.C. and Vinnie’s graduation, I’ve been alone. J was showing off his scientific best at the microbiology conference in Orlando, and I’ll admit, when driving home Monday night after a very long, very intense town board meeting, I started to get pretty sad. I thought about our months since marriage and realized that J and I haven’t spent much time apart. In fact, we’ve spent a lot of time doing things together, like trips to see family and friends, attend weddings and such.

Before we got married, I took many a trip up north to decide, you know, what color napkins we needed for the place settings, while J stayed home and did other, arguably more important things, like break down DNA samples of tuberculosis strains. So going up to the graduation without my other half was the first time I’d taken a car trip alone in some time, and Monday was the first time I’d come home to an empty house in what seemed like forever.

We are, in my opinion, a couple that values independence. If I don’t feel like going out for a drink with friends, J doesn’t make me, nor does he miss out on the experience himself, and vice versa. We both understand that there will be times when one of us, either by desire or necessity, may take a trip that the other won’t go on. And both of us, I think, understand the importance of having some time alone now and then. I’m an extrovert by nature. I can only spend so many hours home alone before I’m itching to go out to a coffee shop just to be near people. However, due to a very busy past couple of weeks, I realized these quiet nights alone this week would probably be good for me.

When I was driving home Monday night, though, and knew J wouldn’t be there on the couch watching television or in the bed reading the Stephen King series he’s recently become obsessed with, I didn’t think about how “good” this time alone would be, but only about how I’d be lonely.

And I did miss him. I’ve missed him all week and can’t wait until he returns this evening.

But I did, somehow, manage to get used to being all by myself in our little house. Very used to it. For instance, I don’t know if you all are aware, but they’ve recently starting showing biographies of Food Network chefs, much like the E True Hollywood Story, and if there’s no one there who minds, you can watch, two, three - four of them in a night. I realized that my constant desire to clean up every little mess and rid the sink of dirty dishes is, perhaps, more an issue of control, than functionality, because I became totally ok with dropping my pjs on the bathroom floor before my shower in the morning and then leaving them there. All week. Lying fully stretched out on the couch and watching tv while reading a magazine while having a glass of wine while letting the dogs lick my dinner plate after I’d finished. Sleeping diagonally across the bed, with things in there with me, like the book I’d been reading and my work clothes, which I know J hates. I remembered little habits of mine and came to understand that I can sleep hard as a rock all night long with or without someone else in the bed.

This isn’t to say I’m not myself when my husband’s around. Certainly the opposite. I can be more myself with him than practically anyone. It’s just that it’s been such a busy period and I’d forgotten what it’s like to be ok with your own company, to like who you are when you are all by yourself.

And to be able to be alone once in a while, knowing that you aren’t truly alone at all.

My father, who knew I was alone and possibly lonely and possibly getting murdered, called me more regularly than usual to ensure I was alright. Yesterday morning, just after my alarm went off around 7:30 a.m. the house phone rang and I sat bolt upright, wondering why in the name of God someone was calling me so early. While reaching for the phone my mind raced with the possibilities. Could my brother, who’d just arrived the day before in Istanbul for a three week long European jaunt, have been kidnapped by Turkish pirates? Were my parents ok? What about J, so far away in Orlando, and all the recent alligator attack incidents?

When I reached the phone, luckily, it was only my happy father, who greeted me with a good morning song as I sank back down into the cozy bed, surrounded by our cat, the most recent New Yorker, a denim skirt - “Good moorrrrrrnnnnnnniinnnnngggggggggg Cara, best daughter in the world!” Once his song was over he began with the usual, the inevitable, to a daughter, home alone (it doesn’t matter if she is 12, or 28): “Hello darling. I just wanted to make sure you were alive.”

