A Lovely Wednesday

Yesterday many people celebrated Valentine's Day, I celebrated the fact that it was wednesday and I'm in a great place in my life.

I woke up in Aimee's apartment (I got snowed in the night before) so I got to hang out in her gorgeous apartment, use her super awesome shower, try on all her cute clothes, and have a piece of delicious Mounds Bar cake for breakfast.

On my way to work I found a five dollar bill on the street.

Work was medium busy. I had enough to do so I wasn't bored/feeling worthless, but not so much that I didn't have time to stalk people on the internet and read Gawker and Gofugyourself. Plus I got to snoop around my boss's townhouse, which is always fun.

Two of my absolute most favorite people in the entire universe sent me facebook gifts.

B and I decided to be platonic Valentine's (this worked out a little better for me than her...)

C and I made a pact that the first person WITH an actual-for-realz Valentine owes the other one dinner, theatre tickets, and a night of drinks... posting this pact on my blog is the equivelent of signing something in blood, btw.

My boss's wife bought us cookies that were shaped like corsets and boustieres, making them adorable and delicious.

Circus class! My handstands are improving like crazy which is great. My "bad" side cartwheels are just as good as most people's "good" side. We got to play with poi (those strings that people swing around that are occasionally on fire). My teacher said I had beautiful form on the silk knot and let me try all sorts of fun tricks (Sylvia rarely ever gives any sort of comment beyond "good" or "nice").

I started a new book that, 20 pages in, I already love on the train ride home.

When I got back to my apartment there was a Valentine's day box from Cougar that had conversation hearts, strawberry peeps, a light-up princess necklace, cute black tights and Amy Sedaris's new book in it.

I got laundry done (this is a huge accomplishment)!

I got to go to bed at 10 (see above)!

Today hasn't been as wonderful (in fact, its kind of sucked so far), but that's to be expected because it isn't a holiday.

I love everyone...Happy (belated) Lovely Wednesday to you all.

Let it...whatever

As we're watching the snow falling and accumulating outside the window in the kitchen in my office:

Me: When do you think it's going to stop?
Mary: April.

You're the pride and joy of Illinois...

If you had asked me 3 months ago who played in the Superbowl last year, I probably wouldn't be able to tell you. If you had asked me to name 3 quarterbacks in the NFL, I would maybe be able to come up with two (psych. I'd be lucky if I could get one). If you had said to me last year at this time, "Rachel, in 365 days time you will really, deeply care about a football team to the point of making shirts and fighting with people about their chances come Superbowl Sunday." I probably would have told you to pass the crack pipe.

Times change, people.

It hasn't slipped my attention (mostly because no one will really let it) that my current obsession with the pigskin is downright bizarre. My parents never cared much about the sport (I think mostly because they wouldn't be caught dead cheering for anything that a)came from Baltimore or b)was called the Redskins) and the last time (before this winter) I can remember watching a whole game start to finish was probably junior year of High School when I only did it because it was social suicide not to be seen at a football game--especially if some guy let you wear his jersey.

Sports to me have always been kind of boring, the exception that proves the rule to this is soccer. Watching soccer games has always been a passion in my family, but we're Italian, so that's kind of to be expected. But besides "real football" and girly stuff like ice skating and dancing, sports were always something I could take or leave-- but would really rather just leave and go to a play or something.

This changed sometime in November when Flopsy asked if I wanted to watch the Bears game with her. I said no, leaving out the fact that it had be a solid half-decade since I'd watched more than 16 seconds of a game. I relayed the conversation to A&K who explained that football is kind of a big deal in this town, not that they watched it, but it was. The next time Flopsy asked, I went along, mostly because at this point I had few-to-no friends and so any sort of social interaction was pounced upon by me.

I don't remember who played in the first game we watched, just that we were at Ditkas (I know, could I GET anymore cliche?) and it was probably the most fun I've ever had at a sports bar or perhaps on any Sunday morning.

*note: Why trying to turn people on to the game of football, it should probably be mentioned that watching football is an excellent excuse to get drunk on Sunday mornings, just incase you're looking for one.

