Lately, nothing brings J and I as much joy as when we catch one of these commercials on TV. Yeah, yeah, make fun of us if you want, but watch the one called “Full Moon” (that’s our favorite) and then tell me it’s not the best thing ever.

“You’re not feeling it, huh?”

“That’s what I said.”

Dear Sirs and Madams,

As I write to you, masters of my world, day after day, I know it is important to keep a good perspective. I have my husband and family and friends. I have my health, and a roof over my head. I have life, sweet life, and I am on a journey - discovering my true potential as a writer, or who knows what else! What more could a person ask for?

As a younger adult I might have exclaimed, “Nothing!” and gotten on with my day. But at this stage of my professional career (which, by the way, is pretty much non-existent at the moment) I beg to differ. Not “nothing.” I could ask for a lot more.

For instance, I could ask that one of you, just one, write me back. Here are some examples of what you could say.

“Dear Mrs. McDonough,

Thank you very much for your recent essay submission. We found your personal wit and style clever and brilliant and would like to hire you as a full-time columnist. The pay is millions. When can you start?

Very Sincerely Yours,

[insert well-known current events mag title here]”

There’s one example. Seeing as I returned from my summer vacation over a month ago, however, and have yet to hear anything substantial from any of you, despite the fact that I’ve been writing what seems to me like a decent amount of emails and letters (none of which, by the way, seem desperate or unintelligent, because I’ve been studying how to write such queries in my “Writer’s Market” book) I would accept the following, as well - simply ensuring me you know I am alive, and although brilliant, perhaps not right for you.

“Dear Mrs. McDonough,

Thank you so much for your recent query letter and resume. Although your ideas were, undoubtedly, unique, creative and intriguing, we have decided they are not right for our publication. Your ideas are, in fact, Mrs. McDonough, too good for us. We suggest you submit to The New Yorker, The Times, The Post - only the best. We wish you good luck on what will obviously be an amazing and historic career.

Very Sincerely Yours,

[insert magazine or newspaper title here]”

That’s all I’m asking for, just an acknowledgment. I know you are busy putting together your issues and everything, but you don’t have time to send a tiny email? To call me up one afternoon, even to tell me you are 100 percent not interested? (which, by the way, would be crazy, because I’m pretty good)

My friends, (I don’t know why I’m even bothering to butter you up and call you “my friends” because, first of all, I don’t even know you, and secondly, friends would have contacted me by now) I’m getting to the point where I’d be happy with a flat out rejection - even an unkind correspondence. There’s only so much sitting at home talking to the dogs about what you should wear that day a person can take. Wait a second. Did I say sitting at home talking to the dogs? I meant sitting at home working on articles and scheduling interviews, in between reading chapters of great works of literature and philosophy.

“Dear Mrs. McDonough,

We didn’t like your story ideas. Where do you get off sending us half-baked personal commentaries that you think are ‘really funny?’ We at [insert publication title here] do not find a) stories about your husband’s birding habit b) stories about your minor health issues or c) stories about your father’s style and lack of technological proficiency, funny.

Please do not contact us again. Get a life.

[insert publication title here]”

You see, even if I were to receive a letter like the above, I’d at least have a spring board of sorts with which to spurn myself forward, working harder, to avoid another rejection.

Instead, I have nothing, but the option of sitting and waiting, delving deeper and deeper into my creative resources, that weren’t that deep to begin with, in order to put forth more work for your review. And even if I do push forward, ignoring the sustained silence from you, my judges, how do I know you are reviewing my hard work (or whatever came out when I sat down in front of the computer)? How do I know you aren’t using my letter as a coffee cup coaster in the morning while you, the editorial staff, all laugh about the little people and their little ideas, and then discuss getting Seymour Hersh to do your next feature?

That’s the thing. I don’t know. And so, like a blind, wounded soldier, I push onward. Typing as fast as my hard-working hands can type, waiting in vain for an answer. Taking breaks if and only if something really, really good is on television.

I have attached my resume to this letter and can provide writing samples if needed. If you are interested in finally contacting me, before I lose it, come over to your offices and give you a piece of my mind - and believe me, I know where your offices are because I’ve sent you mail, I don’t know if you’ve noticed - you can contact me by phone or email, any time (day or night, or even in the middle of the night, really, it’s ok if you wake me up).

