Christmas Eve.

First, a trip up to Connecticut, and now J and I are settled in the Rotondaro house, waiting for Santa, after a night of good food and drink with family friends. Because we are very lucky people, tomorrow morning will feel like our second Christmas this season, as we exchanged presents with the McDonough side before leaving.

Just so you know, J’s sister Bridget got me a year’s subscription to “US Weekly,” so we’ll see if I have time for this blog once I get that first issue.

But seriously, I am going to take a little break until the new year dawns. I’ll be back, and I’ll be back strong, with resolutions and perhaps some kind of “plan.” More likely, I’ll be spending as much time as possible at the gym. I’ve had a lot of cookies.

For those of you attending this year’s New Year’s Eve party at the Bay, I’ll see you there…for those of you who think you might want to come to New Year’s at the Bay, but need details, call or email me, and we’ll plan. And for the rest of you, may your holidays be merry and bright. I’ll be back in mere days with stories and pictures, ready for whatever is next, which just so happens to be me turning 29. No doubt that will include a good therapy session’s worth of my very own brand of neurosis. I hope you guys are looking forward to that. I certainly am.

Until 2007…

Yesterday, as I mentioned I would, I took our cat, Teddy, to the vet to get his ear checked out. Because his ears are fashioned in a very adorable, but very problematic, shape (folded over, like little tortellinis), he tends to get ear infections often. I’m supposed to clean his ears - get down in there and get everything out - regularly. But I don’t do this. If you want to chastise me for not doing this, that’s fine, but please, come over here and try it yourself. Come over to my house, get the cat, hold him in your lap, and try to stick something down in his ear, while he howls and displays his sharp talons, and then escapes from your lap before you’ve even gotten anywhere near his ear. You come over hear and try that and see if you wouldn’t rather just let him be, turn on the television, and call it a day.

I am generally on edge when I go to the vet, although I don’t really need to be as I now go to a good, sensible place, where no one yells at you, and although you never actually say it, you feel it might be alright to admit that, “No, I don’t brush my dog’s teeth, because why the hell would I do that?” At my vet’s office, no one ever tells me what I should and should not be doing. I feel they’d like to, but they don’t. I wonder if vets the world over have been trained recently in this practice - of realizing their customers don’t treat their pets like humans - because I remember taking our family dog and cat to the vet growing up, and my mother mercifully making fun of the veterinarians on the way home in the car for being too sensitive to the animal’s needs. “It’s a cat,” she’d say. “They seem to think it’s a PERSON.”

Yesterday I was particularly on edge, because not only was I running a little late, but I’d grabbed the cat carrier out of the car port to find - surprise, surprise - that in the, oh, two years or so since I’d last used it, it had become dirty. Really dirty. With spiderwebs clinging to the bottom and a rusty spring to hold it shut. But, since I was late, I got Teddy inside and was off. It didn’t really occur to me that I’d be embarrassed until I walked in the office door and was confronted by the ultra-cheerful techs in their brightly colored scrubs - at atmosphere so clean it almost didn’t seem right…shouldn’t I be taking these animals to a barn? With hay? And old shed to see a guy in overalls who really knows his animals because, well, he lives right amongst them? It was then, upon entering, that I thought about the cobwebs trailing along the floor, compliments of me and my cat carrier. I thought about my car with his dirty ear, rubbed raw by his relentless stratching. It was then that I almost turned around, ready to tell them I’d go ahead and call animal welfare on myself.

Unfortunately, the rusty carrier was the least of my worries. Over the next two hours Teddy, who had not one, but two ear infections, of differing sorts - one in each ear - was prodded and poked, given shots and cleaned up, while he screamed to the high heavens. In between takes he was his old friendly self, purring and chatting up the ladies, but the exam part was apparently too much for him to bear. I suppose because he was already in a lot of pain and this just caused him more. And caused me more. Because in addition to the ears, said the vet, Teddy has a heart murmur, which can be of some concern in older cats, as well as a mass on one side of his face. A mass that could be related to the ear infection and, in that case, would go away once he was treated, or a mass that could be a tumor, which would naturally be a far more difficult problem to solve. At one point she just sighed and said, “He has a lot of health problems,” and it was like she was saying “you’d better get ready,” and “you’d better get out your wallet” and “you’d better not skip his yearly exam ever again.”

