Today, while buying many, many bags of candy at the local CVS, the woman checking me out asked if we got lots of trick or treaters in our neighborhood. “Um, yeah,” I told her. Because, you know, we do. We get a fair amount. But also, I mean, the people giving out the candy might want some, right? So it’s good to have extra. And it’s important for all the candy to be good candy and not crap, like Wintogreen Lifesavers or something. And I really hope these neighborhood kids don’t take all the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in the first ten minutes although I know they are TOTALLY going to. It’s cool, though. Truth be told, I’ve already had my fair share and the sun isn’t even down yet. Enough to make my stomach feel a little weird. That, however, is the point. If sitting at home giving yourself diabetes isn’t the best way to celebrate Halloween, I don’t know what is.

“What do you think about cancelling our cable?”

“Totally getting rid of it? Yeah. We could do that.”

“You think?”

“Yeah! We did it before. And we could still get some stations with the rabbit ears, right? Like, we could still watch CSI…It would save us so much money.”

“Well, yeah, and Morrie says you should not watch so much TV and spend more time with loved ones.”

“Maury? What? Maury Povich?”

“No. Ah, Morrie… ‘Tuesdays With Morrie.’”

“Oh my God.”

This morning I checked out a new office supply store in a shopping center near our house. I use the phrase “office supply store” loosely here, because this is more the kind of place that sells some office supplies, sure, like notebooks and pens and staplers. But also millions of Hallmark cards and stuffed animals and totally weird stuff, like, you know, a plant or two. Just so much inventory that I’m pretty sure the place doesn’t have a chance in Hell of surviving more than a few months, but still, good luck to them.

The store did have good prices and so I stocked up on several reporter-style notebooks. I figure now that I’m out interviewing people and all, trying to make a go of this lifestyle, I should have places to write down what they say and not keep using really old notebooks that are falling apart, and contain to-do lists from, like 2002, such as “To do today: 1) get a job 2) make more glycerin soap for Christmas presents 3) have coffee 4) plan party Friday 5) buy tequila.”

People should not be forced to view my private life like that, I thought, and using those notebooks provides just that opportunity to arise. Plus, people might see that stuff and think, I don’t know, that I’m lazy. And an alcoholic.

And I’ve found, too, that interviewing people and using the back of the MapQuest directions I printed out the other day to take notes might make people think that I don’t think what they have to say is all that important.

So I gathered up several notebooks and grabbed a package of pens while I was at it, because I heard the store owner telling a customer, “Did you see our pens? Our wall of pens? We have the most pens at the best price IN THE ENTIRE COUNTRY. That’s our claim to fame.”

I’m pretty sure that’s not true because this store is about 60 million times smaller than Office Depot and Staples and places like that, and have you seen how many pens those guys have? But anyway, I bought some because I thought it would make him feel good. It didn’t really matter though - making him feel good - because, as I found when I walked up to pay - the man was pretty much nuts, anyway. He asked me how I was doing, like a normal person, and I said, “Fine,” and I asked him how he was doing, and he said “not so good” because he was having trouble with his computer, and that was ok, but quite honestly I just thought he and I were going to perform the “Fine”/”Fine” method of greeting each other and I hate it when someone asks you how you’re doing just so you’ll ask them how they’re doing so they can then regale with you stories about how they’re doing. It’s kind of like when you come back to work after a weekend and your coworker asks what you did this weekend and you tell them and then they’re just about to explode because you know perfectly well they really REALLY want to tell you what THEY did. And usually it’s something not that great. Like that they painted their living room baby blue or something like that.

Anyway, since we were getting into it, I decided to add that I could, in fact, “use some more coffee,” which in my opinion is a pretty normal thing to say early in the morning - you yawn a little, maybe start to stretch - and people usually nod, and laugh and say, “Me too!” and it’s really heartwarming, but this guy, instead, screamed “Coffee is BAD!” And since I was starting to sense that I didn’t want to get in any deeper than I had to, instead of the obvious, “Why?” answered back, “No it isn’t, it’s great.” To which he replied, “It’s bad,” and I replied, “It’s great.” I was seriously getting ready to add a punchy little, “Take that, punk,” when he looked at me, his natural morning energy radiating behind his blue eyes, and said, “I haven’t had a drop of coffee in my life,” and I realized I was arguing with a guy who owns an office supply store and thinks it has the biggest pen selection in the world and sells Hello Kitty pencil holders and wind-up toys, and what’s more, he’d never even tried coffee because someone had obviously told him it was “evil” or something, and I decided to let it go and get out of the store before he invited me to stay for lunch and tell me what he’d done over the weekend.

