This morning was the court date for a speeding ticket I received a few months ago and despite the fact that I’ve dealt with a good number of vehicular incidents over the years, I was kind of nervous about it. Nervous enough that I had some trouble sleeping last night. I’m not sure why it got to me. I had to go to court for a reckless driving ticket (85 mph in a 55 zone, whoops) that I got in Virginia a couple years ago and was forced to stand up before the judge who punished me with a $250 fine and suspended my license for a month, so I don’t know, maybe I just didn’t want to deal with that again.

Because of that experience and words of caution from friends (”Hire a lawyer!”) I did put some thought into how I was going to handle this whole traffic court appearance. I ruled out hiring a lawyer although I had my pick. About a week after my ticket - which, by the way, was for going 56 mph in a 35 zone on a downhill slope when I really had to use the bathroom - I got many, many letters in the mail from a myriad of lawyers who wanted to represent me. They wanted to save me from the fate of higher insurance rates and a lifetime of regret, stuff like that, but I - and I know this sounds rather goody-two-shoes of me - felt I had to deal with what I’d done without a tricky lawyer standing up there making up stuff to get me out of trouble. I mean, sure, everybody else was going JUST AS FAST if not faster than me when I got caught, but I’m not above paying the price when I’ve done something wrong.

I mean, for the most part.

Ok, so I guess what I mean is that I’m not above facing the situation on my own. But I’m also not above trying to get out of stuff by being cute and endearing. And really, it’s funny that I even try anymore because this never, ever works for me.

I remember this one time my freshman in college we snuck my friend Aaron, who was visiting for the weekend, in through a ground floor window of our dorm. We had to because BU had ludicrous rules about visitors. You could have visitors who didn’t live in the dorm but they either had to have a study pass (and even then had to leave by 2 a.m.) or their visit had to be approved by dorm supervisors many days in advance of their arrival. What I’m saying is they weren’t Nazis but almost. And since I hadn’t gotten Aaron’s visit approved by the necessary date, we had to sneak him in the window. And somehow someone in charge found out, and I had to report to the downstairs office of this random man who apparently was “in charge,” although honestly, if he was so omnipresent where was he when those guys threw a hookah in their trash can and caused a small fire, hmm?

Anyway, the point of the story is that I remember trying to weasel my way out of the situation not by formulating a grand scheme or by declaring the whole thing an unfair accusation but by wearing a pink shirt and trying to look really, really innocent, which isn’t hard when you look like I do and you are very small, etc. In the end I didn’t get in too much trouble, but it wasn’t because of how I looked or acted but because lots of people were getting in the dorm through lots of windows and this one incident really didn’t worry the higher-ups that much. Maybe I got put on some sort of probation or something, I don’t remember…it was college. And probably by the next week we were sneaking beers out of Star Market in our duffel bags during a multi-person operation that included looking out for the cops and somehow getting our booty past the front desk guard without question. Basically, I had bigger things to worry about.

Another time I remember getting a speeding ticket somewhere in rural Virginia (not the 85 in a 55 I talked about earlier…um, another one) and when the cop pulled me over he noticed the banjo sitting in my back seat. It was J’s Christmas present to me that year and he’d given it to me the night before. The cop, it just so happened, played banjo and so we started talking and he started telling stories and I was laughing and being generally charming and in my head I’m thinking, “YES I AM TOTALLY GETTING OUT OF THIS TICKET,” and then he paused, handed me the ticket and went on his way.

So I suppose I should have realized by now that how innocent you look or the cheerful banter you offer doesn’t always sway the people you’re in trouble with and that, really, is why lawyers exist. That, and justice and all. But I still opted not to use one and this morning upon getting dressed even asked J to look at what I was wearing and did I look like someone who he might let get out of a ticket? Because we never learn, do we?

It turned out it really didn’t matter. Orange County’s traffic court system is remarkably efficient. After I stood in line for mere minutes my name was called and the District Attorney informed me that he could either lower my ticket to only 9 mph above the limit or I could complete a traffic education course and lower the offense even further. I could even take the course online. I tried to reason with him for a few minutes, attempting to get him to tell me what he would do, what was the best option…? He informed me he really couldn’t give advice, could only tell me my choices, and I opted for traffic school. After all, if I’m really interested in paying for my mistakes, I figured this would be the way to do it. Getting out of a ticket, but not really. Not having to pay a huge fine, but instead having to take an annoying test on things I learned when I was 16 and just getting my license. This is what you do when you make mistakes. You pay the price. Or ok, maybe you wear a pink shirt or whatever tactic you choose to try and look innocent and get out of it, so what? Either way, you learn, you know, at least not to make that specific mistake again.