As I sat, waiting for the vet to return to the room once she’d retreated to fetch Teddy’s ultra expensive medications (four total, which must be crushed in foot and placed in ear canals and trickily squirted into the mouth) I wasn’t thinking any of the normal things I think when I go to the vet, things like, “You must be crazy,” and “Yeah, he’s cute, let’s get on with it,” and the obvious, “Don’t give me that chicken-flavored toothpaste. I promise you, I’m not going to brush the animal’s teeth.” Instead I was thinking much more philosophically about why we do this. I sat, with this cat, purring and piercing my legs with his little claws, this cat who had infections galore and who didn’t smell too good because of it, and I didn’t feel sad or anything (as long as he’s still eating - which he is, plenty - and moving around, I have high hopes for the little guy) but I felt, I don’t know, worn out, perhaps, is the way to put it, and found myself thinking these somewhat awful things, like, “I didn’t even want a cat,” and then, over $200 later, after leaving the office, feeling even more resentful - not at the cat, who I really do like a lot - but maybe just at the entire system. This crazy scheme where we’ve made these wild animals house pets, creatures that we can diagnose with very specific, complicated health issues, ones you thought only applied to humans. That we’ve gotten ourselves into this situation where we have to ask ourselves horrible questions like, “Does my cat REALLY need an EKG?” - horrible both because cat EKGs even exist and because we’re forced to ask, when you really get down to it, how much we are going to pay to keep these things alive.

It only starts to really matter when they get old. When the docs suggest something called an “adolescent bloodwork panel” for Cecilia, I look at her, with her bright eyes and shiny coat and thumping tail and say, “No thanks.” But when they get old, and they need you, how many steps do you take to ensure they keep on living? And how long do they want to keep living, themselves. So you make what you believe is the best decision at the time, and you don’t spend too much time questioning why you chose to take this thing - this woodland creature - into your home.

I’m over analyzing the matter because, at this point, Teddy is fine. Great, even. His normal, cranky, loving self. When I was home today, wrapping presents, all three pets surrounded me, Cecilia, licking Mina’s head obsessively, her tail like a neverending drumbeat against the carpet and Mina, pretending she didn’t like all the attention from the other dog even though I could tell that she totally did, and Teddy, purring, constant purring that only gets louder when he’s touched by us, or even another animal (he and Cecilia have taken to sharing a bed from time to time) or when he’s eating, because that is his favorite time. Teddy, sitting in his little rusty carrier with the door open, because he loves it in there, which is definitely weird, but also cute. All three looking at me, like, “What’s next?” and (we never ask ourselves “why?” in moments like this) I felt very, very loved.

I realize I’ve been neglecting this blog and by proxy, the people who read it, who are, in fact, my favorite people, because of the good they do for my ego and, more importantly, because they, unlike my parents who, still, do not read, care to see what is going on in my sometimes very boring life.

I haven’t stopped writing recently because nothing’s going on but instead because too much is going on. Christmas shopping and then shopping again and then thinking about shopping and how I need to do more of it until I find myself stressed, frenzied, but you can’t give into that, because it’s Christmas, and everything is better at this time of year. And the thing is, as sarcastic as that sounds, it always ends up being true. J reminds me, over and over again, that “everything is awesome,” and once I take a step back and realize the triviality of what I’m worried about (and also, how much I have to be happy about), I come to my senses.

I’ve also been working more, and just doing more in general. There’s this false sense of urgency - I don’t know if anyone else feels it - that by 2007, well, I better be in pretty good shape in order to start the new year off right. Get the cat to the vet - the cat, who seems to have an ear infection, who I swore I’d never take to the vet again, because, I swear, having someone stick a Q-tip in his anus and then charge me $175, well, that doesn’t seem like it’s really worth it, you know?

Get the house all cleaned up because when we come back from the holiday and the parties and just potentially being messy and tired in general, I want to return to someplace clean.