One annoying thing I’m finding about being 28 is that it seems I can finally say I’m too old for things. I’ve recently started doing a little bit of radio journalism now and then, and find that the 18-year-old interns can churn that stuff out in milliseconds while I mess about clumsily with the edit program. Maybe “too late” is too harsh, but I’m entering the field somewhat late. And slowly. Of course I recently heard a show in which it was stated that Diane Rehm, of the NPR “Diane Rehm Show” was an intern at 35. And it’s not that I want to have my own radio show or anything (but if you are reading this and would like to give me my own radio show, a book offer or job as a travel journalist, yes, yes, I accept), it’s just that I’m displeased that I can even say “I might be too old for that” when confronted with certain situations. I know, deep down, it’s not true, but admit it, when you’re 28 and you’ve been out, like, four nights in a row, and on the fifth night you say, “Hey guys, I’m done, I gotta stay in on the couch in my pj’s and watch TV,” there less apt to say, “Shut it, loser!” and hand you a purple shot that reeks of Jaeger, like when you’re 27.

But that’s not exactly my point. In fact, it’s the opposite of my point. One of the things that finally feels appropriate at this age is wanting to have children. Now hold it right there, friends, I’m not actually having children, I’m just talking about the feeling of wanting to have them. For instance today, when a former newspaper employee brought in her toddler and six-month-old and, after playing with them, I got the urge to chuck my birth control in the nearest dumpster. I know the time isn’t right right now, so don’t worry, I’m not gonna have babies that have to live in our washing machine or anything (because, honest to God, that’s where they’d have to live) I’m just surprised at these feelings, especially since as a younger girl I always admired my mother, who had me and my brother at 35 and 39 because, hey, that’s what she felt like doing. Of course, I also vowed I wouldn’t get married until 30, and that dream went down the tubes shortly after J and I started living together and I began initiating simply delightful conversations that began, “I just…I just don’t think it’s fair…”

I mean, it could be the whole Hollywood baby surge, what with Britney and her babies (and her very visible underwear) and Angelina and her multi-colored family, and all, but probably not. I think it’s a natural part of my getting older. And of course I’ll wait until it’s a good time for us to have children. It’s just a, well - it’s a nice feeling.

I do realize, of course, that once they’re past babyhood they reach teenage-hood and however they turn out they are yours for 18 (+) years, and that the desire to have a baby is different than the desire to have a real, full-grown little person, but I’m not too worried, because with J around I figure they’ll always have something completely wholesome and amazing to do, like make some art from found plywood or fill the woodpecker feeder with suet, and I won’t have to worry about them doing drugs or being sassy until they’re about 25.

Because I needed more distractions.

I decided in between work obligations and driving to Alexandria this evening to come home and give Cecilia a bath. J and I, after observing several nights of her cleaning herself obsessively, to the point where we had to yell at her to Stop, Please stop, That’s disgusting and you are driving us beserk, decided to take a look at her skin and noticed some red bumpy patches as well as - goddamnit - a flea. When J and I see a flea, we don’t think rationally. We don’t think about flea medications or shampoos. We think - How bad can this get? Will we have to vacate the premises and let loose a barrage of harsh chemicals? Burn down the house? Sometimes J gets more upset and I have to calm him down, and then we switch roles.

I’ve found, in fact, that ridding the dogs of fleas, or, more specifically, a flea, is actually no harder than putting the dogs back on the preventative Frontline, which I forget to give them most of the time, until I spot a flea. Buying Frontline is essentially the same as paying rent on another house, but it works, and I love to make veterinarians smile by paying inordinate fees for things to make my dogs happier. Like nail clippings and shots.

Before applying the miracle drug however, I wanted to give the dogs, who both needed it, a bath. Unfortunately the May weather is still on the cool side down here. I’m not complaining - we’ve had gorgeous, humidity-free days, which is rare for this late in the season, but it meant that rather than torture Cecilia with frigid hose water, I’d have to get her in the bathtub.

She got pretty excited when I got the leash down from its hook, but when I tied it to the faucet and told her sweetly to “Come here,” she got the picture and skidded under the coffee table where she placed her hard head on her paws with a resolute expression I translated as something like, “Please, for the love of God, I hope she can’t see me under here.”

