Despite the fact that we are living a somewhat schedule-free life out here, Monday is still, well, Monday, and I woke up today in a particularly bad mood. I know. Ridiculous! Here I am in one of my favorite spots on Earth, I’ve got time to relax and am surrounded by people I love, and I’m in a bad mood.

I tend to get pretty down on myself when this happens (of course, making the mood worse). I’m an incredibly fortunate person and so I know I need to put things in perspective.

My mood stemmed from the fact that a few projects I’d been working on just ended and I was a little bored, plus the fact that searching for jobs up north wasn’t yielding anything worthwhile and then, after a weekend hanging out with friends and family we were once again alone at the house. And if I know anything about myself, it’s that I need to be around people on regular basis. It’s good for my soul. It’s simply my personality.

Then, naturally, I started thinking about all the people we know in North Carolina and how we don’t live there anymore, and how I need a career and how searching for a place to live is really overwhelming and before I knew it I wanted to get back into bed and stay there all day.

Yeah, you don’t need to tell me - the complaints of someone who has a really great life and should shut it, I know. I totally know.

This was a totally self-absorbed and pointless bad mood and I knew it. The kind where you start thinking you’re no good at anything and then realize how unbelievably stupid that is to think because, Jesus, of course I’m good at things! I’m no rocket scientist but I can hold down a job, for one. And even better, I can do well at that job. I’ve got skills. I can write stories. That are fit to be printed! In newspapers! For the public to read! So there’s no need to get all mopey.

Even though I know all that, I knew how silly I was being, I guess there is something to say for being in a bad mood - and working through that bad mood - just for the sake of it. I mean, I’m allowed, just like everybody else, to be angry or sad or pessimistic. In fact, some really nice things sometimes come out of the need to shake a bad mood. Like long baths. And hot tea. And buying new shoes.

The other good news is that another thing I just so happen to be good at is getting over it - and when I’m in the worst of my doldrums (which, frankly, are rare, I tend to be a rather - although I hope not annoyingly so - cheerful person) I know, at least, that whatever the problem is, the mood probably won’t last long.

Today, because I didn’t want to take it all out on my husband who was doing actual, real, hard work upstairs at the computer, I decided to go for a drive, maybe get some coffee at the Starbucks that’s over near Annapolis and just calm down and collect my thoughts. Maybe make up a “to do” list, which inevitably makes me feel better. Maybe list some places I could look for work, and jot down some notes about how to schedule my time better while we’re in this sort-of vacation mode.

While I was driving, going over it all, I started thinking about how I’d communicate my feelings if I were writing them down. I do this a lot in all kinds of situations, and I don’t know if that’s because I’m weird or if that’s just what everybody does. If filmmakers view their lives in film form, if company managers think about how they’d manage their life problems in the office.

Because I write, I sometimes think as though I were writing. That’s one of the primary reasons I like having a blog. It gives me an output for the written thoughts constantly zooming around in my head. And the fact that there are a bunch of you willing to read it? That makes it a million times better.

In fact, that’s what I started thinking about on my drive to Starbuck’s. How people - some of whom I know, and some I do not…some I hang out with regularly, and some I’ve only met in passing or through the power of the internet - read about my life from time to time and thus are connected to me in this very cool way.

And how I could come home and, if I wanted, write about my bad mood. Not that anyone is forcing you to read these lengthy musings and, for God’s sakes, I hope you are skipping any passages that might happen to be incredibly boring (I don’t, after all, have an editor here on the uncensored web), but, honestly, I love it that you’re reading this! How utterly wonderful and completely un-lonely and awesome.

Thinking about that, of course, is when I started to not only feel better, but feel really good. I also realized I owe you all, big time.

So if any of you - those I know, those I don’t - ever want to come over for some coffee or something (I’m getting really good at using the French press pot, by the way), or even send me a really, really long email, and tell me about something funny that happened, or a bad mood you were in, or just, you know, your day, as boring or eventful as it happened to be, you are so very, very welcome to do just that.

Yesterday, after finishing some work, I decided to go to the Annapolis Mall. I needed to do a little shopping, but, equally, needed to get out of the house for a while. I needed human contact. Human contact with strangers, if that makes any sense.

I wasn’t too interested in malls when I was teenager. I was, you know, “different” and (trying to be) “one-of-a-kind.” Which is really funny, because I’m pretty sure my friends and I, and like 50 gazillion other teenagers, were all going for the same thing. Who wanted to hang at the mall? Nobody. Of course, I got over that self-imposed boycott of a place that’s really, for what it is, great. Lots of stores under one roof. People watching. A safe haven where, if you know you MUST buy a dress to wear to a wedding that very weekend, which I needed to do, you totally can.