Get my own body in order. After the recent hip debacle I decided to take myself to another doctor at UNC and am glad I did because the experience was completely different than my first, and in only good ways. Even in that I arrived early enough so as not to have to park illegally and run, crazily, to make my appointment on time, arrive sweaty and out of breath, my normal protocol for both doctor’s appointments and job interviews. And when I did arrive, on time, with a good book for the waiting room, calm and open-minded, the doctor listened to every word I said, decided I certainly did not need an MRI, examined me, diagnosed me and sent me to physical therapy. Physical therapy! Which I love because they’re going to try to make me better, and try to find out what, exactly is wrong, so that we can prevent it in the future. And my physical therapy office, located in always-quirky Carrboro, includes two dogs who spend their days there, and a constant stream of good music playing. Dogs!

So what I’m trying to say is I haven’t been writing because I’ve been busy, and no doubt you all have not been pining away for blog posts, as you’ve been busy too. It’s the nature of the season. And as much as it drives me crazy, I still long for it every year, am so excited for Christmas, which obviously means it is wonderful in ways more powerful than it is stressful, and anyway, when it does get stressful, you’re never too far from a drink or candy during this festive season, so it all works out alright.

I was out running errands today when I decided to stop at a nearby Panera Bread to pick up something to eat. While waiting, with many others, after placing my order, I noticed a guy, a kind of weird guy, a few people down from me making something with his receipt. Some kind of oragami, like an intricate airplane or a boat, really into it, awaiting his soup, or sandwich, and it was then that I decided I should maybe put more effort into pursuing a career that involves more lunches. Business lunches. Where I get to maybe put on something nice, and interact with people who have interesting ideas, because things like standing in line with people making oragami, to tell you the truth, are sort of starting to become the most entertaining part of my day.

In an effort to dodge the horror that is holiday shopping at the mall, J and I have opted to buy most of our gifts online this year. Besides the added price of shipping, and the constant fear that the other will peek at what’s come in the mail, prompting passionate reminders to one another (”Did I get a package today? I did? Don’t open it. NO! DONT OPEN IT! Yeah, maybe it’s for you. Maybe.”) the process is far superior to the other option. The throngs of anxious shoppers. The piercing headache that occurs after three or four hours and you still haven’t found the perfect item for Dad. The crowded parking lots. (I once, several Christmases ago, parked slightly askew, just barely edging over into the next spot, in a parking lot outside a shopping center - I had no choice, the cars on either side of me were all lopsided, as well - and when I returned after a typically stressful venture in the mall, found a note on my windsheild, written in shaky, hysterical-looking letters, asking me, “Who do you think you are taking up two spots in a crowded lot like this??? Next time you will find key marks up and down your car.” Yeah, that’s exactly what it said. Merry Christmas.)

Despite the new game plan, we did head to the mall last night, because there are some things that are just better to buy in stores, in person. Things like…oh, things for yourself for instance, let’s say. Like a new pair of shoes, that we found for J in Nordstrom. Or, like, some nice smelling soap, or new makeup. As much as I feel guilty for these little indulgences during the holiday season, I also sometimes think it’s the only way to get through it all. I adore the Christmas season, but the one thing I am always appalled by, year after year, is how the gift giving experience tends to make shopping, normally delightful, a little bit, you know, hellish. Makes you feel like maybe you should have put on more deodorant that morning.

And that’s why buying yourself presents, and maybe taking yourself out to dinner, that’s ok, right? Because if there is one thing I’m sure of, it’s that you can’t take care of other people until you can’t take care of yourself. I learned all about that as early as the sixth grade (in this class called “Decision Making,” that was very clearly a sex-ed class, but not called that because, I don’t know, maybe our parochial school thought using “sex” in the name of a class would cause actual sex to occur or something). It’s a simple matter of self esteem.

As I’ve mentioned before, the chair of Rosemont College’s Board of Trustees, Ronnie, made me very happy a while back when she mentioned to my parents that she’d somehow stumbled upon my blog and how she liked reading it, you know, probably assuming that they, as you’d assume loving parents would, read the thing. Which, as we’ve discussed, they don’t tend to do.

So imagine the outright joy I felt when my father informed me that at a recent Rosemont Board meeting, Ronnie told the entire group about my blog, even giving them the web address so that they might read, too.

What Ronnie may not know is that she is, currently, my best bet at any kind of fame, as no book publishers have yet recognized by potential and I’m relying entirely on word of mouth, and since she is doing such a great job notifying the public (and, can you believe, hasn’t even met me! confirmed that I’m an alright individual!) she has, in one fell swoop become not only my favorite reader, but possibly my favorite person in the world.