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 remember it well, my brother and I flipping through the television stations one day, perhaps during Christmas or Thanksgiving break, and happening upon Rachael Ray, hosting “30 Minute Meals” on the Food Network.

“There’s something wrong with her,” my brother said. “She’s too much. She doesn’t know how to do the whole TV thing.”

I agreed. But we were wrong.

It turns out Rachael Ray really knows how “to do the whole TV thing.”

My initial dislike of the woman was to be expected, I think. Liking her, as a young adult, would have been akin to observing a teenager, upon seeing his or her father exit the house in two different shades of plaid and neon socks to boot, and smiling at him. Saying, “There’s my Dad. Isn’t he great?” and then sauntering over and giving him a big hug. As teens and young adults we aren’t capable of loving what - to us - seems inherently uncool, even though we view those who don’t care about what others think of them as leaders and exceptionally cool. I remember a particular counselor I had at sleep away camp who wore whatever to the dining hall. Pajamas if she was felt like it. She was really close to her family, too, and didn’t mind drawing attention to herself. “How cool,” I thought. She just does what she wants. What I didn’t realize was that I, nervously tucking my carefully-picked-out t-shirt into my carefully-picked-out shorts, was not at all headed in that direction. It would take me years before I even got close.

Thinking Rachael Ray was ridiculous when I first saw her show, therefore, was absolutely predictable. Watching the Food Network in itself wasn’t something I admitted readily, as I do now, first of all, and Rachael embodied a certain nerdy enthusiasm and self confidence I wasn’t quite ready to embrace. Growing fond of her took years.

Before we lived in the house we rent now, J and I had the fortune to rent a lovely, spacious house at an affordable price. There was a large master bedroom and we placed a television on the dresser at the foot of the bed. In order to save money we only ordered the very most basic of basic cable and could only choose between only a few stations, one of which was the Food Network. This is the first time in my life I remember watching it purely as entertainment, and not because I thought it was funny to do so. “Look at me, I’m watching the Food Network. How cute is that?”

Not that I was, or ever will be a great cook, but I liked the format. Watching cooking and entertaining shows was relaxing, plus gave me some ideas for things we could make at home. I’d sometimes leave it on in the bedroom as I did stuff around the house. It was like having company over. Company, who made delicious food.

Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals was on two times, back to back, in evening. And at first I made fun of her like I always had, and like everyone else seemed to do. I made fun of her for saying “EVOO” for extra virgin olive oil. I made fun of her saying things like “yum-o,” and “delish,” because who in the name of God says things like that? Seriously.

But it wasn’t too long before I started to slowly respect, just a tiny bit, some of the things I’d despised about her. Her garbage bowl, for instance, which she keeps on the counter in order to dispose of trash quickly, without having to run over to the trash can all the time. It had seemed so un-elegant. So typically American, and not in a good way. But then I tried it and it worked out pretty well.

It was more than just her time-saving strategies, however.

It’s her. It’s the way she utters those catch phrases without a moment’s pause and you just know that not-only does she think they’re cute, but she hasn’t even bothered to think about whether or not anybody thinks they’re annoying. Who’s got the time? Rachael is too busy building an empire on sheer popularity. Despite all the times I’ve heard friends complain, “Oh God, I hate her,” the majority of Americans doesn’t share the view. Rachael Ray has multiple cookbooks and multiple shows. She has a her own line of knives. She is loud and uncouth and people adore her.

I now count myself amongst those who love Rachael Ray. I love her unconditionally. I don’t care if she lets some new monstrosity loose, if she comes up with some new recipe, with a title so embarassing I’m reticent to even try it out (see: “Who Ya Callin’ Chicken? Chunky Chicken White Chili,” and “Goodness Gracious, That’s Great Goulash!”). J got me her cookbook a while back, and while I’ve tried a few of the recipes, it’s not my absolute favorite. Among the Food Network set, we really like Giada’s “Everyday Italian” book, and my real favorites are some of the little recipe collections I’ve picked up over the years, for instance, a collaboration of recipes put together by Italian American women, many of the recipes copied from their relatives.