After that one game I was hooked. Kind of. I still didn't really understand the nuances of the game. So I did what I do whenever I get obsessed with anything: read as much as I possibly could (see?! I am a total bookworm-geek at heart, all this macho football stuff is just for show). I learned the names of the players, and what exactly a "down" was, useless Bears trivia -- pretty much anything the internet had to offer I ate up with a spoon. For about seventeen seconds one Monday Funday (an excuse to get drunk on Monday night: yet another reason football is the sport for me) I decided I wanted to be a Bears Cheerleader, only to discover they don't have cheerleaders. So I decided I'm going to bring them back...once I'm done, ya know, everything else I want to accomplish.

Is it possible that I wouldn't have gotten this hooked if the Bears didn't have an increadible season? Yeah, its possible. But I doubt it. The games they lost (which were few and far between) crushed my soul a little bit (most notably the one on New Years). And it isn't really the sport that I'm into as the feeling you get when watching it.


I've never lived in a place that was really all about football. When I was a kid, I didn't really care and then I went off to college, and New York just isn't a football town so I never got a chance to experience it the way I have here. The energy of Chicago is so addictive. Most of my favorite moments have been in a bar, watching a game. Even T-bone, who said she didn't give two poops about how the Bears did got caught up in the excitement of the game and when Gould (who will be getting his own blog later...trust me) kicked the field goal in overtime? She went nuts just like the rest of us.

I like that football gives me a sense of belonging here. On every street corner there is a sign or a guy wearing a hat that says "Go Bears." The Art Institute, the fuddy-duddiest joint in town is even going Bears crazy! I can't imagine Giants Helmets on the Lions out front of the NY Public Library. Even the Christian Book Store across the street from my office has a sign saying "Daaaa Bears" in the window. Like my boss said, "If Jesus is cheering for the Bears, the Colts might have a problem." Which lead to:
"If Jesus and the apostles were playing the Bears in the Superbowl, who would win?"
"Depends, is Jesus qb?"

I love that knowing about The Bears and cheering for the Bears makes me feel closer to the people in this town that I'm really, quite quickly totally falling in love with.

Superbowl Sunday promises to be totally nuts. Of course I want The Bears to win, but even if they don't, there's next season!! We get to do this all over again! I could not be more excited.

So no, I can't really explain what came over me...

Perhaps it was the notion of something new and totally different to get excited about (we all need things to get excited about otherwise why get up in the morning?) or a way of bonding with complete strangers or a reason to drink at ungodly hours. Whatever the reason, I'm a Bears fan. I've learned the song and everything.

London, baby!

Call it trip envy or boredom or just missing that other little piece of my soul... On Febuary 21 I'm going to London! For the first time ever!! To visit my other Rachel! And bop around Europe for 4 days! There are not enough exclamation points in the universe right now! I just realized that I'll be missing my last improv class (its no worries, I can make it up later in the week...) for this and I almost don't care.

Gah! London!

Puncture Wounds

After reading Courtney's recent blog about all of her piercing experiences I decided to take time out of my busy phone-answering-diet-coke-drinking-Gawker-reading Day and follow suit. So here it is, my long history with such things. I'll add pictures to this post once they become available (read: when I get home from work).

Elementary School (circa 4th or 5th grade): I am in the mall with my mom and spontaneously ask if I can get my ears pierced. She agrees. We go to Claire's that day. I have a mild panic attack before they do the actual piercing and my mother says to Cool It. I have pierced ears. I am tres grown-up.

A few weeks later: One of my earring holes gets infected. The doctor tells my mom to take it out, failing to mention that the backs of starter earrings are designed to be difficult to get off. My mom proceedes to pull the entire earring through my ear. Pouring blood all over the bathroom (a reoccuring theme in this timeline) and my favorite stuffed rabbit. There is a small part of me that has yet to forgive her.