I apologize to the rest of you, if you wanted to be held in high regard or anything, but, I mean, start dropping the name of this website at parties, at conventions - to your poker buddies, whatever - and then maybe we can talk.

I was watching television the other day when I stumbled upon an episode of MTV’s “The Real World.” This season the show takes place in Denver and, following what seems to be a growing theme with this once-excellent series, boasts a house full of sexy young adults totally pumped about getting in bed with one another.

I don’t mean to knock modern culture, especially since doing so makes my being 28 seem not hip and mature-but-in-a-fun-way, but just, you know, kind of old and grumpy. But seriously, this is not a real world I’m interested in observing. Ok, ok, say I was forced to sit down and watch a few episodes, I’d probably get pretty into it, kind of like how I accidentally got into “Laguna Beach” that one day. Watching a little of the Denver season really got me thinking, though. Got me thinking about how our “Real World” generation - the generation who, like me, were in high school when the series began - got the best deal.

Remember the New York cast? The first New York cast, I mean, the ones who broke down the doors and invaded the production room at the end of the season, just to show MTV how rad they were? I used to watch that girl Becky sit outside, looking all alternative, talking to the camera about the situation in the house - and I’d think about how the world, the real world, was such a big, great, exciting place, and how one day I’d be part of it. An impressionable young 15-year-old looking forward to being an adult. That’s what the show meant to me.

I know somebody - maybe a current fan of the show - is probably going to refute this claim - that “The Real World” used to be a cool, original program that really delved into young people’s lives and young people’s issues, and now simply features horny youngsters who want to be movie stars, and who are sometimes kind of idiotic, as if, I don’t know, we’ve regressed slightly as a culture. Twenty-somethings who lay by the pool and wonder which cast mate is the “gay one.” Who play truth or dare on their first night in the house so they can make out on camera.

Remember Pedro? And Puck? (who, watch out, allegedly had some children) And this Morman girl?

Remember these guys for Christ’s sake? The Los Angeles crew dealt with racism AND sexual harassment if I’m not mistaken. And threw an aspiring country musician in the mix, who also, coincidentally, was a born-again Christian.

The 90s, especially early in the decade, was an interesting time. Nirvana and “Singles” and leggings worn with flannel shirts (that wasn’t just me, was it?) Not all of it was good. I admit I prefer current fashion trends, but I’m telling you, watching that show the other day had me yearning for my teenage years. Maybe “yearning” isn’t the best word, because, well, my eyebrows needed some plucking and, to tell the truth, I really like being in my late twenties. I guess what I mean to say is the watching show, believe it or not, made me realize how much I’ve enjoyed the ride, because suddenly here I am, judging modern culture like some, you know, adult, and then it hits me that that’s exactly what I am, and having role models - or whatever they were - like Becky and Julie and Judd, makes me proud to have been a teenager in the rockin’ 90s, when reality shows were making history and being socially conscious was hotter than making out with strangers.

This past Friday night I was out on Franklin Street having some drinks with friends, including our good friend Nate, who works in the same lab as J.

J wasn’t feeling well last week, and so stayed in on Friday, and I, therefore, got to hear a few things about my husband. For instance, Nate told me, that lab members had recently engaged in an interesting conversation about netti pots and their usefulness in draining the sinuses.

I’d heard of these netti pots before - on TV, and amongst hippie types - and I immediately got nervous. Really nervous.

Was my husband in on this conversation? Nate replied that he was, and that, naturally, he’d been totally into the idea. The idea of pouring warm water into one nostril and having it come out the other. It’s hard to explain why, but I just knew he would find this a fascinating principle.

So it was really no wonder - not that it diminished my disgust - when I returned home that evening and found this cute, yellow teapot, given to me by a charming, older potter who lives out in Chatham County, in our bathroom. I’d done a story on the guy for the newspaper last year.

“Hey,” I asked J, waking him up. “What’s up with the teapot in the bathroom.”

“It’s a netti pot,” he informed me. Since it was late, and he was sick, I decided not to get into it that night - to explan that, actually, it wasn’t a netti pot. It was a gift from an artist that I actually used to make tea. And when you use something like that to clean out your nostrils, it becomes less appealing for use making hot drinks. That you put in your mouth.