This weekend J and I traveled to Atlanta and when driving back yesterday decided to stop and pick up some snacks, use the restroom and stretch our legs. We picked a gas station off the highway, somewhere in South Carolina I think, somewhere relatively far away from any major metropolitan areas, and were pleased to find, upon entering, several guys who worked there chatting about this and that, and it just so happened that one of them didn’t, you know, seem to have that many teeth. The other, a young man, who by his own proclamation had held jobs all over the place (including Henderson, North Carolina) and therefore knew his stuff, who told his friends that a recent monster truck rally had attracted thousands. He then proceeded to make fun of those who’d attended, saying that those people tend to be rednecks, “I mean, if you go one of them things, you’re bound to be a redneck,” he said. While ringing up our stuff one of his buddies said something in response, and our friend, who didn’t hear him, looked over and asked “do what?” And I’m not even sure you guys who don’t live in the south know what I mean here, but he said “do what” like some southerners sometimes do to ask, “excuse me” or “come again” or what have you, and I just think that maybe people who use “do what” in this manner, just maybe should not be judges of who is, and who is not, a redneck.

Because it’s been a stressful week and I a) can’t muster the energy to write anything worth you all reading and b) am totally immature, I thought I’d post these photos from our good friends’ Sam and Debbie’s wedding last weekend in Virginia.

Hey, look at Joe, Tom and Justin, they’re so funny - WAIT A SECOND. Wait just one second. Is that a circa 1970s fully nude woman painted on the wall there? Yes, it is.

After the beautiful wedding ceremony, we went to the reception, which was a blast, at Clyde’s restaurant in Tyson’s Corner where these pictures were taken. I’m all for nudes - who isn’t? - but these were pretty intense. We kept looking around at the other people in attendance who didn’t seem to notice the murals (or at least pretended not to), waiting for them to catch on, like, “HEY GUYS! NAKED PEOPLE! EVERYWHERE!”

And also, taking close-ups of the wall.

I truly apologize to those of you who read this site for the morality and intellect and so on, although I can’t imagine there are many of you who do. I also apologize to anybody who reads this blog because you know my mom, especially if you are a nun. Also, I’m sorry to any kids whose parents are mad at you because they came into your room and saw you looking at this:

Just explain that the pictures are the result of a group of normally classy friends in their upper 20s who had a few cocktails at at wedding reception and just so happened to do so in a room full of naked-people murals, and that it’s not your fault.

I had a day off of sorts yesterday. Only I didn’t mean to have a day off. That is, I didn’t take the day off on purpose, as we so rarely do that - admit that it might be nice to take a break from our supposedly very crucial work and other commitments and get out of the office or house for a while.

My regular vet had recently suggested that Teddy, our cat, be seen at the NC State Veterinary School, due to the fact that he appeared to need x-rays, and other expensive procedures and that it would probably be cheaper to go out to Raleigh and have it all done there. So they sent over his records, and I made an appointment.

I had mixed emotions about taking him. I mean, I was all for getting my cat, who is a very nice, good and cute cat, everything he needed, but the thing was that during initial discussions regarding my taking him to the vet school, there’d been mention of possible heart disease, and also mention of possibly having them perform an EKG, and you see, that would be, if my calculations are correct, an EKG, on a cat. You know, a cat EKG, and I generally make fun of people who do things like take their cat to get an EKG, and furthermore, because of the possibility of heart disease, I wasn’t only taking Teddy to the NC State Veterinary School, I was taking Teddy to the Cardiology Department at the NC State Veterinary School, which in essence meant I was taking my cat to a cardiologist. And that seemed kind of a little much.

Compounding my conflicted feelings on the whole matter was the fact that I (naturally) got to my appointment a little late, and upon arriving at the enormous campus, promptly went to the wrong building. I used the F word a lot. I used it when I opened my car door into the car beside me in the parking lot (thankfully not leaving a mark). When my shoe came untied. When the hefty cat carrier, carrying my cat with possible heart disease, bumped into my shins (700 times). When I found out I’d gone to the wrong building and when I tripped on my still untied shoelace heading up to the right building. When I couldn’t get the door of said building open because I had the cat in one hand and the gigantic but very fashionable bag I’d gotten for Christmas in the other.

After half an hour in the waiting room - which, by the way, is comparable if not more dramatic than an emergency room for humans (people crying, tiny dogs all wrapped up in plush towels, individuals sitting on the edge of their seats just dying for an update - “But doctor, we’ve been waiting for hours! How is Shadow doing?” ) it was our turn, and we were greeted by a very friendly fourth-year vet school student and a very friendly veterinarian. They checked out the cat, asked me a lot of questions, and then told me I could come back at the end of the day to pick him up. They said they’d call when he was ready.

I hadn’t anticipated having the afternoon off, and dreaded the thought of driving the half hour back to Chapel Hill only to come back a few hours later, and afterwards head immediately back home. So I decided to stick around and headed into Raleigh to see the sites.