And yesterday was one of those perfect mall experiences. I got what I needed and then some. Passing a Verizon Cellular kiosk while strolling the wide expanse of retail, I stopped to inquire about purchasing a new charger for my phone, and learned that I was due for an upgrade. An upgrade to a new phone! Due to my propensity for dropping my phone in the toilet, and having the same model for what seemed like forever, this was wonderful news, and after chatting away happily with the salesgirl about my contract and my mail-in rebate, I left carrying this new, sleek Motorola something-or-other that plays, like, a samba for a ring tone.

While playing with my new favorite purchase I noticed this store called Hollister. And, I mean, I’m not totally a grandma, I know what Hollister is, I’ve seen it during other mall jaunts, but I’ve never gone in because, you see, I know I’m too old for Hollister. From what I understand, Hollister is for teenagers and college students. I know that’s not a law or anything, don’t get me wrong, it’s just my personal opinion. I very clearly remember the day, years ago, when I decided I was really too old, not only to shop at, but even to enter the store Abercrombie & Fitch. It had taken me so long to get there, too, seeing that I’d worked to be so “thrift shop” in high school. I finally grew up, and started getting my eyebrows done, and realized I wanted to look cute and wear tank tops with my bra straps showing. Stuff like that.

I was never a major Abercrombie & Fitch player, mind you. I never really pulled off that I-just-made-out-with-my-boyfriend-in-a-field-while-wearing-this-crisp-buttondown-and-jeans-and-minimal-makeup look. But there was a time where I basically got it - I got why people liked to wear those clothes and I sometimes tried to be one of them - even if I never fully immersed myself in the culture, if you will.

So yesterday, when I saw Hollister, which for all intensive purposes is pretty much the same store as Abercrombie and Fitch I think, with a more prominent surfing theme, I decided I had to go in. It was almost like a dare to myself, because, I’ll admit it. I was a little scared. I didn’t even want to go in and shop - I just wanted to see what was going on - but I was still nervous someone would call me out for a) being in there under false pretenses and b) being too old.

I didn’t need to worry about either because, first of all, everyone was too busy shopping or stacking up piles of brightly-colored t-shirts on the heavy wooden tables placed throughout the store to notice me. Also, I look pretty young, which worked for this undercover mission (and believe me, I know I’ve only got a couple more years where I can admit that I look pretty young without sounding like a total asshole).

So I wandered the stacks of clothes and listened to the loud pop music and stole furtive glances at my fellow shoppers and what really amazed me was how similar everything was to when I was in my late teens and early twenties. I know that sounds crazy - how could things be the same? - but it’s true. The clothes were similar - strappy shirts and low-cut jeans and hoodies and t-shirts with make-believe events and colleges and Hawaiian themes etched across the front. The music, while obviously not the very same music, was reminiscent of the alternative pop hits I once publicly hated but secretly liked - boys singing in melodramatic voices about love gone wrong. And skateboarding.

And as I walked around in this store, where I felt I somehow didn’t belong, I felt so, I don’t know, cozy - and good. Yes - good! As though - even know I’d never been a slave to this kind of fashion, I had entered some realm of all encompassing memories. I mean, who did these people think they were? There was a web cam in the back of the store showing live footage of some California beach popular for surfing even though…we were in Annapolis. But that’s the charm. The escapism. The clothes your mother probably thinks are too expensive to cover so little skin. The people, who, just like you, want to look good, and kind of maybe want to look a little bit like everyone else. I swear to you, I got a little emotional taking it all in, thinking about a time in my life gone by and I think the reason I felt that way - so happily nostalgic - and maybe the reason I feel like I’m too old to go in those stores, is that I’m really and truly old enough now to know that it’s all very certainly part of my past, and I can’t return exactly, except as a visitor.

Eating peanut butter straight out of the jar when we don’t have anything else for a snack.

Saying “awesome” so much, especially to, like, town board members and senior citizens.

Talking about my newfound respect for a woman’s biological clock and how much I love babies while drinking at weddings.

Getting mad at the local NPR station when they are playing their weekend music shows and not talk radio, because that’s pretty lame.

Opting for reruns of “Dharma and Greg” instead of taking the dogs for a walk.

Losing an earring every single time I wear earrings, it’s ridiculous.

Skipping straight to the entertainment news on CNN.com.

Thinking somewhat negative thoughts about myself, for instance, thinking I’m lazy and don’t work hard enough, or that my hair doesn’t look very good, because first of all, I work pretty hard, and also summer is a great time to let you hair go sort of wild.

Maybe watching “The Today Show,” I don’t know, I’m disenchanted.

Letting open bottles of wine go bad.

After getting out of work today, J and I opted to spend our Friday night at the mall, doing a little last minute shopping. We’re going to Chicago tomorrow for our friends Priya and Andy’s wedding and wanted to update our regular wedding attire. I wanted some new shoes because the adorable red heels I wore to the last wedding I attended made me sort of want to die the minute I put them on my feet - those heels and way they arched my heel like 10 inches off the ground. Fashion is sometimes pain, I know, but it’s not cool to kick your shoes off ten minutes into the wedding. You wait until the end, when everybody’s tipsy on champagne to go barefoot. Everybody knows that.