Very Sincerely Yours,

Cara M. McDonough

As I mentioned a while ago, I’ve taken it upon myself to do a little reading during this transitional period. Since J and I finally cashed in on a Barnes and Noble gift certificate from our wedding, we both recently came home with a stack of books and giddily embarked upon several. The result has been my reading four books: “Heat,” by Bill Buford, “Cesar’s Way,” by Cesar Millan, “The Shape of Water,” one of the fabulous Italian mysteries by Andrea Camilleri, and then, of course, the one I like to tell people about, “Don Quixote.”

For example, someone asks, “Hey Cara, reading anything interesting?”

And I get to say, “Actually, I just started ‘Don Quixote,’” and I get to say it in a sort of modest and unassuming tone, like I just, you know, picked it up. Instead of saying, “I spent all morning reading that book by the dog whisperer guy, and I’m struggling through the analytic introduction to “Don Quixote,’” which is closer to the truth, as in, it is the truth.

The 24-page introduction to the novel, by scholar A.J. Close, is difficult enough that I have to dedicate my full attention to the cause, sitting out on the quiet porch, reading paragraphs over and over and summoning my age-old literary skills, the ones I used in college when I’d raise my hand boldly during English classes and suggest something somewhat intelligent about Yeats or Richard Wright.

After a little while though, I admit, sentences like this,

“The hero’s primordial motive is reader’s make-believe exaggerated to the point where the ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ has passed into total abandonment of it.” (Close, p. xix)

become almost comfortable again, the major problem being that when reading four books, including a book about dogs, it’s easier to pick up one of the, ah, less wordy, more modern works. And I haven’t even gotten to Cervantes yet. Cervantes great story that includes old-world spelling and multiple volumes and books. But because I value taking on literary adventures and challenging myself, I will. And also because I really, really like telling people I’m reading it and casually leaving it around the house, like, “Yeah, yeah, I watched two plus hours of the new lineup on ABC last night, sure, but look - Don Quixote. Yup. Page? Oh, I’m on page seven. But I just picked it up…”

“I don’t like it when people say how we’re ‘getting older.’ I mean, we’re obviously getting older.”

“Yeah. Plus, it doesn’t mean we have to get lame. Like, sure, I want to go to bed earlier sometimes, but that’s natural, and I like it.”

“Right, but I mean, there’s no point saying we’re getting older.”

“Right. It’s a fact.”

“Exactly. We are constantly getting older. If you haven’t figured that out by the time you’re, like, four, then, there’s something wrong.”

I don’t view myself some universal judge of mankind, and I’m certainly not knocking the Baldwins, or Jesus, or seemingly-bogus-online-ministries, but just what the hell does he think he’s up to? J and I have heard the newly devout Stephen on a couple talk shows recently and all I can do is lean my head back and groan and ask, “Are you serious?” (And by the way, is this site for real? Because not only do I spot a glaring spelling mistake, but also see that the young Baldwin enjoys “daydreaming about Heaven.” What? What?!)

On the other hand, to answer a question in the comments, I loved the Suri Cruise spread in Vanity Fair. I know it’s just a baby, and the public shouldn’t be so interested in celebrities and their personal lives, but it’s a famous baby and at this point in my life I’m not going to try and give up celebrity gossip. Anyway, I picked up Cervante’s Don Quixote the other day and have started reading to better my intellect, so I deserve the gossip magazines.

Finally, I’m sure you guys have seen the Head On commercial and I hope you have also seen the newest version, where a man appears at the corner of the screen mocking the catch phrase, “apply directly to the forehead,” and explaining just how annoying the ad is, but that the product is amazing. We love it. Not that “Head On,” has anything to do with celebrities, but it is gaining it’s fair share of fame. You can watch the original commercial here, although I’m not sure why you’d want to do that.

A few days ago we noticed that our hot water heater which had, for a little while, been leaking in a sort of unnoticeable-most-of-the-time way, simply leaving tiny puddles on the shelf above the dryer, began leaking in a the-rug-is-soaked-and-damnit-I-got-my-socks-all-wet kind of way and so we had to take action. Since the problem got bad over the weekend when service providers in Chapel Hill take a break, and we decided that the issue didn’t deserve an “emergency” call to the emergency number because, first of all, our basement (we don’t even have a basement) wasn’t flooded or anything like that, and secondly, J came up with a solution for the time being.