Alright, “sites” may be a bit generous, but I do like it there. I lived in Raleigh for a few years when I first moved down here right after college and it’s changed a lot since then so every time I visit there’s a new restaurant or coffee shop or store to check out.

I spent the first part of my afternoon worrying that I should have, somehow, been working and that I didn’t deserve the break. I quickly realized I was being an idiot. I’m a firm believer in getting out there and seeing the world once in a while, but it’s easy to forget to do. It’s easy to (falsely) believe that the results you’ll get from doing some kind of work, behind a computer, desk, at home or in the office, will yield more beneficial results.

Plus, I hadn’t been on a walk - just a walk for the hell of it - in ages, and it was the perfect day for it. Cold enough for my coat and scarf, but not the bitter cold that drives residents of northern climates indoors all day. I walked down Fayetteville St. to the state capitol building. I saw men and women in suits having lunch. I saw half a dozen people protesting the death penalty. I saw newly renovated historic buildings. I saw shopkeepers taking smoke breaks. And when I’d seen enough I got in my car and headed to the NC Museum of Art where I stood around and looked at all the paintings I’ve seen there many times before, trying to remember which of the modern American abstract artists J likes the best, taking some extra time to study my favorite 19th century painters, and forcing myself to look at the European religious art one more time even though I sometimes feel I’ve seen enough of that stuff to last a lifetime.

Afterwards I had coffee at a place I loved when I’d lived in Raleigh, just idly reading the paper and observing the others drinking coffee that afternoon, which included a high school girl all in black who’d just taken up knitting and a southern gentleman in a bow tie.

I drove over to an outdoor shopping center afterwards, where there was a sale at one of my favorite stores, so I dug through boxes of normally high-priced shirts and skirts, tried on a few things, and bought one, and it was in the parking lot outside the store, where I was happily wielding my neon yellow and pink shopping bag with an adorable striped skirt inside when the vet called to tell me that yes, Teddy did have a heart murmur, but it didn’t really matter because he also had cancer - cancer spreading from his throat down his esophagus to his lungs, and that there were various treatments we could try, from least aggressive to most aggressive, but it would really only change the final outcome to be between weeks and months because no matter what we did, it wouldn’t cure him. She said I could come get him and think about it, and call her back the next day. So I got in my car and immediately began crying, which is funny, because honestly, I’m always one of those people who says I’m not a “cat person” and I’ve only had this particular cat for a few years, just took him home from the shelter because he was older and hadn’t yet been adopted, but it turns out none of that matters. I was still very sad.

When I was seated in the waiting room yet again - Teddy’s paperwork was being written up - this family came in with their dog, a big brown lab, who had a nosebleed and they couldn’t figure out why. And they weren’t annoying, or treating their pet like a human, or being mean to anyone or acting like the world was going to end. They were really great, actually, a mom and her two kids, with this huge dog dragging them around by it’s leash. They just wanted to help their dog out because they loved him, and he was part of their family. The mom smiled at me over her styrofoam cup of coffee as she listened to her children giving each other a hard time, as siblings will do, and it really made me feel much better. I’m not sure why, maybe by just reminding me that life in general is important - life that’s happening out on the streets of where you live, life with your family and yes, life that exists in the waiting room of veterinary offices.

I was soon called back to talk to the doctor about what we need to do next, then I took the cat - darling “Teddy McDonough” as he’s called on a myriad of medicine bottles - home.

As you know, my father is rarely without his Blackberry, even, I strongly believe, sometimes uses it while driving. I never imagined the day I’d receive emails from my father. While the emails I receive, and have received for some time, from my mother, were expected (surely a modern business woman would pick up on email and use it as an effective tool) and are normal…readable…the emails from my father were unexpected (surely a man using a 10-year-old word processor in the 1990s and still, really, most comfortable with a typewriter, wouldn’t get into electronic correspondence) and are, you know, a little more difficult to decipher.

For instance, this one I got from my dad while he was in New Orleans recently, at the Cafe Du Monde, where they make great coffee and “beignets.” I’d asked him to pick some of each for me:

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Date: Dec 29, 2006 11:39 AM
Subject:

Am at cade du. Mone bout to have coffee and beigbants.
I will also purchase coffe and mix to go and t shirts. Anything else?

Some friends suggested maybe he was picking up on the local, Cajun dialect. But I don’t know. I think maybe he’s just not very careful when he types. Example number two, sent by Blackberry while they were on a recent trip to California:

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough, Vinnie Rotondaro, Justin McDonough
Date: Jan 20, 2007 1:58 PM
Subject: MOM AND DAD OFF TO RODEO DRIVE.

IN OUR CASUAL SHIRT LEAVES.

WE ARE NOT CONMING BACK TO THE COLD WE ARE STAYING.