A few months after that: After wandering around with one earring for a while I get my hole repeirced. I'm not quite sure why my mom let me hang out with just one earring for that fairly long while it took my lobe to heal... I only ever remember it being an issue once in gymnastics class when I had my hair done up in a bun and one of the other girls asked me about it (I spent most of my younger years with my hair down...and I had bangs. Times change, people). I get it repierced and am 600 times more nervous because I now know how bad its going to hurt. My parents go out that night, our babysitter Elizabeth gives me an extra scoop of ice cream for being brave.

Sometime in 8th or 9th grade: My friend Cupcake has entered her, "punk" stage and has taken to piercing her own ears all the time, she asks if I want her to do mine, I say "yes, eventually," and hope she'll forget to ask again.

Fall of 9th grade: One of the first times we go to Maryland Council for Dance (a weekend long affair that was a really great excuse to get out of school early on a friday and hang out in a hotel suite unchaperoned). Cupcake decides that once and for all, I'm getting my ears pierced. We go into the hotel bathroom because its "sterile" (we weren't the brightest kids...) and she puts the needle through my ear at the exact same moment that my dance teacher walks through the door of the suite. The suprise redirects the needle and it nicks some sort of vein causing blood to start dripping. I cup my hand over my ear and hope Dee doesn't notice it (if she does, she never said anything). I halt the piercing.

Spring Break of 9th grade: Continuous peer pressure finally gets to me and at a sleep over at a Pinkie's house, Cupcake pierces 2nd holes in each of my ears. I use the smallest studs possible in the vain attempt that my parents won't notice. There is a picture of this blessed event taking place...if I can find it, I'll add it to this blog. My parents don't notice until one morning I wake up and realize that the stud was too small and my lobe has started to close up over it. I am forced to push it back through and once again, cover my bathroom with blood. My parents notice when my ear starts throbbing.

Note* -- I am constantly having problems with my earring holes, but to the date I have had less problems with the holes that were pierced with safety pin in my friend's bedroom than the one's done at Claire's. Suck it Claire's.

March of 12th grade: It is discovered that in Pennsylvania you only need to be 16 to get piercings without an adult signature (in Maryland it's 18). My mother had expressed her displeasure at the idea of a navel ring, her constant refrain being, "I'll never sign a piece of paper allowing you to get your belly button pierced." I take this as an automatic okay to go ahead and get it done (I think my excuse later was, "Mom, you never signed a piece of paper"). My friends and I go up to the closest Piercing/Tattoo place over the border (the place made a killing from people at my high school, I garantee it). They say that if I don't get my belly button pierced they're leaving me in the parking lot. I get it done. I think I am cool.

A week later: The pain has subsided a little bit, but I am constantly clutching my stomach, prompting my mother to ask if I need to see a doctor. I show her what I have done. We don't speak for awhile...

Note*-- My mother now demands that she be able to see the navel ring in photos of me in my bathing suit and has on occasion called it "cute" though she'll deny ever saying such things until the day she dies.

June of 12th grade: In my final dance recital I decide to flip a metaphoric bird to the dance studio and during an acro dance bust out the worm (instead of what was previously coreographed for me). Later I realize this was a bad idea as my stomach is now smeared with blood.

December of Sophomore Year: Poodle peer pressures me into getting a tattoo. I say okay because I am weak and because I am having a bad semester. It continues to be one of my favorite choices I ever made.

July after Junior Year: I hate my job working with children which is something that up until then I didn't think was possible. On the final day of camp 1 I decide to celebrate by getting my nose pierced. This only comes after I say, "Hey, Teeny, I want to get my nose pierced" and she says, "Yeah okay, You won't." I am mad at myself for sharing with her the powers of, "you won't." I don't tell my parents until I come home to visit, they are not pleased. I instantly become a celebrity to my sister and all of her 12 year old friends.

January of Senior Year: I am told by my oral surgeon that I have to take out my nose ring when he takes out my wisdom teeth. Then in the middle of a vicious allergy attack in the middle of the night, I manage to pull out the stud without even waking up. I realize how attached I am to the thing when I desperatly try to re-pierce it with a needle and (wait for it) draw blood.