J wanted to get a new dress shirt so we headed to a couple department stores. At the first one, a regular mishmash of ties and watches and shoes and perfume displays and not-very-helpful salespeople (so terribly mediocre when compared to The Only Department Store One Should Ever Set Foot In) something happened that, unfortunately, seems to happen to us a lot.

We got approached by a stranger, also shopping for dress shirts, who looked in our direction, chuckled, and asked J, “wedding season?” When we laughed back, because, hey, that’s right, it is wedding season and we’re all out shopping for some dress shirts, isn’t that funny? We smiled and told him, “Yeah. We’ve got one this weekend,” and kept searching for that perfect hue, and then guess what happened? The guy, our new friend for Christ’s sake, asked us where we were from. We sort of stopped in our tracks and told him, but that was when my “huh this is weird” antenna started acting up. I love talking to strangers. I love their stories and jokes and their random comments, and because I love meeting new people, when I meet one and talking to them gets a little odd, I immediately know something is up. I’m practiced in this art.

After we talked geography, he wanted to know what we did for a living, all the while so friendly, so casual, and that’s when I decided it was time to drop the bomb that, ok, we were gonna keep on looking for that shirt! Nice to meet you! Have fun at that wedding! And that’s when he made the all too familiar move. He didn’t reach for a gun or ask us for money - he wanted to know if either of us had or card, or maybe he could give us his, so we could “keep in touch” (after all, we’d known each other all of two or three minutes) because he was working in a “business” that had some “opportunities for young couples” which is 100 percent southern-speak for “You guys should join my church.”

In a swift and graceful manner that made me proud, J told our fellow shirt-buyer that we were actually moving at the end of the summer - oh man, too bad! - but that it was nice to meet him and we got out of there. While walking away from the store, through the mall, observing the crowds of primped teens who had materialized in the last hour, we talked about how that always seems to happen to the two of us, whether we’re together or alone, and I told J I thought it was the way we looked, particularly our eyes, displaying some kind of naive, open-minded, amazed-at-the-world attitude that those church recruiters and others who prey on the general public just love. It doesn’t matter that we won’t take them up on it, that the minute we’re alone again we’re all “What the hell was that about?!” - they look at us and think, “perfect.”

Which is precisely why, when all was said and done, I convinced J we had to go to Nordstrom. Because at Nordstrom, first of all, when you need someone to measure you for a dress shirt, they measure you for a dress shirt in a matter of minutes and not only that but they ask how you are doing, and furthermore, the entire place is an oasis of calm. The organized displays. The tasteful lighting. The too-expensive jeans and spring dresses that no one, ever, pressures you to buy, even though you’re circling like a vulture, because they respect your limits.

Perhaps most importantly, I was fairly certain we wouldn’t be approached by strangers trying to get us involved in “business” ventures in Nordstrom. And of course, we weren’t. We instead had a very nice conversation with the young salesman who pointed J towards a lovely green shirt, the kind of green shirt I’ve been wanting him to buy for ages because I was so sure he’d look incredibly handsome in it (which he did).

The conversation was mostly the same. Where we were from, what we did, but the sentiment was entirely different. He joined us in a few laughs, but over actually funny things like when J locked himself out of the dressing room. When I asked how long he’d lived in the area he told us that his family had moved down here from New York several years ago because his father was sick and they wanted him to spend his last years in a nice place, with nice weather, and even though he couldn’t do much anymore, he’d gotten a lot of good golf games in while he could.

I know, I know, the mall is no metaphor for life or anything, but honestly, I left feeling pretty amazed about the small world in which we live, the great diversity and the brief, but touching, moments. How easy it is to connect when you really mean it. Sure, you might say the mood was inspired by a visit to my favorite store, but I think it was more than that. Although seriously, their shoe department is reason enough to get up out of bed every morning and live another day.

I awoke with my head fuzzy this morning due to the night out last night, drinking with pretty much everyone I know in the state of North Carolina, and being forced to take a shot called a “red-headed slut” more than once, which goes against all I believe in (specifically, that shots shouldn’t have more than one word in their name and shouldn’t contain more than one type of liquor and shouldn’t be served in glasses bigger than, well, a shot glass).

In addition to the physical strain I felt annoyed that I am now officially 29, and there’s no party tonight to celebrate like there was yesterday, and then I realized that I have two full days of local government meetings to cover next week and I’ve really got to get on this whole doing something great with my life, and that that’s going to be tough because really the only things I want to do are become the next David Sedaris or maybe have my own party-planning firm. And, you know, I’m not quite sure how to make those things happen just yet.

Needless to say, the below email made me feel much, much better.

