I’m pretty good about keeping in touch. Especially with people I like. And there’s nothing better than receiving a random email or phone call from the past - someone who Googled your name and just wanted to say hi.

I have some great friends from college. Soon after we graduated we initiated a yearly get together over President’s Day and swore we would always keep the holiday free (because, honestly, what else are you going to do on President’s Day? Freeze your ass off and hope your boss gives you the pointless day off? I thought so) to spend time with one another at a destination of our choosing, usually someone’s apartment or house, although we’ve talked about going somewhere nice and tropical and warm one of these years.

I have another friend from college who I hear from quite a bit, but the interesting thing about this friend is that we were never really great friends in the first place. Did we maybe have a drink together once or twice? Maybe. And I mean that - maybe. I’m not really sure. Because, you know, we weren’t best buds. What I am sure of, however, is what this individual has been up to since graduating - from her jobs to her living arrangements - because she emails me, and about 500 of her other BFFs from college and God knows where else, whenever something happens. I find this both odd and heartwarming.

Needless to say it was no surprise when I saw an email from the girl in my inbox this morning. “Ah, I wonder what my old chum, who I haven’t seen in years and didn’t see much when we went to school together, either, is up to,” I thought. Turns out she’s moved to the Bahamas and is renting an apartment with guest accomodations.

Not only did she want to fill us all in, she wants us to come visit. She really does. I know, because she wrote it:
“I’ve leased and moved into a two-bedroom apartment. It’s beautiful and I love it. So this means, for all of you guys, that I officially have a guest bedroom. PLEASE come visit me!!!!”

Check out the part where she uses caps and four exclamation points to express how much she wants me to come visit. Me and the 7 trillion others on her email list. Well, why the hell not? “Hey girl, what’s new! Actually - scratch that - I totally know what’s new with you! Guess what???!!!! I’m COMING TO VISIT!!!! Yeah. Tomorrow. Cool? Get out the rum and save me a spot on the beach! What? Who is this? Cara. Remember? Remember, you know, that time, we had a few drinks. Boston? It’s been years!!!! I’m so sorry I haven’t kept in touch!”

Last night while driving home from a health board meeting I played with the dial a little - feigning interest in the latest news and commentaries - before switching it over, sneakily, although someone might be watching, to E!, channel 162 on XM.

I’m hard on myself for listening to this station so much, but honestly, after sitting through a two-hour health board meeting and taking copious notes on new environmental services fees, is listening to the latest in Hollywood going to kill you? Certainly not. Is it going to educate you, or make you think more deeply about the state of the world? Probably not that, either. Unless you are listening to the latest report on Tom and Katie, and why the hell they haven’t delivered on pics of their new baby yet, and maybe some Scientology theory thrown in - then you’re exercising the mind, I think it’s fair to say.

But last night there was no way I was going to resist when I realized that the Martha Stewart E! True Hollywood Story was on. Married at 19, a stock broker at 25. This was a Martha I didn’t know. A callous, backstabbing woman with a penchant for ditching her family in the face of a new professional challenge? Yes, that too. What really inspired me about her story, however, was the way Martha acheived her goals, as well as her age when she did so.

One of my favorite things to do, as of late, is seach out celebrity’s ages - especially those close to my own age. Inevitably, young stars, far younger than me, are making it in their chosen field of study. Lindsay Lohan. That 14-year-old golf star.

I applaud them, but secretly adore the 28-year-olds amongst the bunch, still forging their way. The 30-year-olds. And older, much older. As I haven’t quite figured out my own path in life, I love to hear similar tales. Like Martha Stewart, who didn’t, by the way, start catering until she was in her 30s or so and didn’t publish her first book until her 40s. By 50 she was on the up and up with a magazine. She was a household name. But that wasn’t the crux of her empire. Martha had television to conquer yet.

She also, around this time, allegedly tried to sort of run over her ex-husband, I think, who’d married her 26-year-old assistant. Not her finest moment. And, I mean, maybe not the best role model, with her personal life and all. That, however, is not my point.

“‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner’? Why is she in the corner?”

“I don’t know. She’s just, you know, sitting with her family.”

“Are they going to dirty dance?”

“Yeah.”

