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.

A while back I decided to get with the program - advance into the modern age, so to speak - and create my very own website for my blossoming freelance writing business.

You know people nowadays, they love the internet, and I thought it would be nice if, instead of photocopying my articles over and over again at Staples and sending them off to various editors to show them just how brilliant I am I’d show them that I’m actually really brilliant by sending them a neat little link to a personal webpage highlighting some of my professional writing, as well as unpublished pieces.

Here’s the thing though, I’m not brilliant, at least not when it comes to things like creating a webpage from scratch. I mean, I love the web and all, don’t get me wrong, but the only reason I’m able to write on this blog on a regular basis is because my wonderful friend Mike took the time and energy to help me make it (and by the way, I’m pretty sure “make it” isn’t the correct lingo for such a complicated process, but whatever) and the good people at WordPress make such easy-to-use blogging programs. Or software. Something like that.

Anyway, I decided to enlist some help as that seemed the only reasonable thing to do and hired my friends Nick and Cory, who actually are brilliant when it comes to doing things like making a webpage, to help me out.

And - ta dah - they did it!

My very own personal, professional webpage, that is bound to bring me fame and fortune.

Or, at the very least, it makes me feel totally awesome.

In future weeks I hope to learn some Very Important Things like how to update this webpage and how to use it to my advantage to get a million dollar book deal and all that, but for now, I’m just very happy to show this initial version off.

And, as always, very grateful to these genius, technically-savvy, creative types in my life.

If you’d like to hire Nick and Cory to do something totally amazing for you, you can contact me and maybe, if you’re worthy, I’ll hook it up. I mean, maybe, if you promise to truly respect their super talent and how cool they are and everything.

Over the past few weeks, when motivated, I’ve been cleaning up some of the things I’ve written, including some posts from this blog, and submitting them for publication.

For instance, I’ve submitted an edited version of this piece to a couple magazines.

So far I’ve only received rejections, but not to fret, I forge onward. Sometimes I forward on the rejections to my parents, so they can share in my rage. After doing so last week, I received the below mock news article from my father, reminding me that a) he should have his own blog and b) not to get too sappy or anything, but fame…fortune…it doesn’t really matter because I’ve already got the best fan base I could ask for.

Sat, Nov 18, 2006
From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Subject: Article on rejections is rejected

A witty and fun filled article on being rejected by rising star Cara McDonough was rejected today by The Writer magazine.

“It was of course a disappointment” McDonough said, “But these things happen as you make your way to the top.”

McDonough went on to quote her writing philosophy: “Fuck the editors. Full steam ahead.”

Historians of journalism note the similarity to McDonough’s comment in 2005 when asked to postpone her wedding because of drenching rain and the Annapolis boat show.

“Fuck the boat show,” she said. “I’m getting married.”

I had one of those great moments with my parents recently - like when the family is all at some social event together and somebody who’s been talking to me walks right up to them and says something along the lines of, “I’ve just been talking to your WONDERFUL daughter,” and I just sit there and silently thank this new friend for reminding my parents and brother, too, just how awesome I am.

My mother recently held a Rosemont College alumni event at the house. She and other Rosemont alums got together and talked about the school and, it just so happens, my name came up. Why? Because the Chair of the Rosemont Board of Trustees had, it just so happens, Googled my mom’s name and discovered my blog. And apparently liked it and, naturally, told my parents.

Who, I’m sure you recall, don’t read my blog. Never have.

So when my mom told me that this great woman had come across my blog and actually enjoyed reading it, I had one of those smug moments, just looking at them, and asked, “So are you going to start reading now?” and, of course, they replied, “Yes!” but I’m pretty sure there’s not a chance in Hell that’s actually going to happen. It’s too bad, too, because when I’m talking to my father on the phone, and every little thing I say, in his eyes, is a possible story idea (”So, I was checking my email this morning and -” “Cara! Column idea! Email and young people! The implications of modern technology in a modern age!”) I always feel the need to remind him that I do, in fact, write almost every day about something that interests me. It’s just that most of the time, the stuff that inspires me to write isn’t always worthy of a Pulitzer or anything, the point being - I don’t care. If people on boards of trustees of this nation’s highly-ranked liberal arts colleges are entertained, I think I’m doing ok.

I’m sure some of you, some of you who have, literally, nothing else to do but think of me and what I’m up to lately, might have wondered recently just what in the name of God I’m doing with myself now that I’ve quit my job, spent the summer in Maine and am allegedly trying to “further my career.”

The answer is, well, complicated. Complicated because, you see, I’m still figuring it out myself. But to break it down to a bare bones explanation, what I’m doing is attempting to jumpstart my freelancing career by writing letters and emails to various publications and trying to get them to think I’m great, and thus allow me to write articles that they’ll print, for which they will pay me hundreds of dollars. Or ten. Ten dollars. Whatever. I’d prefer hundreds, though.

What I’m also “doing” (doing in quotation marks because I’m not doing it at all, yet) is working on pieces I think fit for publication. For instance, a piece on young people and politics, or modern careers and marriage or how to best keep oneself focused in a coffee shop without visiting MySpace 10,000 times in one sitting, because damnit, it’s hard to stay focused.

That’s what I’m coming up against really. The whole focus thing. I don’t have a hard time with it normally, but when you’re faced with the great unknown and no deadlines and nobody around asking what you are working on, well, it’s hard to get down to work, especially when you aren’t sure what “work” is because, you know, you don’t work. Not like nine to five heading to the office and all. You work when you vacuum the house, yeah you do. But that’s different.