From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Date: Jan 6, 2007
Subject: Becoming 29

Is not just a big thing. You are still a kid. A year away from the line at the beginning og adulthood. 11 years from full entry into the human race.
Is it true the church says everybody who dies before 40 stays in limbo on the theory they could not, because of immaturity, be responsible for their sin? Malkes sens to me.
But 29 is not totally meaningless. You start worrying about your future, aboutfamily and contributing to mankind to make the world better because you lived
But the lure of the next party comes and then , what the hell, next time I will do it.
But 29 can be a forhing of relationships. A time when yu hone skills in a job you love. You gotta love it not just like or need for the money. It has to be fun. Important to you.
What do you hae the most fun doing, dennis wholley asks.
Yeah. 29 is more of the same but blended with deeper ties, more commitment to doing well at a work that,s fin, and realization that human beinness is only 11 ywars awat
Dad

Everyone finds themselves, from time to time, in situations where they don’t quite have the upper hand. Your first day of work, a trip to the doctor when you’re worried about your health, a first date or a public speaking engagement. There’s a lot out there to get stressed over, and now that I’m not a reporter at the Chatham News, not covering the same meetings and events, not working with the same individuals and not writing for the same audience, stressful situations are bound to come up more often. Because when you forge ahead, let’s face it, you’ve got to do some new stuff.

It is also quite possible to stay home and read murder mysteries late into the morning and avoid the situations. But that won’t really get you anywhere.

Last night I was doing some work for a local AM talk station. I’ve covered stories for them before, when I had time while working for the paper, and figured I could do a little more of that now that I do - well - nothing. Covering stories for radio is similar to covering stories for a newspaper. You look for similar angles and pick up the same quotes. You ask the same questions and gather the same information, basically. It’s just that in radio you, obviously, record everything while in print journalism you write it down.

I remember the first meeting I covered for the paper. It was a big one for the town of Pittsboro. A semi-judicial meeting that went well into the night and I thought to myself, “What have I gotten myself into?” I remember trying to put something reasonable together the next day for that week’s paper, but not really having any training I was very, very nervous about what the editor, and other reporters, would think. What I’d done was fine, luckily, and the next week it got easier and the week after it was easier still. Pretty soon I was sending text messages during meetings to catch up on baseball scores. I ceased scribbling pages upon pages of notes and just took down what I knew I’d need the next day. I’m not saying I was a slacker. I wasn’t. In most cases I sat through every minute of every meeting, for fear of missing anything. I just, as most people do, became comfortable with the responsibilities of my job.

Last night, however, even though I’ve covered meetings before, and even though I’ve done some work for the radio before, wasn’t exactly easy for me. First of all, I had to carry all this equipment around, like a microphone for instance, that I don’t know much about. After I’d plugged into the system in the back room, in order to record the commissioners, the woman working there asked “how my levels” were. “Fine,” I answered, unwilling to tell her that I couldn’t judge anything by looking at my mini-disc recorder except that it was on, thank God, because if I couldn’t get it to turn on I was just going to have to go home and get in bed and eat several chocolate truffles. Like maybe 20 of them.

There are other, more difficult facets to the whole regime, like having to go back to the studio, listen to and edit the tape, and then put together a nice 30-second news story. The worst part is that these things aren’t difficult for basically everybody else there, a crack team of young journalism students and recently-graduated broadcast stars who are total pros. I’ve learned how to do the basics, but not without freaking out a little each time. It’s like my first day on the job, over and over again. Since I’ve never been a regular, I have to relearn a little each time.

I really can’t complain though (even though the above paragraphs might suggest I do, and a lot). I’m learning a whole new skill because the people at the station trust me enough to do some work for them. And knowing a little bit about of broadcast journalism will, no doubt, help me when the people from NPR show up and ask if I’d be interested in hosting a show.

The other thing that gets me through is these earrings I have. I’m not about to go all Harry Potter on you guys or anything, but right before we left Maine, Max and Jennifer gave me a present - two sets of earrings - as a thank you for the summer, with a really nice card, and when I wear either of these pairs of earrings, I think about them and all my friends and J and my family and realize that some stupid meeting is not enough to get myself worked up over. So when I start to lose it because I may have just missed an important quote, or in other situations, like when I’m home alone and haven’t heard from anyone I’ve contacted about writing or anything else and am feeling kind of lost I just remember that I have these magical earrings and I feel better. Not only better, but I feel so much better.

I realize that’s a pretty simplistic way of looking at life, but it works, and also, it may just be a sign that I’m losing all the edginess of youth and becoming, like, a mom-type, or maybe I’m just going straight to grandma-hood, what with my “magic earrings” and all, but anything to save me from the stomachaches and sleeplessness of worrying about totally non-important things is worth, I think, risking my reputation as a cool, confident and mature person, which, come to think of it, may have already been destroyed on many other occasions, including, but not limited to, ah, everything that I get myself into every single day.