“Woah. What’s going on? Why are they up on that stage? What do they think they’re doing?”

“OH MY GOD. Just watch. It’s….It’s kind of hard to explain if you haven’t seen the whole thing. Do we need to turn this off?”

The Woodrow Wilson Bridge Project

You can see more pictures from our recent roadtrip here.

I’m sure a couple of you saw my new web address and thought, “Wait a second. This girl marries into the family and then screws up our name. What’s this bitch playing at?”

Many have heard - because our friend Tom and I love to tell it - the story about J telling us over and over again that his name is spelled M-C-D-O-N-O-U-G-H after we saw a license plate that said MCDUNA and pointed it out to him. He didn’t laugh, or say “Oh yeah, look,” but instead said “It’s McDonough,” and that was that. For him anyway. We’ve gotten considerable mileage over mocking his somewhat uptight attitude when it comes to the spelling and pronunciation of his last name.

When I went to choose a URL for my new blog site, I wasn’t sure what to go for. Unfortunately my first choice - noagenda.com - had already been purchased (by someone, by the way, who isn’t even using it, thus upsetting me further) and I didn’t really want to use my name as it’s actually spelled. That seemed, I thought, as though I was embarking on a more serious endeavour. I thought that caramcdonough.com might be expected to contain scientific data. And writing I wouldn’t mind future employers seeing. Not writing, for instance, about strippers at bachelorette parties and whatnot. Although, I don’t know, that might work in some situations.

So I thought about the McDuna incident, and how I’d already threatened to use that should I ever get my own website anyway, and decided it was a good fit. Now, with major help from others, I’ve got the site the way I want it for now, and shall commence, once again, regular posting on this, my new site.

But don’t worry, guys. About the name? I mean, I know, I know. It’s McDonough.

This morning we were watching a piece on The Today Show while drinking coffee and having a generally relaxing start to our day. J was also reading this month’s issue of Men’s Health magazine, which I got him for Christmas after he’d made a comment that he’d like to “try and be more healthy, maybe I should start reading Men’s Health or something.”

I enjoy reading health magazines as well, the only problem being they often urge one to overload their diet with enough with fiber, vitamin E, essence of toad liver and what have to to mean one suddenly has time for nothing else but ingesting supplements.

J was reading aloud, telling me that people who repeat a personal mantra when in stressful situations tend to be more calm than those who don’t. “What should my personal mantra be?” he asked me. I was suggesting “I love birds” and a few others when a piece came on the news program about a high school valedictorian, Brittany McComb, whose microphone had been cut off when she was giving her speech during graduation, deviated from the approved script she’d submitted, and started talking about God. She claimed she was just exercising her right to free speech, but the school said since she mentioned things like Jesus’s crucifixion, she was clearly speaking about, and to, one religion, and therefore the speech was innapropriate.

J, who was kind of getting unbelievably fired up about liver cancer and preventative measures by this point, stopped reading and glanced up at Brittany, whom he clearly disagreed with, and started talking, rather rapidly and loudly, “Hey. What if someone had thrown a few “fucks” or “shits” in there, huh? How would you feel about “free speech then”? Come on! We need some Fiber Plus! And some Zone Bars!”

I realize I’ve been slacking a bit lately - it’s a combination of getting used to this new format, remembering I even have a blog, really. Please excuse me during this transitional period. I promise great, or at least semi-great, things ahead.

In the meantime, a brief update.