Febuary of Senior Year: I repierce my nose and it hurts twice as bad as it did the first time. It also becomes infected almost immediatly and I wonder if I should get it repierced. I decide to just deal with it because the piercing hurts too bad.

Note*-- I am still amazed at the fact that I managed to pull my nose ring out and not wake up. Sometimes even now I'll hit it the wrong way and the pain will be insanely ridiculious.

Present: I currently have earrings in my first holes after a long stretch of not wearing earrings at all. I can't remember the last time I wore earrings in my second holes, but will occasionally stab one through them to make sure they're still open. I haven't done this recently, so for all I know they could be closed at this point. I still have in the same nose ring that I got it pierced with (both times). I sometimes put in a clear retainer, but think that it looks stranger than just having a silver stud in. Have considered at times taking the nose ring out since it's become soooo effin' mainstream, but really like the way it looks on my ugly face. My belly button ring has been in continuously since I got it pierced (almost 6 years ago)! I love it. I don't care that saggy post-pregnancy women have it now too. I think its adorable (see also the tat). I have at times considered piercing: my tragus, cartilage or nipple (just for the story) but always decide to wait until a moment that needs to be commemorated to do anymore damage to my body.

Just in case you were curious...

I can totally do this now. Circus class is awesome. Other things I can do:

Walk on a globe.
Walk on stilts
Do fancy tricks on the trapeze
A front handspring

The more you know...

How much does laziness cost?

$60.

That's how much its going to cost to have some grumpy bear-sized man deliver my new bed up to my new apartment.

Totally worth it, if you ask me.

Also, I am now a bed-owner. How v. grown-up.

Shmesolutions

And so 2007 begins. It has taken all of my strength not to crawl under my desk and die today. I thought that this whole, "fly back in the morning, go straight to work" thing was an excellent plan. What I didn't factor in was the fact that I was going to feel like baked asshole for pretty much the entire day yesterday (and the fact that I've pretty much been on a drink, sleep, eat chocolate bender for the past week and a half). New Years Eve pretty much kicked my ass upside down and sideways. I fell off a barstool. That's how hard it kicked my ass. I decided to fight with gravity and gravity won (as it usually does).

Anyway at some point after the two pitchers of sangria and before I told one boy that he had to give me his mardi gras beads and another that I hoped he died a miserable death in the next fifteen minutes (I was trying to talk to Christine via cellphone! Do not try to have conversations with me when I am on my cellphone, particularly when I'm talking to Teeny-pants) there were jell-o shots.

A LOT of Jell-o shots.

We decided during the sangria and tapas (aka respectable) part of the evening that the best bet for the less-respectable part of the evening would be a fun lil divey bar in Adams Morgan (or Ad Mo, as I have just decided I'm going to call it...see also: North Fruit Loop) called Millie and Al's. Millie and Al's is my favorite bar in DC for one simple reason: $1 Jell-o Shots. The only thing better? Free jell-o shots.

This plan was cememnted when we realized that Millie and Al's had no cover. NO COVER! On New Years! Someone wants me to be happy! About 15 seconds after we had staked our claim on a fine piece of bar real estate the $1 jell-o shots light went on. I dropped a Jackson and we were on our way.

20 jell-o shots. 3 girls. Happy New Years to us.

C, because she is by far the most Suzy High-school of the thrio of us decided that for every shot we had to make a resolution. Here are mine (although I think the tally was up to 9 shots by the end of the night I think we got Courtney drunk enough that she stopped hounding us about it so we only made half a dozen or so).

1- Have a successful, healthy romantic relationship that lasts a substantial amount of time (although, that's asking a lot of me and the men of Chicago...I think that on NYE I said a month, I'm scaling that back to 2 weeks. Baby steps, people).

2- Have some mindblowingly good sex that ALSO makes me forget the english language (apparently these things are mutually exclusive)

3- Get an acting job. Any acting job (that doesn't require me to take off my clothes).

4- Learn to accept compliments instead of argue with them

5- Buy Pants. Really good pants. Mindblowing pants.

6- Stop dwelling on Matt Demos (oh wait...)