I went to the gym this morning for the second time this week. One nice thing about having no job, and having paid a two-year membership to the gym upfront, is that I tend to work out more often. Not that I didn’t have a chance to before, with my ultra-intense schedule at the weekly rural newspaper and all, but it’s harder to will yourself up at the crack of dawn and get yourself on the treadmill than it is to roll out of bed at, say, 8:30, and go.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to start laying around the house in my pajamas or anything. 8:30 a.m. is a respectable hour to get up, especially when you spent your summer staying up til four, sometimes five in the morning, and even then sometimes the really, really loud album playing would just stay in the CD player and play all night, and then you’d wake up like maybe a few hours later and get ready for another day. I’m not saying I worked hard or anything, just that my body deserves a few nights of really deep, really good, really uninterupted by loud rock music sleep.

Point being, I think I’m going to get pretty awesomely toned. On the days when I don’t go to the gym and do some very minor, very easy resistance training, I’m going on long runs. I hope to attend one yoga class a week too, because yoga is good for the soul.

This morning I planned. I wanted to run a few errands after working out, as well as have lunch with my friend Jen. The gym isn’t that far away from my house - maybe 10 minutes - but it wouldn’t make sense to come home and shower, so I brought some clothes and shampoo and everything with me. I’d shower there, I figured, and get on my way. I’m such a thinker, honestly, someone should hire me. Before I get hired by a huge corporation to write on my blog for their entertainment. Starting salary: $1,000,000.

What happened though, is right when I got done with my workout and was ready to get on with it, I realized I’d forgotten a towel, and my gym doesn’t have towels for members, so I was stuck. I could either drive home and shower and risk getting on the couch and falling into a deep depression and maybe craving macaroni and cheese and then maybe giving into that craving OR I could just improvise. I chose the latter, because as stated above, I think about things. I’m dedicated to getting ahead in this world.

So I decided I’d take a quick shower and then just kind of shake off the water and towel dry, if I needed to, with this sweatshirt I’d packed. I could also use my gym clothes, I thought. My gym clothes which, by the way, were sweaty, as I’d just worked out in them. Oh, and it’s a rainy day, making the thought of not being able to get completely dry and then having to go out into the rain and humidity even less appealing. But I didn’t want to go home. So I took my shower and then squeezed the water out of my hair and brushed the water from my body and used the random pieces of clothing to do the rest. I was damp, at best, when I reached out of the shower stall to grab my underwear.

Despite the fact that I am normally less bold than the other women who frequent the locker room, I usually put on a towel, exit the shower stall, and then get dressed in the main area, at least. Because it’s stupid to try and get dressed right there in the steam caused by the shower you just took. And getting dressed when still partially wet is right up there with getting up before dawn to go look for Bald Eagles in the “Things I Don’t Like” department. I had no choice in this instance, however. What was I going to do? Drape my drawstring shorts round my bottom half and run like a maniac into the other room, dress quickly, and depart, trying to avoid stares? No way. Because the thing is I’d receive less stares if I just walked out stark naked. Really. And, in fact, when reaching out blindly to grab my clothes from my Jansport, hanging just outside the shower stall, I caught a glimpse of an older lady right across from me showering, nude of course, with the shower curtain open. OPEN. I don’t know. It had the capacity to be closed, surely, but she just didn’t care. On her shower hook hung a lovely, forest green, soft towel. As I stood there tugging my freshly-laundered and therefore extra tight jeans on over my not-quite-dry thighs I thought about that towel and how that woman, that naked, naked woman, probably wouldn’t have even minded if I’d asked to borrow it because, after all, she didn’t mind if I had a good close look at her privates.

When I’d finally accomplished the great feat of getting my clothes on and running my fingers through my tangled hair (I also forgot a brush) I stepped out of the shower, placed my sopping gym clothes in my backpack and got ready to leave when my nude friend spoke to me. “Did you have any trouble with the shower temperature?” she asked, facing forward, hands over her head massaging her sudsy hair, as friendly as could be. What was I supposed to do? Look? Look at her breasts? Look into her eyes? Avert my eyes? Run away? Tell her she had a nice body for her age? I paused a second and in that very loaded second realized I was being a little bit ridiculous. I was the one who’d just dried off with my dirty gym clothes. Her showering sans-curtain suddenly seemed, without doubt, the less crazy thing one could do while attempting to get clean after a nice workout.

So I turned towards her, just like this was a normal interchange between two clothed people and said, “Yes, actually. I had trouble getting the water at a moderate temperature, so I took a kind of cold shower.” She laughed and said that that was better than a scalding one, and I laughed and agreed, and then told her “good luck” and departed, into the rainy afternoon.

Later, after lunch and saying goodbye to Jen, I went to use the bathroom in the restaurant where we’d met. Upon entering, I heard a girl’s voice coming from one of the stalls. Since no one else was in there, I wondered who she was speaking to, then realized she was talking - and not just talking, but loudly gossiping - to her friend while she was on the toilet. Right on it. I heard it flush and she exited, still on the phone, still loud, without a glance in my direction.