YOU WON’T FINS US

The emails have become acceptable fodder for use when we want to make fun of my father. Kind of like the time he taped himself for an entire day while driving in his BMW. I mean, if he’s going to give us the material, what are we supposed to do? Ignore it? Impossible. In our family, this is simply something that happens - and to all of us, really. Like when we get out Vinnie’s fat pictures. Or talk for the hundreth time about how my parents took me out to a really nice dinner when I turned 16, and I, simply because of my hormonal teenage impulses started crying at the table for no reason - no reason at all, or when we mention the fact that my mother can turn into a beast, sort of, when she doesn’t get her way, like the time we were at this really, really cute outdoor restaurant somewhere and the kindly waiter was informing us they didn’t have a couple menu items and she roared, “WELL, WHAT DO YOU HAVE?” and we all looked away as if to explain, “Listen. She gets like this. The rest of us are nice, I swear.” It’s what we do from time to time.

But my father, he probably gets the worst of it. Honestly though, can you blame us?

Needless to say, J’s jumped on the bandwagon.

From: Justin McDonough
To: Cara Rotondaro
Date: Jan 22, 2007 1:25 PM
Subject: IN THE LARB

CARA
MONS EETS SOM DINNNERS TONIG?
DO YU HOVE A METING?
LOVE HUSBIND

I was doing some stretches today at the Y in the little hallway with the exercise mats and such, where pretty much everyone goes to stretch (and some people make really weird noises when doing so, thus making me feel sort of uncomfortable as it is such a small space, after all) and I noticed two middle-aged women, decked out in really comfortable-looking exercise clothes - cute, fitted (but not too tight to be considered over the top) running pants and tank tops - and they were doing what looked like yoga moves, you know, really breathing and getting in touch with their bodies, while at the same time having this incredibly meaningful conversation about how hard it is when one someone dies, and how helpful bereavement groups can be, and how you really need a support system, etc. I got the feeling that one woman’s husband had just lost a parent, and they were having this deep heart to heart about it, talking in low, soothing voices, and when one got up to leave I heard her say to her friend “If you need anything - anything - don’t hesitate to call.”

Having lost that conversation to listen in on, I checked out the rest of the crew to see if anyone was doing anything noteworthy, and noticed, over on the other side of the hall, on his back, an older gentleman, who had, in what I’m sure he deemed an absolutle stroke of genius, removed his leather belt from his pants and was using it to lasso and pull his extended legs back towards his body to attain the ultimate stretch.

I logged into my MySpace account today (because yeah, I’m 29 and have a MySpace account) to find that Jennifer has posted a picture on my page. But not just any picture. This picture:

I know, I know, so many questions. Like, What is going on here? How did two awkward teens score a photo with such a sexy beast? And whose hair is more awesome, Cara’s or Fabio’s? (I think I win).

The simple answer is that back in day day my father was director of the National Italian American Foundation and their major fundraiser was an annual dinner held in D.C. Many Italian American celebrities and politicians attended over the years and I got to meet a lot of them, since my dad was in with the security guys. I met people like Perry Como and Debbie Gibson (that’s right, she’s Italian American) and Jon Bon Jovi - and if you think this picture with Fabio is a rather embarassing relic of my adolescent years, you should see the picture I have of me and Bon Jovi. Jesus Christ. Luckily for me, I’m not going to show it to you.

Jennifer and I attended a few of these and had many adventures, that got more age-appropriate over the years. For instance, when we were 14 or so, like in the picture above, we tried to score as many autographs as possible. We once, out of sheer good fortune (and because we were smaller than regular sized adults and could push our way in) rode the elevator with Danny DeVito, Rhea Perlman and Dom DeLuise.

When we were a little older, we waited until everyone had left the banquet room, then went from table to table taking the mini bottles of Sambuca and other goody bag loot attendees had left behind.

Meeting Fabio, though, is probably the best story I got out of all the dinners I attended. And judging from the look on his face, it was one of the best moments of his life, too.

Vinnie took some great pictures of Mina doing some of her favorite things - eating Christmas cookies and baring her teeth - over the holidays, that I thought it would share. After all, nothing makes people happier than a small, angry, hungry dog.

I just hope everyone has caught “I Love New York,” the new series on VH1, featuring Flavor Flav’s most notorious jilted lover from his very own bachelor-esque reality series, “The Flavor of Love.”

This show is pretty much the same storyline, except obviously in this one, it’s a girl, New York, who likes to chain smoke and yell and wear glittery eye shadow and low cut metallic tops, and (bonus points!) her mom, who likes to do the same things, who are queens of the castle, working hard to pick New York’s life partner from a lineup of charming young men, who are nicknamed things like “T-bone” and “Pootie.”

I just hope you all are watching and truly enjoying as I am. If this show isn’t classy, I don’t know what is.