7- Solve all of C's problems by sleeping with the cute kid in her grad program, thus breaking up him and his girl friend and allowing Courtney to swoop in and be his new lovah.

8- World Peace.

Happy 2007. May you only write 2006 on all documents until mid-March.

Whoops

It is 3:06 in the morning, central standard time. I have not slept since last night when I managed to squeek in a few hours of shut eye between being shit-faced drunk with my bosses and faxing, messengering, and answering phones for my bosses. I am beyond tired right now. All I want to do is sleep. For a solid 8 hours, maybe even 10. I haven't gotten 8 hours of sleep (in a row) since last Thursday night (I think, although, I can't really remember that far back. Apparently drinking your birth weight in vodka and cranberry kills all of your short term memory). The reason I am still awake is that in 4 hours I'm boarding a plane for sweet, sweet Maryland. Land of crabcakes, football, hot cousins, people I still refer to as sophomores even though they're graduating from college this year, my family, a vast majority of my friends, 7/8ths of my wardrobe including a pair of boots I've wanted to wear at least three times since I've been in Chicago, Christmas, relaxation, uhhhh, other stuff too, I guess (did I mention that I am drunk right now? this is my first -- of what I'm sure will be many-- drunk blog, eat it up. yum).

Anyway, I'm trying to keep myself awake, except that my godmother and her bf are asleep like normal people so I can't play the music or watch the television I'm left with the internet, which should be fine except for the fact that I spend all day every day on the internet, and I think I've kind of run out of things to look at.

The upside is that my cab is coming at 5, it is now 3:14 and I still have to change my clothes (I decided against wearing my slutty going out clothes on the plane, much to all of the other passengers' chagrin I'm sure) so, I really only have like an hour of this inanity left. In fact, I could push up my cab to 4:30 so I'll have an extra 30 minutes of play time in the airport. Play time meaning that I can sleep there because it'll be someone else's job to make sure I'm awake in time to catch the plane.

Other fun things about my travels in the coming hours: I'm using my brand new uber-WASPy Vera Bradley duffle for the first time. I feel like it should come with some tennis whites and trust fund, but sadly it does not. It does have a handy side pocket for things like my wallet and cell phone.

I will be wearing Navy Blue, and black, and brown in my traveling ensemble. Wait, wait, let me explain: I have this amazing hoodie from the Gap that's extra long with a 2-way zipper and is just the best thing ever, so I want to wear it. Then, because it's going to be forty-effin-six degrees the entire time I'm home I decided against bringing my winter coat, opting instead for one of my other favorite pieces of clothing, my navy blue Gap down vest. I wear it as much as humanly possible. It may have been the best thing that came out of visiting Courtney the week before I moved to Chicago (kidding, the best thing about that weekend was Daniel Vosavic, obvi). And, my favorite shoes to travel in for a myriad of reasons, boiling down to -- they're comfortable and are easy to get on and off for those pesky check in things are my black chucks. So there you have it. The fashionable women of yore are turning over in their graves at the thought of such an atrosity, but its 5 am and I regret not putting more thought into making sure that my 3 most favorite pieces of clothing all matched each other.

Also, I still don't really know what's gonna happen when I land in Maryland. I mean, I know I'll be there but beyond that I'm not sure what the plan is. Right now I'm taking the MARC train into DC but who knows at this point. Maybe I'll just spend Christmas at BWI. Its a nice airport, small, but with a fair number of Hudson News Stands and coffee marts.

Does anyone want to hang out with me on Boxing Day? It is the only day in the entire week after Christmas that I have nothing planned. Which means I should spend it packing and bonding with the siblings I now only see three to four times a year, but instead I'll probably sleep until 3 and then watch West Wing on the couch until someone puts some food in front of me.

I just had to save this post to Microsoft word because I'm having issues with my wireless connection, and I know somewhere in the far-away bit of my mind that this blog is probably the best thing I have ever written and if it gets deleted because of some trick of the internet gods' I will be very, very sad.