Instead, we talked about it the next day. J gave me full disclosure on the complexities of the netti pot, which was actually a teapot, and not only a teapot but my favorite teapot. He told me how when “you first do it, you sort of feel like you’re going to gag,” and how after you use it, “you blow your nose and tons, just tons, of snot comes out.”

I’m sick now, having caught what everyone else seems to have, even though I thought maybe I’d remain untouched by the winter cold this year, but amazingly, the netti (tea) pot isn’t yet appealing enough for me to use. Despite, as J informed me, the instant sinus clarity it allegedly provides. I’m all for natural remedies, really, but I prefer vitamins, honestly, and hot toddies. Things that go in and don’t come right back out. Things that don’t involve kitchenware.

The other day I was feeling annoyed. It might have been the fact that I was about to cover another lengthy town board meeting for the paper. It might have been the beginnings of holiday stress. I don’t know. But I did attack the problem full on, and not by lying around watching “Beverly Hills 90210″ reruns on Soap Net, which believe me, has become so comforting I’m a little concerned. I mean, they show two hours back to back. That’s TWO hours of your day. And I’m pretty sure there’s no good argument for how those two hours of television-watching are bettering your life.

What I did, instead, was head down to the gym, iPod nano in hand, got on the elliptical, put on the earphones and played some music - loud. I try not to listen to the thing at high volumes all the time (I do care about my hearing and retaining that sense) but when you need to block out the world and really get into your music, well, that - along with the exercise-induced endorphin rush - can really lift your spirits.

J got me the iPod for our one-year anniversary. He’d even uploaded all my music from iTunes so I could use it immediately. I went with the whole paper theme and got him a couple used books (one of which he already had) and a nice card. Guess who won the “better present” award?

I love my nano. I love its sleek design and the adorable carrying J got me. I love its weight in my hands. Mostly, though, I love it because it’s mine. I love my iPod because it plays my music, and hence, carries many memories. I hear songs that remind me of a night out when I was 22. I hear songs that remind me of my wedding, and this summer and some songs that force me to question my taste in music.

Because listening to my nano is always such a unique experience, drumming up thoughts and emotions I want to tell someone about (whether or not they want to hear it) I thought I’d follow the example of others, hit “shuffle” and write about 10 songs.

1. “The Swimming Song” by Loudon Wainwright III
When we got in the car to drive to Maine this summer, Jennifer put in a CD she’d made, and this was the first song. She told me it would be an anthem of sorts, about our adventure, our trip to Maine, our finally doing that great and crazy thing we always talked about. So it wasn’t living in a loft in NYC together after college, like we’d always planned. And it wasn’t driving cross country - another unrealized dream. But we, best friends who’ve known eachother since 6-years-old, we’re undoubtedly doing something in the same vein - taking some time to simply enjoy life, and, despite our doing the completely impractical and having no jobs upon our return to the real world, it was obviously the abosolutely right decision (”This summer I went swimming, this summer I might have drowned, but I held my breath and I kicked my feet and I moved my arms around, I moved my arms around.”)

2. “Sweet Marie” by Crooked Fingers
Crooked Fingers is a band I like because friends of ours like them and talked us into going to a show a few years ago at the Cat’s Cradle in Carrboro, the scene of all that is cool in the music world. In fact, I grew to love their music playing a burned album someone gave us over and over again. This song, “Sweet Marie” is by far my favorite. Their music has always seemed very moving to me, the lead singer’s raspy voice an urgent plea to the subject of each ballad, and in the case of this song, somehow both moving and subtly hilarious - “Maybe your new boy, he don’t see it that way. But tonight, I swear I’m gonna set that pussy bastard straight/ So you and I can meet now while your other love’s away, I now you would never cheat with anyone but me.”

3. “Life in a Nutshell” by the Barenaked Ladies
Whatever all you JMU people think since I issued that very mild statement that Guster wasn’t my favorite band, I do like some of the same music as you guys. Take the Barenaked Ladies for instance. I like them. And I liked them all the way back when I was 18-years-old. I was introduced to the Canadian band by my freshman year roommate, Erin, who was a big fan. She was from the Buffalo, NY area, where the Barenaked Ladies, apparently, have always been a hit. We listened to that live album “Rock Spectacle” a lot while sipping on illegal Miller Lites and mini-bottles of Jack Daniels , decorating the door to our dorm room with little pictures we’d create on Power Point, taking naps in the middle of the day and being very cool in general. Or something like cool.