• A new brood of baby bluebirds are thriving in our backyard. J got a picture yesterday which I hestitate to post here, because a) I’m (as mentioned above) still getting used to this new blog and how to use it and b) they are pretty ugly. We’ll post a pic when they get a little nicer looking. Of course, not sure when that will happen as J was nearly attacked by the father bird yesterday when he went to snap the shot. Hey birds, we’re keeping live worms in the fridge for your enjoyment. We get to take pictures of your day-old infants.
• I’m going on about two weeks without a cell phone and am beginning to feel a bit like a caveman, or person from the 1980s. Today I heard some little old woman showing her new cell off to Josephine - its sounds, its features - and I nearly lept up and grabbed it from her, just so I could write one text. Just one, short, pointless text…Luckily, the insurance carrier (that’s right, I have insurance on my cell phone due to my cell phone history) has sent a new phone and I should be receiving it shortly. When I do, I should probably put it in a bulletproof sachel and lock in in some sort of iron lockbox, but instead I’ll probably throw it around my car after making seven or eight calls while driving down the highway and then drop it in the toilet.
• While at the Bay this weekend, J and my father decided that the newly renovated rooms needed names, and J promptly decided that the loft area, which will be used as a library of sorts, should be called the “Kuralt” room. My father got very excited about this and immediately started referring to is as such, like, “We need a computer for the Kuralt Room.” For those of you who aren’t aware of my family’s twisted relationship with the man, he’s referring to the late, great journalist Charles Kuralt, whom my father adores. Later, when we were talking about what kind of art we could put in the room, my mother mentioned that, in addition to pictures of Kuralt, we might want to put up some pictures of his second family.

• It is finally, after a week or so of pounding rain, summer - hot, oppressive summer - here in North Carolina, the Hurricanes won the Stanley Cup, and in the jungle that is the front yard of our tiny, cinderblock cottage, flowers are blooming, and we even spotted a couple adorable chipmunks last week, that Mina definitely wanted to eat, or at least carry around in her mouth. Although I know it’s just a sign of the season and, of course, won’t last forever, everyone on the streets of Chapel Hill seems undeniably happy and it’s a wonderful thing to observe.

My old friend Sarah recently contacted via email to tell me she’d just gone through some old boxes and found many letters I’d written to her when we were both precious girls of 12 and 13. And for me, by “precious” I mean: Had huge pink, plastic-framed glasses and very stylish (very stylish), fluffy hair.

I just got the letters in the mail and read them this morning over a large cup of coffee. I decided to post one here for your enjoyment, and depending on the response, maybe more. This particular gem was written during a family vacation. I could edit and change spelling errors, but I won’t allow myself, I’ve decided. You need to see it in its honest, complete form. It’s a good thing the incident I describe didn’t happen after I reached adulthood, because apparently I was a lot braver as a kid. Now, I’d be scouring the airplane, looking for some Xanax, I’m pretty sure. But can you say “neurotic flyer in the making?” Jesus.

I really think this is an excellent indication that I’d grow up to be a writer. Especially the parts where I talk about breakfast. Seriously, the breakfast stuff is borderline pornographic.  

July 15, 1991

Dear Sarah,

Hey! Well, here I am about 30,000 feet in the air. If you guessed I’m on a plane, you’re right! Good guess! Do you like this paper? There was this lady who had it and it was the only paper I could get so I took it.

Guess what happened? See we boarded the plane at 7:10 and it left and all and then it had a problem so we had to go back to the airport! After about 30 minutes we had to go back! Now we’re on this plane and everything’s going fine. It’s not broken, like the other one. The other plane had like a broken nose gear or something. You couldn’t tell that but you could tell that something was wrong. See, the plane kept on turning and we weren’t very high off the ground. I’ll have to admit, I was scared. But now everything is perfectly fine! I like this plane a lot more than the other one. This one feels more secure or something.

I’m sitting on a window seat. It’s a great view. I love it when we go by a pool. It looks so blue and tiny from up here.

Hey breakfast is coming! Great, I absolutely love airplane meals (sike!)

This plane is only going to St. Louis. Then we’ll take a plane from St. Louis to Arizona. We’re going to see the Grand Canyon there and then on Thursday we’re going to take a plane from Arizona to California.

This is a great plane ride! No turbulants or anything! It’s perfectly calm.

I want breakfast! I’m hungry! Oh, hey, the pilot just made an announcement that we “just leveled at 35,000 feet. And also, we’re going over the Mississippi.” That’s a nice change to hear instead of hearing “there’s a problem with the nose gear. We’ll get back to you after we find more out about this problem. Thanks!” That’s not exactly something you want to hear when you’re on a plane!

I’m sitting next to my brother. On the other plane we couldn’t sit next to each other so I guess something good did come out of switching planes.

Oh, hey, breakfast isn’t here. It’s just drinks and stuff. Or maybe it is breakfast. I don’t know! I can’t tell from here.