But focus I can gain. I can create a schedule and really work with this time I’ve got now, because that is, after all, why I left the job. I believe in myself and my ability to succeed, going the unconventional route. Plus, it hasn’t been long. A schedule and acheiving some sort of day-to-day sense of accomplishment will come. Already I’m getting better. At first, months ago, I was nervous to write to random editors with my ideas. Then I got a few things published and am now learning even more about how it works. I’m comfortable emailing complete strangers to tell them I’d like to write for them. Pretty soon I’ll be walking up to people on the sidewalk, people just minding their own business, and asking them if they’d like to contribute a quote to my yet-unpublished piece that may-never-be-published, “but trust me, it’s going to be great, just great.”

It will come, the work, and eventually I’ll know what it is I do and will be able to define it when people ask. I have a work ethic and was always well aware that this transitional period woud be a bit tough getting going, but I have hope.

I feel the real problem may be far deeper and harder to overcome.

When I’m reading these books on writing and looking at these publications and the current state of affairs in the nation, all I really want to be doing is this sort of thing. Writing about the mundane. The minor moments. And I wonder if I can ever truly get away with doing that for a living. To me, these moments in a person’s life, although perhaps self-indulgent, are so worthy of permanent recording.

This weekend I went on a quick, overnight trip to Maryland, to pick up my darling Cecilia, just back from Maine with my parents (if you’d like to see a couple pictures of the trip, including some heartbreaking ones of the moment Lucy, my parent’s dog, realized I was taking Cecilia away and jumped into my backseat, check out my Flickr account). On our way out of town, my mother, father and I stopped at a new coffee place to get something for the road. My mother and I spent a while inside checking out the items for sale, particularly these really decadent-looking chocolate crumble cake things that we pointed to about 10 or 20 times before deciding we’d make do with a biscotti each, then grabbed our coffee and met my father out in the parking lot where he hemmed and hawed and said things like, “Jesus! You guys were in there forever. Ehhhhhhhhh!”

I looked at him disappovingly and then found my target.

“Your fly’s down,” I said, from across the lot.

“What?”

“Your fly’s down,” I repeated, a smile making it’s way into my faux-angry expression regarding his impatience.

“What??”

“YOUR FLY’S DOWN!”

He looked, zipped it up, and said, “No it’s not,” as my mother watched the scene, laughing at us, but also shaking her head, as if to let us know that the moment certainly had it’s merit, but she had a biscotti that was really a little more deserving of her time.

When you have a blog, you have a new method of stroking your ego - like the MySpace comments and cell phone text messages we all wait for impatiently, considering those communications the truest compliments of the modern age - and that is counting the hits received on that blog every day. If I really didn’t care who, or how many, were reading I wouldn’t put a hit counter in place and check it as frequently, looking for a certain level of approval, but as we’ve discussed, I’m interested in the general public reading what I have to say, especially now that I have no job and need this venture to reflect, at least somewhat, my merit in this world.

As I’m not a technological genius (in fact, my technological knowledge is basic, at best) I have no real way of knowing what are good methods to get more people to read an online diary. I mean, come on, my parents don’t read it, so how am I going to get perfect strangers to start up? A little bit of pornography, maybe, tucked in amongst the tales of nights out with my friends? Being discovered while walking down the street, like a supermodel? Begging? Posters? Press conferences?

Ok. Seriously, I joke and exaggerate about my readership, but in all honestly I absolutely love it when people are reading because sometimes writing about the very normal and seemingly boring things I observe is absolutely my favorite thing in the world. And when people are interested in reading what I write, it makes it that much better. A lot better.

So when I discovered I had 69 unique visitors (separate individuals who checked my blog) generating well over 100 hits yesterday, I decided that I should thank them for reading, because at this point in my life, their reading makes me very happy. Makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. Sure, in the whole, entire, well-read internet, 69 is no landslide, but it’s certainly encouraging. Thank you, people, for letting me write about my dogs too much and allowing me to dare think that you might be interested in the nonsense my husband and I talked about the other day, or the life of leisure I’m currently living, thank you for reading that and then coming back for more.

Yesterday I read a blog post on This Is My Question which remarked on a CBS Sunday Morning story on blogging. I, sadly, failed to watch the show this past weekend, so I was happy to read about it, and even happier to read that, apparently, some people get offered jobs because of their blogs. 

This is exactly what I’m getting at, guys. The piece also pointed out that most bloggers write to keep in touch with friends and family. All well and good, and I couldn’t be happier that friends and family read this nonsense, except, of course, my own parents, who, no matter how much I plead and beg, will NOT read my blog. “Ohhhh,” they say. “Your blog!” And in the background, I swear, I can hear them rooting around for last week’s issue of the Sunday Washington Post. Something, anything, besides their daughter’s attempts to practice her love of writing, which can be viewed, oh, you know, with the simple click of a mouse.

(Sidenote: if my parents, by some far reach of the imagination, are reading - Dad, the mouse is what you call the “sensor.”)

Anyway, my point is, that, yeah - I like it when my friends and family get to catch up on the happenings of my life, but let’s not kid ourselves, I’m in this for potential fame. Or at least a recurring column in The New Yorker. So, if you’re a reader who’s got a job for me in mind, especially if it involves writing one really excellent piece a week but spending the majority of my time keeping myself updated on the latest social and political trends by spending many hours in coffee shops in hip, metropolitan areas - please, don’t be shy. I accept! We can discuss salary later over a glass of wine at some new popular place, ok? You buy the first round, and I’ll write 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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