First he put a towel around the base of the heater and draped a corner of the material over the shelf. He put a tupperware container on top of the dryer and under the towel, thus, when the towel became saturated, the water would drip down to the corner hanging over the shelf and into the tupperware. When the tupperware got full, we’d dump it and replace the sopping towel with a dry one.

The obvious problem was that the tupperware wasn’t an ample enough vessel for extended duty. I mean, we didn’t want to be waking up every couple of hours to dump this thing and if left unattended there would be a small flood (I, admittedly, didn’t really care either way if you want to know the truth - if the rug got really wet over the course of a few days before the plumber could get there, well, it would dry, right? This is sometimes a crucial difference between J and I in the face of household mini-emergencies - I can be impatient and willing to sacrifice important material features, like, say, the rug, while J enjoys a good challenge, especially when it means protecting items from being destroyed, and especially when it means coming up with complex and brilliant plans, as illustrated below).

So when the boy came running from the back room saying, loudly, “Come here. Come here! I rigged something!” I figured I was in for a treat, basically the kind of treat that mean I wasn’t going to have to carry sodden towels around the house anymore, at least for a few hours. But J was beyond exited, for using a pink dustpan and an old trashcan, he’d thought up something brilliant and he couldn’t wait to show me.

The water dripped from the towel into the dustpan, delicately balanced on the dryer, down the dustpan handle and into the large, plastic trashcan and we wouldn’t have to tend to it for a long, long time, if ever. I’m not much for logic and physics or coming up with solutions to problems that don’t involve calling and paying an expert, but I must say, it was sort of sad when the plumbing guy showed up today to fix the leak and we had to dismantle the thing. It had been a nice little foray into surviving with only the means available to us. Our own “Swiss Family Robinson.” Of course, I had nothing to do with it besides being mildly supportive when the invention was unvailed, but give me an empty pantry except for a box of spaghetti and a few bottles of dried herbs and I can make a decent dinner, something a person could live on at the very minimum, and that’s called teamwork, and utilizing our strengths, we thrive.

I’ve had time on my hands before. Specific time in specific places that maybe I didn’t make the very, very most of. I would never say I regret how I spent my time. That’s too harsh a word because I don’t regret any of it. I don’t regret, for instance, spending many a weekday evening in the pub with my friends when I spent a semester abroad in London, rather than touring castles. I don’t regret getting in trouble with my friend Mark for talking through classes in high school, rather than, you know, actually learning chemistry, which might have gotten me a better grade point average and so on and so on. I don’t regret all that homemade soap I made, or all the episodes of “Sex and the City” I watched, last time I was unemployed, because, first of all, it’s a fun story to tell, and second, sometimes downtime - a lot of it - gets you exactly where you need to be after all.

Now I’ve got time on my hands again and am beginning to fill in the gaps. With volunteering and possible part-time writing work on the horizon, I’m on the verge of feeling better about my schedule, although I’ll need a lot more going on before I feel busy, and therefore, truly productive again.

But before I go rushing off this way and that I thought it might be good to take a step back and do a few of the things I’ve always thought might be fun. The things we categorize as “things we should really do,” but never do. Since money is a factor, I’m not talking about a trip to Paris, which J and I should really do, but things like visiting a state park I’ve never seen before, or checking out a class at UNC, just for kicks. Going to the planetarium for a midday show. Touring the botanical gardens. Seeing a new beach or mountain town. Viewing an art exhibit - maybe something I’m not even, initially, that interested in. Attempting to spot a Painted Bunting before my husband does, and then play it off like I really wasn’t that impressed by it, just to get to him a little.

Just kidding about that last one. Sort of.

I thought that perhaps in the interest of involving my readers, which I’ve tried to do before regularly, and somewhat unsuccessfully (the essay contest, and haikus, both items I should bring back, I think) I would ask all of you to provide me with a weekly dare. I fear the word “dare” might have some of you excited that you can tell me to walk down Franklin St. naked, singing, because, I told you to dare me so COME ON, JUST DO IT! But that’s not what I’m getting at. My thought is that you guys might have some great ideas, or dares, for a girl with a lot of time on her hands, and I promise, in return, to provide pictures and a riveting, or at least explanatory, review of my adventure.