I realize this is the age of the the cell phone and other miraculous technologies, but I’m still astounded - maybe my attitude is even old-fashioned - at the amount and circumstances in which people use them. If you’re having a nice dinner, I say turn it off. And if you’re in the bathroom stall, please, turn it off. Not only for your friend, but for the world. It’s just weird. And detracts from the level of decency you project. Manners. From saying thank you right on down to not talking on your cell phone in the bathroom stall and not even feeling the slightest big ashamed of that. I thought, then, of my friend in the shower from earlier that day and how admirable her level of shamelessness was compared to this. She’d at least acknowledged my existence. And what’s more, was very nice. One day maybe I’ll bare my body with as much pride, but for the present, I’ll at least be nice to strangers.

I know some of you must be thinking that I’ve dropped my cell phone in the toilet - more than once - and isn’t that just as bad? I assure you, my phone’s association with the toilet was a result of my being clumsy and careless with expensive devices, and not because I was trying to actually have a conversation in there. I may put the thing in my back pocket of my jeans, like an idiot, but hey, I do draw the line somewhere.

Yesterday was my last day at the Chatham Record. I knew I’d be sad. What I didn’t know was how busy I’d be. Final stories, for instance. My last story was a touching one - about a local church that raised funds to send a young man and his family home to Mexico after the man nearly drowned in Jordan Lake several weeks ago, suffering severe brain damage. I spent some of the morning of my last day talking to the pastor of the church that had raised over $3,000 for the family. He invited me into his home, and I thought about what a wonderful job being a reporter is, getting to talk to all these amazing people.

My second to last story was about a new handicap ramp in town.

I also had to clean off my desk for my coworker, who will be taking my place in Pittsboro. Photos, notes, story ideas, business cards. Some I threw away, wondering why the hell I’d posted it on my bulletin board in the first place, but most I kept.

I ran up and down the main street in town, saying goodbye to friends, and made stops at local offices where’d I’d spent a lot of my time to tell everyone I hoped I’d run into them again soon.

Josephine, the woman I’ve shared an office with for the last three years, took my to lunch. Afterwards we hugged a few times and said how much we’d miss one another. On my drive over to Siler City one last time, to say goodbye to the rest of the crew, I felt sweaty and hurried and realized I hadn’t even had time to think all day and suddenly I felt very, oppressively sad - not that anything was wrong, really, just realizing in one huge moment how much I’d miss everyone - and had to try and stop myself from having a major breakdown, which I was pretty sure would necessitate pulling over on the side of the road. Luckily, once at the news office I felt better, and said goodbye to my friend and boss, Randall, and the rest of my coworkers without losing it. In fact, most of the paper got done early and we were able to spend a little while purely messing around, joking and laughing hysterically.

It’s not like I’m never going to see these people again, but working there has meant a lot to me. It’s not all something I can get down in words, at least not yet.

You can see some pictures of Chatham County and my experience working at the newspaper here.

The other emotion that I felt when I had time to think yesterday was, of course, excitement. We’re headed to Maine!

J and I went out for drinks and dinner to celebrate my last day but also my upcoming trip. We had amazing food and had interesting conversations and observed those around us. We ate at one of our favorite places. The lights were low and the conversations loud. Two tables down we watched an older couple, the woman appeared to be asleep, slumped against the bench. We noted that everyone seemed to have glasses of prosecco, a new item on the menu, and said that, obviously, we’d started that trend when we served it instead of champagne at our wedding. J whispered to me urgently at one point that Mac McCaughan, of the bands Superchunk and Portastatic, and co-founder of Merge Records, was sitting at a table nearby, talking to a friend. He then got really nervous, as he always does when he sees someone he sort of knows, or someone who is perhaps somewhat famous, especially if it’s a musical artist he respects. He starts talking loudly about something else all the while shooting me glances that tell me if I go over there and talk to That Person and in any way embarass him, well, there will be hell to pay.

After the crowd subsided and we were one of the only tables left in the place, J and I went home. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted, and now it is Wednesday morning, and time to go. Despite the fact that, yes, I’m travelling to a house in Maine with my best friend and a band, three dogs and God knows who else, I promise frequent updates on what’s going on. I mean, now that I’m not working I suppose I’d better keep some sort of schedule that involves some semblance of responsibility, as well as practicing and bettering my skills as a writer. Or maybe rock star. Blueberry farmer. I don’t know. These next few weeks, I’m sure, will be full of self-discovery. I’m looking forward to telling you all about it.

I promise you that, now that I’ve decided to leave my job, my blog won’t become completely dedicated to a discussion of that matter. Nor will it become only a discussion of my lack of a job when I’m back from Maine, depressed, eating whole blocks of Havarti cheese on the sofa while watching “Starting Over.” 