All I want for Christmas is to not have to climb the 400 stairs at the Woodley Park Zoo- Adams Morgan metro stop on New Years. There is only one person who can make this happen. Her name rhymes with Yourtney Cates.

Hahaha, the alarm I set back at 8:30 when I thought I was going to be drinking the entire night just went off. Yeah, I was back in my house by 12:30. How did I screw this up? I was supposed to have a crazy effin' night of partying. Oh yeah, I know how...uhh, my bffaeae skipped out to go to bed because she has "work" tomorrow (by which of course I mean today) and there were no suitable men at any of the bars we went to this evening and the boy that I am blindly chasing decided he was going to home after a 15 hour work day. Which is fine, I guess. However, someone should make it known to boys that it is much, much harder for girls to be cute and flirty and fun if you go home at midnight. Come on now.

Silver lining? I spent no money tonight. Not a dime and I am drunk (I may have mentioned that). That is a sucessful evening.

Okay, we've passed the 3:30 mark which means its time to change, call the cab company, straighten up my room and figure out where I put my purse when i walked in a few hours ago.

Thanks for coming on this magical holiday journey with me.

Happy Holidays.

What did I do with those ruby slippers?

I want to go home. To Maryland. I want to sleep on my uncomfortable twin bed in my closet-sized bedroom. I want wear all my clothes from High School that I just can't bear to throw away. I want to have nothing to do. I want to make my friends come pick me up like I did for them back in High School. I want to wake up to notes written by my Mom on the backs of envelopes in red felt-tip pen reminding us to empty the dishwasher and feed the cats. I want to spend absurd amounts of time on the couch watching movies with Buffy asleep on my stomach. I want to fall asleep reading The Wolves of Willoughby Chase and all my other favorite books from childhood. I want to be close to everyone, an hour away close. I want to go to the Met, to Velvet Lounge, Market Street Cafe. I want to fight with my siblings. In person. I want to debate going back to my high school and then decide I'm not that much of a dork. I want to debate going to Dee's then decide its not worth the muscle strain from all the fake-smiling. I want to use dial up internet.

Okay, not so much that last one. But, I'm getting that homesick feeling I get when I know I'm about to go home. I really do like Chicago and there is some fun stuff coming up in the next week and a half (Circus class! Office Christmas Party! Improv show! Bears Game!) and I do have other stuff going on to pass the time (full time office work! The quest for the perfect pair of New Year's shoes!) but it doesn't matter. Even though I know that after 48 hours in Maryland I'm going to want to strangle everyone in my family and wish that I was anywhere BUT home, I still wish I was home now.

As I've gotten older its gotten harder and harder to plan going home and its started to feel less like a vacation and more like a contest to see how many people I can manage to see in the space of 7 days. I keep moving things around, making plans, canceling plans, telling my mom she's coming to pick me up at BWI, deciding that it would be better to just take the MARC train, mentally packing my carry on, hoping that my bag is small enough to carry on, trying to figure out how I'm getting all my presents home, attempting to plan a party with my brother, having an internal moral dilema about drinking with my brother and all of his underage friends...

I'm weary. I just want to go home.

Someone out there is a dream-reader

I'm a little behind, I know, but I just discovered that George Clooney and John Krasinski are doing a movie together. Buh! My two lobsters sharing a movie screen! The only thing that could make this movie any more dream-ier is if they cast Michael Vartan in it too. If that happened...I just...like...my mind just exploded thinking about the sheer hotness that would radiate. I seriously think that if they put that trio together the sun would just give up. The sun would be like, "You got Clooney, Jim and Michael Vartan? Eff that, I'm out!" The only thing left to do is put a hit out on Renee Zell-sucks-at-life and drug the casting director so he'll hire me in her place.