I’m thinking along the lines of worthwhile activities that will help me learn more about the world, or help me meet some interesting people and see some interesting places, rather than acts that will get me attention. I will not, in the course of my dares, 1) do anything solely to get attention 2) hurt anyone’s feelings 3) compromise my morals or 4) go into the woods on my own, or do anything involving graveyards or, basically, anything that could be the first scene of a horror movie.

I’m putting myself in your hands. Give me some good ideas in the comments, and I promise to follow through, and tell you all about it.

I spoke too soon, it turns out, when in comments a few posts back I reported that I had successfully stopped getting urinary tract infections and thus regularly turning into a mad and uncontrollable beast who lies on the couch complaining and demanding drugs while at the same time bemoaning the fact that I have to take them. Because, you see, early this week I felt the familiar pain rise up again out of a dark and forgotten place. I thought I’d never feel it again, but that’s ridiculous, is the thing.

I’m just…prone…and I got another urinary tract infection and went to my regular doctor, who confirmed my fears and gave me the proper medicine to get rid of the problem, and assured me that if I was going to get them, I might as well get them one or two times a year and not every other second, and since I hadn’t had one since five or six months prior, well, at least I was on the right track, right? I agreed. If I can’t knock them completely, at least a brief respite between each would be nice, and if I can reduce the number through my brilliant hydration-and-cranberry-pills-plan, then good for me.

So instead of going on an extended self-loathing binge, the kind where I sit J down on the couch and, over the course of 40 minutes, involve him in a philosophical debate regarding my condition, I only involved him in a minor one. He, being a scientist, explained, for the 578th time, “Cara, this is an infection. You go to the doctor, you get rid of it. End of story.” And then I usually say, “Yeah, but the infection and course of antibiotics affects me deep in my soul, in the very emotional part of my being that says I’m a good person. That I am of sound body.” After a while I come around and do what the doctor says and I’m better. You guys know. Because I’ve told you about it before. Many times.

This time, of course, having so successfully avoided this pain for so many months, and because I am pretty much crazy, really really crazy, on my last day of the meds, feeling ever so slightly that maybe the mega dose did not completely wipe out my symptoms completely, and thinking that I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to get rid of this thing entirely, I decided that I needed to go back to the doctor and make sure, absolute sure, it was gone. And that’s what I did today. Lucky for him, it was a new doctor, a very nice one, one I hadn’t seen before in my casing the joint on a regular basis, and therefore he didn’t skip right to the problem, like my normal guy does, knowing how to appease me and get me out of there in a semi-reasonable amount of time, but proceeded to ask me questions, the normal questions you’d ask a normal person who was actually sick, like what my symptoms felt like, and when I’d taken my last dose of Cipro and, the kicker, if I thought the problem could be related to anything else, like, say, my being a total nutcase. Which he didn’t ask, obviously, and so I had to explain to him as he sat, bewildered, in the chair. “You see, when I get any pain that could be referred to as ‘anywhere near’ the region we’re talking about here, I become, like, neurotic urinary-tract girl, and everything takes on significantly more weight than it normally does, so my still feeling symptomatic? That could be due to, like, my having had about ten thousand gallons of water over the past couple of days. Surely that would make a person feel like they have to pee all the time, which is how I’m feeling. So I think I just need to know if the infection is gone (and it turned out it was), because, to be totally honest, I feel completely fine right now.”

“That happens a lot,” said the good-natured doctor. “People make an appointment and then come to the doctor, and they feel better, and it turns out nothing is wrong.”

“Yeah,” I replied, sheepish. “Yeah, I would imagine that, ah, that happens to people a lot.”

Today I indulged myself in a little downward spiral of sorts. First I got the Vanity Fair with the Suri Cruise spread, so naturally I spent a while on the couch with that. When I didn’t know what to do next, I took a bath and after that I couldn’t quite figure out any reason to get dressed because I just didn’t do a very good job of getting down to business today. So I sat down, in my towel, in front of the computer and proceeded to chat online with several friends as well as browse MySpace and write emails for a good while - well over an hour - well over the time I normally allow myself to do that. I wrote my friend Carissa an email, explaining what I’d been up to, that I hadn’t been very productive today at all, and that I better stop and she wrote me back:

“I think you are being totally productive because you are nurturing many friendships at once which is more important in life than anything else. Without friends, whats the point??”