4. “Am-A-Do” by Bob Marley
My ex-boyfriend Brian is a huge Bob Marley fan, and huge reggae fan in general. Not in a frat boy-let’s-have-a-keg-party-and-throw-”Legend”-on-the-stereo-way. He was a fan in an I’m-from-the-valley-in-California-and-once-smoked-pot-with-my-dad-at-a-music-festival-kind-of-way. So he knew all the old stuff, all the obscure stuff and, in my opinion, really good stuff. I like “Am-A-Do,” because Bob and the backup singers have a casual teasing/flirtatious thing going on, in which they (the singers) tell him to “do it to your bad self” after he informs them, “I’m a do you, too.” Marley replies, “Do it to my bad self? How nice of you to tell me,” all of them singing melodically to the relaxing reggae beat. This is good music. Reminiscent of trips to Jamaica (whether you’ve been there or not) and rum drinks.

5. “Gone for Good” by the Shins
“I find a fatal flaw in the logic of love, and go out of my head.” Steel guitar, highly emotionally charged male vocals in harmony. I’m in a stable, committed marriage, and this song still makes my heart hurt.

6. “What a Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers
I highly predict this part of the post is going to yield most of the (negative) comment traffic, but I’ll say it anyway: This is the best Doobie Brothers song by far as well as one of the best songs of all times. Michael McDonald is the epitome of the late 70s early 80s disco sound, and every time I hear him crooning I, once again, can’t believe he’s white. According to my mother, this song came out when I was 2-years-old and I’d dance every time it came on the radio. It was my favorite song, she said. With my diaper on, bottle in hand, I’d bend my little knees in time to the music. When I hear it now, I do the same thing.

7. “Jesus, Etc.” by Wilco
I know this sounds like a weird answer, but when asked what albums I’d take with me if stranded on a desert island, Wilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” is always on the list. It’s truly one of the few I can listen to time and time again, all the way through, completely into every song. “Jesus, Etc.” is my favorite. The song is complex, and I don’t feel I have adequate talent to explain, in writing, exactly how it makes me feel, so my advice is to listen to it right now, if you haven’t already. Be warned, I may be tempted to beat you if you disagree that it’s pretty much the greatest song of all times. There’s a violin, need I say more? Before moving away to Pennsylvania, my friend Sara and I, along with other friends, sat at the Wine Bar on Franklin St. singing parts of “Jesus, Etc.” (which I’d recently introduced to them) in our glorious voices. We were sad Sara was moving, and wanted to mark the occasion with an appropriately beautiful song (”Last cigarettes, all you can get, turning your orbit around.”) I’m pretty sure Jeff Tweedy would have been proud.

8. “I Want You Back” by the Jackson 5
100 percent impossible to listen to this song without dancing. Go put it on. Test my theory. If I come to your wedding and you don’t play “I Want You Back” by the Jackson 5, I am never coming to one of your weddings again.

9. “Ce’ Sempre Un Motivo” by Adriana Celentano
When J and I spent a couple weeks with my brother in Ferrera Italy two years ago, we’d hear this song every time we sat down in a bar for an espresso or glass of wine. I couldn’t get enough. Although I didn’t understand the words, I completely identified with the sentiment. It reminds me of donning our scarves and hats, walking down the main road in the town, stopping in cozy restaurants to eat the most delicious pizza we’d ever had. Taking train trips through the Italian countryside to Venice and Florence and Monselice. Natives riding their bikes everywhere. Little dogs in little sweaters. Campari. Nice leather shoes. Knowing enough of the language to order fizzy water and say “thank you.” The song was such a smash hit in Italy at the time that when hearing the song on the radio while riding home in a taxi one night, I got Vinnie to ask the cab driver if he knew who it was. He excitedly replied that he did, and held up the Adriano Celentano album. “Ce’ Sempre Un Motivo.” There’s always a reason.

10. “Someday” by the Strokes
This song reminds me of Max Bobbitt. It reminds me of parties, and of going out in Georgetown, and singing along in the car. It reminds me that I don’t care if The Strokes are cool or not anymore because, seriously, this is such a good song, and, it just so turns out, there is no better song to kick off the weekend.