But it doesn’t matter that I don’t love the recipes, that I don’t value Rachael’s shows - “30 Minute Meals,” “$40 a Day” - purely for the food content. Her attitude is what I value. The attitude that seems to say she doesn’t care what anyone thinks in a world where style and glamour rule. Rachael Ray reminds me that it’s ok to be passionate and ridiculous and yes, uncool, because it’s going out there and doing that matters, and she’s doing a lot. And she doesn’t care if you’re a pretty bad cook or that you don’t always buy organic or that maybe you’re wearing plaid and neon, she wants you to do it, too.

Before we left my parents’ house after our last trip to DC, I decided to run up to my room and fetch a basket full of my old diaries so I could force upon you, readers, some of the most self-indulgent writing. What better way to attract people to my blog, I thought, than to assault the public with my childish and adolescent ramblings? I thought so. There is no better way.

While some of the later diary entries - those written in various books when I was, oh, between 15 and 18-years-old - are so mortifying I wonder if I’ll dare share them online like this (not because of anything I did, mind you, but because of the non-existent drama I created - believe me, all I was doing was getting decent grades and sneaking sips of gin and juice with my girlfriends), I have decided that the earlier entries are totally suitable, even enlightening.

For instance, this gem from fifth grade, which includes the first inklings of my lifelong hatred of volleyball:

Jan. 11, 1989
School was the same old boring school today. Especially in gym. We played volleyball, again! We have been playing volleyball for at least three weeks now and everyone is getting sick and tired of it. See you tomorrow. BYE!

A lot of my early writing is like this. Explaining what I did in school that day, how many days are left until summer vacation, whether or not my teachers are nice to me. Etc. In other words, some of the most THRILLING prose you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Oct. 6, 1989
Dear Diary, Today is Friday. Tomorrow I’ll be spending the night at Sarah E.’s house with Sarah H. Horseback riding is getting harder but I still like it. BYE!

But on October 15 of that same year, things started to get interesting. On that date, after “J.A.” (junior assembly, for all you barbarians who didn’t have to learn ballroom dancing as 11-year-olds, is where we’d all don white gloves and party dresses and learn how to socialize with young men who were similarly gussied up - you know, just like normal kids), I listed all the boys I danced with. Why did I do this? My guess is a) I realized this would be hysterical to my older self or b) I wanted to pretend that I was more into boys than horseback riding, because that seemed more normal.

This next entry illustrates my keen fashion sense as a pre-teen. And believe me, when I was 11, I was hot. Especially when I got braces. And then had them on for four years.

Oct. 18, 1989
Dear Diary, Hi! Well, here I am again. At this exact moment I am lying on my bed listening to Q107. I’ve been getting pretty good grades. There’s going to be a dance on Friday at St. Stephen’s. It’s going to be from 7:30 to 10:30. Three whole hours! I’m going to wear my pink skirt and my pink sweater and I’ll see if Sarah will put my hair in a French Braid. I can’t wait! BYE! P.S. Horseback riding is great!

What follows is an intense and ridiculous documentation, covering several weeks, regarding what happened at the dance, who I had crushes on (as well as who my friends had crushes on), who liked who, and accounts how we did really, super mature things, like call boys using three-way-calling so that they wouldn’t know one of us was on the line. The one talking would then ask the boy if he liked the one pretending not to be on the phone, so she could get a personal, real-time boost to the ego, or shot to the heart.

Reading the rest of the diary, to tell the truth, is a little bit like torture. Luckily, there are a few bright spots that outshine the hellish, detailed analysis of my “love life,” which consisted of dancing with some boy now and then.

April 10, 1990
I think I’ve found out a way to tell if a boy likes you (I think there are three ways).
1) He acts very shy around you and tries to look good around you.
2) He always tries to be around you and talks to you a lot and talks about you a lot and tries to impress you.
3) He teases you!

There you have it girls, young Cara Rotondaro’s guide to love. Don’t thank me for the amazing advice, just go out and USE IT!

After what seems like several trillion more pages on the always-enthralling world of romance with the gang at St. Agnes middle school, I make this telling observation:

May 16, 1990
You know what’s happening? Every boy I see I try to make a good impression. I guess I’m getting boy crazy.

Do you think?

Towards the end of the diary I get into acting, and treat that subject with as much crazed enthusiasm as I do horseback riding, so the entries are all, “Boys!” “Acting classes!” “HORSES!” and it’s pure joy to reach the end. Of course, I can’t finish the damn thing without a little melodrama directed at the book itself:

Oct. 22, 1990
“What would I do without you? You’re the only one I can tell everything to. You have always been there. I could always count on you.”