I did, however, want to point out that tonight I’ll be covering my last Pittsboro Town Board meeting as a reporter for the Chatham Record. Notice that I phrased that carefully, because God knows sometime in the future I’ll be covering some town board meeting somewhere and some loon who wants to punish me will find me and explain, “Cara. I read your blog. Your “last” town board meeting ever, eh? You really did yourself in.” Because, let’s be honest. We gather skills as we work in different areas and I’m pretty sure I can list community-based journalism as a skill, so there’s a fair chance I may see a board meeting or two in my future.

Even if the fates decide I’m free of board meetings and board meeting agendas and minutes, though, I still might go to a few. Here’s why: everyone should. I know, I know, you don’t read this to get a lecture like you might from your seventh-grade social studies teacher, but town and county board meetings, although horrifically boring at times (I pity the poor boy scouts I see who sometimes attend, working towards one of those badges that requires one do 100 or so awful/really awful things like attend entire board meetings, not just ten minutes, which is really all you need to get the gist) offer the public a glimpse into just how many decisions lie between each little action that takes place where you live. New traffic light? Board members, I bet you, had at least a 40 minute throw down about that one. Another coffee shop on the main drag? Hour and a half discussion, minimum.

The education I’ve gained from attending who knows how many of these was illustrated recently as I was driving through downtown Carrboro and spotted a sign indicating that a public hearing was to be held regarding a particular plot of land at the corner of Weaver and Greensboro Streets. A rezoning request for a conditional use permit had been requested. I knew exactly what that sign meant and what it pertained to and could guess what might happen and drove on, very pleased with myself.

I realize that the weight of that moment may not gel with you who have not, for months, sought out some meaning in the many Monday nights spent pent up in a quaint little town hall building, but believe me, going to one of these meetings, just once, will completely bolster your respect for the representatives who serve on those boards.

And as a reporter, I feel it’s my duty to tell people just how much work they do. And also as a reporter, because I’ve spent many a long night not only listening to but taking copious notes on the ongoing controversy regarding the potential rezoning to commercial use of a residential lot that backs up to a quiet neighborhood, when my friends were out having pizza and eating beer on the first beautiful night of the season, it is my right to feel smug when I pass a sign indicating a public hearing and know what’s up with that. Oh, and if you’re in the car don’t even think for a second you’re not going to hear all about it.

When I arrived at the Chatham Record as a new reporter in 2003 I was 25-years-old and seeing my name in print those first few times was astounding to me. Looking back on the early articles, I’m not exactly sure I knew what I was doing, but naturally, I learned.

Having worked at a radio station answering phones and scheduling commercials right after college and then at the animal shelter organizing summer camps for children and teaching volunteers how to walk the dogs, I finally felt like I was on a career path of sorts because, as I’d always explained to everyone, I wanted “to do something with writing.”

Thus I began covering the town board meetings and health board meetings and popping in at the sheriff’s department every now and then to gather the reports or snap a shot of a particularly large quantity of confiscated marijuana. I patronized the businesses of this small town. I drove by a great many hay bales and heard some racial slurs I didn’t think were allowed anymore, as well as made acquaintances with individuals who inspired me to try and write great stories because they were just so interesting.

I became, as I never believed I would, part of a small-town, semi-rural community just over 20 miles from where I lived in Chapel Hill. I spent more time at work than I did in that college-town and after a while I started wondering just what my next step would be.

I didn’t think I’d work here for three years but that’s exactly what it’s been. I thought I’d be one of the four reporters at the Chatham News and Record for a year before moving on to something else, either more news writing or perhaps contributing to a magazine. Maybe I’d get involved in some other kind of writing job altogether. Something big, like a book.

Whatever happened though I knew I’d always fondly remember the time I spent working at a small-town weekly newspaper - getting to know the mayor and touring local farms; waving at the guys in the barbershop on my way to pick up lunch and attending AARP meetings at the senior center.

So a few months ago, when my best friend Jennifer, a recent American Film Institute graduate, said that we should take a month this summer, take a roadtrip and write a screenplay, I thought, “That’s a good idea. Maybe I won’t be working at the newspaper anymore by summer, after all, it’s been three years.”

While I’m completely inexperienced at any sort of screenplay writing, Jennifer and I had always planned to do something noteworthy together. We were going to drive cross country. We were going to live in an apartment in New York City after college. None of these things happened and so this became it.

The vague plan, months before the reality hit home, was to spend our time in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, where my parents own a house and where my brother and his band would be practicing for the summer before they began an east coast tour in August. Jennifer would have time off after graduating, she said, and as I mentioned before, I thought maybe I’d be on to something else, maybe some sort of unimaginable job that allowed me a month off. When you’re discussing these things over email and quick phone calls they appear so bright and shining - and so do-able.   

Also important, extremely so (which Jennifer reminded me of from time to time, although she very wisely remarked that she, of course, had a somewhat biased interest in the matter) was that I complained - and often - about the fact that I still worked where I worked. While I couldn’t say enough good things about my experience I found I also got depressed at times when headed into work in the morning, down that long, beautiful country road. This…three years here, hadn’t been my plan.