You know what! Me and Vinnie don’t know where our parents are! My mom and dad are somewhere on this plane, but we have no idea where. Oh well! Just as long as they’re on the plane!

Ooooh, it is breakfast, and I’m about to get it! Hey it looks good! I’m gonna eat it and then I’ll get back to you!

I ate breakfast! It was good. Really - I mean I’m not lying. Well, I’ve explained everything to you, so I’d better go. I’ll write to you from Arizona and California. I miss you!

Love,

Cara 

While this whole new blog business has made life rather exciting lately (I told you, a whole new level of nerdiness) one aspect of our life that has been scarily calm as of late is our little cinderblock house, and that’s because Cecilia is up north and will soon be headed to Camp Buffalino in Maine.

Camp Buffalino is not a real summer camp. Rather, it’s a phrase I’ve coined in my own mind to describe the wonders my dog will behold as she travels up to a house on the ocean to spend her summer with a rock band.

Buffalino, you see, is spending their summer in Boothbay Harbor, rocking hard, and then will be on tour down the east coast. As Vinnie is the drummer of this awesome band, I asked if he wouldn’t mind adding my dog to the cargo, especially since he’d already agreed to take the labradoodle, Cecilia’s bosom friend.

I knew leaving Cecilia up in D.C. this weekend, where Vinnie will pick her up, would make me sad, and it did. As she stared at me with sad eyes while I drove away, I couldn’t help but think she probably thought I was abandoning her, and that the feeling might remind her of the abandonment she’d experienced as a puppy, before she was brought to the animal shelter. Once back home in North Carolina I felt sorry for her, and for me, before I remembered that dogs don’t exactly experience complex emotions such as these, and that Cecilia was probably scratching herself on the kitchen floor awaiting her new owners, or whoever she thinks they are, and totally ready to explore some wooded areas. In fact, she probably wasn’t sad, whatever that means to a dog, for more than three or four seconds, if that.

Since I was so obsessed being depressed about leaving her, I didn’t realize what the lack of her presence would mean for our house. J, on several occasions, let slip that he was - oh, maybe not happy - but not too bummed that our lovely, 70-pounds-of-muscle-dog wasn’t around. “Oh, Cecilia’s not here. Maybe the bluebirds can peacefully lay their eggs and have babies without worrying about getting eaten in our backyard,” he’d say. Or, “Hey we don’t even have to put a sheet on the couch when we leave now, because it’s only Mina, and Mina’s really clean!” Stuff like that.

Now that it’s been a couple days, I do see what he’s saying. The house is cleaner, our work before leaving the house in the morning, less (not having to clear the coffee table of remote controls and cell phones on the off chance Cecilia might decide to revert to her younger, more mischeivous ways and eat one of them) and the house has assumed a sense of general calm. It’s almost unnatural. Even Mina, who is generally fired up, or even a little vicious, has become a sweet, quiet thing who sleeps all day long and hides under our bed in the morning, almost as if she’s trying to catch up on rest she misses out on when the presence of another dog means she’s constantly on an assault mission. I mean, what do you expect? Do you expect her to allow Cecilia to sit there and eat her bone WITHOUT a Miniature Pinscher/Pomerian Mix humping her back at an alarming rate? No.

I’m excited to see my wonderful, big dog later this summer, but must admit I am at least somewhat excited, too, for a month or so of easy dog walks (when they weigh ten pounds there is no question who is boss) and not being woken up at 6 a.m. when someone, at the height of their adolescence, sees a squirrel, and if she isn’t allowed to go get it, she is probably going to die, so she’d better lick your leg, and cry, oh, and breathe hot breath right in your face, until you wake up and all is well again.   

After a lot of help (read: He did it all for me) from my good friend Mike Swimm, I give you my new blog.

There’s still some work to be done. I want to change the look a little bit (I’m actually going to make Mike do it) and, obviously update the links and whatnot, but this is it. I decided that although Blogger has been great, I wanted to make something of my own.

Even though I’m still working on this project, I did want you guys to know that I’ve switched over to this url. Because after I told you all that I promised to write one post every weekday and then didn’t, some of you got vicious with me. You all - are very, very vicious. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Or want you, and every one you know, to read this, and then yell at me when I don’t write.