Ok, so I was no Anne Frank or anything, at least future generations will have a chance to read true-life coming of age tales delievered by yours truly. Or, they could just read Judy Blume.

This weekend our friends Heather and Vijay got married in a moving, beautiful ceremony, outside on the lawn at a gorgeous house on a perfect fall day. Afterwards there was a live band and a lot of dancing and champagne. All the good wedding stuff.

Since Vijay is Indian the event was a melding of two traditions - a traditional Christian ceremony in which the bride and groom said their vows and shared a first married kiss, as well as a Hindu ceremony, which I loved, and wondered, during the whole thing, why I can’t find a job as a writer where people would just send me to things, like Hindu wedding ceremonies, and have me write about that. Would I eat the cake and drink the wine afterwards? Sure. But the next day I’d get professional and write a kickass story. Anyway.

A few days before the wedding a bunch of women got together for a Mhendi party - that’s where the ladies hang out and have a fabulous time, dance and have their hands painted with henna. Two incredibly talented women painted all our hands while we “ooohhed” and “aaahhed” and talked about how totally great this was and why couldn’t we do it all the time? The henna, in a thick, wet, paste form when applied, eventually dries and falls off leaving a semi-permanent design behind, but until that happens - it takes an hour or so - you’ve got to keep your hand really still. Which made driving stick shift home that night kind of hard and probably really dangerous:

I went to the Verizon store in the mall today to ask about some problems I’ve been having with my phone and had to stand in an incredibly long line, because apparently people besides me are constantly breaking their stuff. We were packed pretty tight in there and an Indian man and his son were standing right in front of me, and they seemed really nice and all, but I’m pretty sure I caught them checking out my henna and my bet is that they were wondering, “Who the hell does that white girl think she is?”

You can see more pictures of all the fun and me trying to be really exotic here.

“If J.R.R. Tolkien were alive today he could sue, like, everybody for stealing his ideas.”

“I know.”

“What did he write besides “The Lord of the Rings” and “The Hobbit”?

“He wrote “The Silmarillion,” which is so incredibly hard to read - it’s, like, the story of this entire world he created, and…”

“Did you read all of them? All of these books?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh-huh. And did you read them while you were playing Dungeons and Dragons?”

“I never played Dungeons and Dragons-”

“I’m just wondering, did you read all these books before or after you’d get together with your friends and play Dungeons and Dragons?”

Uh-oh.

It could, possibly, be funny to engage these guys in war. Blog war.

This past weekend was my ten year high school reunion. It was a great event, and I’m glad I went, but have to admit that my favorite part of the weekend was hanging out with the people I’m already friends with. Don’t get me wrong, it was good to talk to people I hadn’t seen in a while, too. I didn’t even get to break out my “I’m a freelance writer” line because we were all more interested in remembering the times than catching up. That, in the end, seemed far better than trying to impress one another with our new, amazing lives.

One of the highlights of the evening - for me at least - was upon arriving at the reunion (held in a bar in DC) and immediately receiving a few comments on my breasts. Like, that they were bigger than they used to be maybe. While it would have been awesome if these comments had come from people I barely knew, that wasn’t really the case, so don’t get too impressed. Most of the attention came from Matt Johnson, our former class president, and he and I kind of have a history of getting right into the heart of the matter. That’s just how the boy is. And he loves boobs.

Despite the fact that I’m pretty sure my current appearance is based on knowledge I’ve gained in bra technology, and not at all in any actual size increase, I’m still glad it came up. I mean, what more can you ask for at a ten year reunion, right?

I’ve uploaded some pictures from the reunion, a get together at my house, and from when Sarah was in NC earlier that week. Pictures I’ve stolen, by the way, from other people. I didn’t take any, so thanks to Sarah, and all the other people I stole from.

Below is my favorite. When we all sat down for the Class of 1996 group shot, and had to wait there for multiple pictures from multiple cameras, Jennifer and I got bored and decided to make things more interesting - putting our hands on each others’ legs and whatnot, just kidding around. One of the male faculty members there got really pumped and rushed up to take a close up, which goes to show that it doesn’t matter where you are, the thing people are going to be most excited about is even the remote possibility that two girls might make out.

You can see all the pictures here.