I’m not disillusioned about the working world. At least not as much as I used to be. I know you don’t always get to do what you want, that, in fact, most of the time you don’t get to do what you want and that it’s normal to get tired of a job and even normal to think about leaving that job and then to want to leave with all your heart. I know that the protocol is to find another job before you leave your current one.

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think I was dealing with any extreme circumstances. Nearly everyone (except some people, for instance top Microsoft Executives and, like, the New York Yankees) can say “I don’t make enough money” and nearly everyone can say “I’m so sick of my job I can’t take it anymore.” But believe me, there is always someone making less money who is more miserable.

I know this especially because I chose to get a job in the newspaper business. I sent my resume to all the publications in the area until one would hire me and when one did, as I said, I was happy because I felt I was on a path to doing something I wanted to do. In fact, I was doing something I wanted to do, at least for the meantime, in writing for a newspaper. I was writing. And I’d always wanted to do something with writing. Even better, because of the particular paper’s setup, I was writing columns and feature stories and personality pieces, much more than I’d be doing at a bigger, daily paper.

So I was lucky. Luckier than a lot of people. But I wasn’t really happy that I was still working at the Chatham News after three years. I wasn’t enjoying the small town or working in a small office anymore with only a 70-year-old for company most days, and I started to wonder where all the great experience was getting me if I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue on in newspaper journalism. I started thinking about things like doing another Christmas edition and my reaction to that thought was - well - less than excited.

It wasn’t that I thought I’d become better than this, either. The people I’ve worked with are some of the best at what they do that I’ve ever met. I still have a lot to learn, even though I’ve learned a lot since those first articles in 2003.

I just wanted to move on. I wanted to move on so incredibly badly and it took a lot of talking to people about the situation and a few vodka cocktails to realize that was totally ok.

Jennifer and our friend Max came to visit in mid-May. We spent our time exploring the best of North Carolina, including eating delicious food and discussing the world and our lives over drinks.

One night, as we waited for a table at one of my favorite restaurants, Jennifer and I sat together in the bar and talked about Maine while I finished a very good Absolut Mandarin and soda. It had never seemed like a very reasonable idea, but it started to seem like an absolutely great idea. An unbelievably great idea.

Of course in the morning light, and after Jennifer and Max had left, both of whom claimed they were “in,” no question, I was faced with a kind of scary prospect: Leaving my job to do some crazy thing and then have nothing to come home to.

While I’ve done a little freelance and part time work on the side, could that really go anywhere? Wouldn’t it be best to just stick it out until that time, probably in the next year or so, when we move somewhere else anyway, as planned?

It was the most centered one of all, my husband, a successful grad school student on a track to have a lab of his own someday, who convinced me that, yes, I should leave my job and go to Maine for a few weeks. And I should do it because you only live once and I wasn’t happy and nothing bad would happen. Other people I trust had similar thoughts, including my brother who sent me many inspiring emails on the matter. So what? If I couldn’t find a job when I got back I’d find something. Doing something slightly unpractical wouldn’t kill me.

I realized, then, that J, and Jennifer and Max and Vinnie, and everyone else who commented positively on the idea, were right. I’ve always urged people to take a chance, whether in the romance department (using my own story as an example) or in their careers. Obviously things like people’s feelings and finances are concerns in both categories, but you do what you need to do to stay afloat, emotionally and money-wise, and you move forward.

J also promised he’d visit us, which was of utmost importance because, as I told Max over beers one afternoon on our porch, my number one concern, even more than what people would say about my up and leaving my job, was that I’d be away from Justin for a few weeks, and I’d miss him so much.

Thus, after weeks of discussion and weighing options and formulating plans and talking dates I gathered my courage and told my boss, a good month and a half in advance, that I’d be leaving the newspaper. I explained my reasons why as best I could and he was totally supportive and encouraging. I had turned my totally impractical move into something that I’d thought about for what seemed like forever. It almost appeared strategic. It almost started to make sense. I guess in all fairness I had been thinking about leaving “someday” for about two years - two years more than I thought I’d spend working here.

Since then I’ve realized how much I’ll miss it, when people are sad upon hearing the news or when we’re having a particularly good time at work, of which there are many.

I haven’t, however, regretted it even for the most fleeting of moments.

I could go on and on forever, like people tend to do when they are rationalizing something they’re unsure of. Or I could just say, with self-acceptance (something I’m gaining more of every year of my life), that I am leaving my job to go write a screenplay in Maine with my best friend. I don’t know what will happen after that, but I have every sincerest hope that it will work out for the best.

My last day is Tuesday, July 18 and I’ll be on the road Wednesday morning, almost exactly three years after coming to Chatham County, NC, a new reporter at the weekly paper, ready to start that new, exciting stage of my life.