I got it done as I always do, of course, hoisting her back end over her front until she tumbled with a horrendous thud into the tub and I proceeded to pour buckets full of lukewarm water gently over her body and head, telling her what a good girl she was and singing some songs I made up on the spot. She continued to look sullen and desperate, as though she were receiving some great punishment, which bothers me, because I’d give anything for someone to douse me with warm-ish water, rub me down with nice-smelling shampoo while singing me a song about how I was the best thing ever.

I let her get herself, clumsily, out of the bathtub, and proceeded to wash Mina (pick up, hold steady, pour water, scrub down, pour water, pick up) quickly, then let them both out in the back yard to dry off in the sun. And rub themselves in the dirt.

I love watching dogs after they get baths. They always seem to find some untapped reserve of energy for such an occasion and act like idiots, running in circles, so extremely joyful to be free from the torture of being properly cleaned. Today as I watched them I saw that same joy, and I also noticed, for some reason, how they looked without their collars on. Especially Cecilia. Stripey, and big and muddled colors, looking at me with her mouth open and ears perked up, I couldn’t help but notice how much she looked like so many of the dogs I’d known while working at the animal shelter. Without her prepster sailboat collar, she could have been any of those dogs. Her face and coloring matched hundreds of others, many of whom never made it out. I took Cecilia home when a foster dog I’d had for a few days starting fighting with Mina. Teary-eyed, I took the foster back to the shelter on a unbearably grey day during one of our infamous ice storms. I felt like I was taking her to her death, having not found a home for her, and thought the least I could do was take someone else. Cecilia’s brother had been adopted just a few days before, and she sat in the back of her kennel wagging her tail timidly and bit me playfully all over my arms when I reached in to say hi. I took her home because I felt bad about all the dogs who never find homes. I remember distinctly J’s reaction when he came over to see my new foster puppy, like, Oh, I see. That kind of dog. A week later I was lying to people who called in response to the “Adopt Cecilia” posters I’d placed around town, telling them she’d already been taken, and then I stopped lying and just admitted I wanted to keep her.

I’m not very keen on yelling at people about adopting dogs from shelters, telling people how many animals are homeless, and how many die because there just aren’t enough homes for them all (unless drinking at times). I just think they should be loved. Of course they should - I’m not sharing any deep knowledge, it just struck me today, looking at my collarless dogs, how randomly they came into my life and how I’m so happy that they did but every once in a while I am totally overwhelmed by how many more need that same chance.

I know my posts have been lacking lately. Short remembrances of conversations. Pictures. Unfulfilled promises. I could say I’ve been busy, which is absolutely true, but something (the fact that I just browsed The Superficial for half an hour?) tells me that if I had a better schedule, I’d be able to do all the things. All the good work and blogging and planning for the future, as well as having very nice nails and always sporting a fab pair of earrings. So here’s some resolutions. Some promises, promises I promise to fulfill:

One post every weekday (at least)
Do some incredible things that will make for good, worthwhile blogging
Find J a birding friend (that one is unrelated, but…takers?)

Pretended to be a flute-playing duck

Played catch

Rode in a convertible



Made a feast

Spent a lot (a lot) of time looking up things on Wikipedia

“I slept like a rock, didn’t dream at all. And I was really, really hot when I woke up.”

“I know. Me too. Really hot. Plut, everything is out of control.”

“Out of control? Like, our life?”

“Yeah. I feel like - like I just go to work every morning, and then I come home, and there are these people there. Guests. And we take care of them, or not take care of them, but do stuff with them. And it’s really fun, but the house is messy, and - is this what it’s going to be like to have kids?”

Here they are at the Council on Aging when I made them come to work with me last week. Cute, huh? More on my visitors from LA and Wilmington and our North Carolina adventure later when I’m in house and pajamas, praying to my liver, that it forgive me for all my sins, and to God, that he forgive me for my other sins, that include accidentally telling a random guy in a bar a few untruths, like that Max and Justin are gay lovers. Sometimes when you are with your friends you get a little wily.