Other things that need to be discussed (while I have your attention), are my on-going issues with Studio 60. I really (really) want to like this show but I really (really) think they need to 86 Harriet. Stat. As someone who loves nothing more than a boy shoving her up against a wall sticking his tongue down her throat, particularly at inopportune/suprising moments (ie backstage), the fact that Harriet could not pull it together on National-frickin'-live television shows how useless she really is. I mean, come on! I get that we have to show the imbeciles still watching this show (Oh yeah, ps, Thanks Aaron Sorkin for writing as though the people who really want your show to succeed (so are still watching it) are retar-tars. We really appreciate it!) that Harriet is shocked (shocked! I tell you) that her ex-boyfriend who is seething with jealousy would do such a crazy thing as kiss her...but she's a professional and she's allegedly got some comedic/improvisational background and so should be quite good at not being a stupid, flighty girl. Let's be real here.

Though, in an effort of full disclosure, I did get a little misty eyed at the whole New Orleans musicians thing. You can't do a rendition of "O Holy Night", particularly a jazz one, with such kitchy-sad story line, that isn't going to make me just a wee bit weepy. You win that one Sorkin, and the one where Josh (rather creepily) tells Jordan that he is "coming after" her and then tells her to chew her sandwich, just because, a mouth full of food is kind of always funny. But thats it! No more playing on the fact that I love sad Christmas Carols and secretly want a boy to tell me to get ready to fall in love with him.

So now I'm going to spend the rest of the day pretending that instead of Josh it was Jim-from-the-Office (much easier to pronouce than his real name) giving that speech and the girl with the sandwich wasn't so much Jordan as it was me. Guh. He is so my lobster.

Of course...

This might be the most unflattering picture of all time. I'm tall and gorgeous. Don't these quiz people know that?

Smart, sexy, and sassy, both the press and other staffers know not to mess with Claudia Jean. A natural at her job, the press secretary is sensitive toward women's issues and stands up for 'the Sisterhood.' Her wit and one-liners along with her lip synching ability are known across the land.


:: Which West Wing character are you? ::

wa-hoo!

For awhile I thought I wasn't going to make it. The third week there, it was rough going for awhile. If it hadn't been for the Friday after Thanksgiving where I punched out somewhere between 9,000 and 10,000 words, I have no idea what would have happened.

This year was much harder because there was a lot more going on in life. Instead of temping, which is basically paid writing time, I'm actually doing real work and spending big chunks of time away from my computer. It was also hard because I think I picked a subject I wasn't really ready to write about. There are parts of the novel that I really love and think could really go somewhere. But it tore at my soul putting some events in there. This is especially true with the scene that I stopped in the middle of writing as I hit 50,000 words. I don't really know if I can finish writing. I know its good to get it out there but it hurts all the same.

Whatevers. I'm done. Doooone. Woot. Its good to be me.

Big fat congrats go out to my fellow NaNoers.
Olga, Liz (the girl from my cicus class), Kaylie (the daughter of a friend of Kevin's who is 14!!! and doing this) and of course, my number one writing buddy - Miss Courtney. I couldn't have done it without you, Boo.

Who's ready for 2007?

Dear Santa,

In case anyone is having some difficulty coming up with christmas present ideas for little old me. This should do it.

Shennanigans at the Rest Home

This post requires visual proof, because you will not believe all the events that transpired on what was supposed to be a sleepy, Sunday dinner with friends. I don't have pictures yet...when I do, be sure that I will post them. Just so you, dear reader, will have irrefutable proof that this actually happened (it happened to me and I'm having trouble believing it).

Some backstory: For the past month and half I've been living with my super cool godmother (A) and her super cool boyfriend (K). They're your average middle-age hippy-dippy artsy-fartsy types. They drink lots of wine, recycle all their old jars, buy organic, their house is covered in art and books. They're the kind of people I want to grow up to be someday. Their friends are the same sort of people.

Sunday evening A,K, and I were invited to eat "beef and cruicferious vegtables" (I told you they were kinda weird) at their friends C&C's home. When we got to C&Cs' house I was not particularly suprised to discover that the 7 of us (A,K, C&C, A&P and me -- initals used to protect the not-so-innocent) would be dining at a ping pong table with an indian print table cloth throw on top of it. Because, in the past month, I've kind of stopped being suprised by how different some people my parents age are from my parents.

We eat shrimp, and various things dipped in hummus and go through a few bottles of wine before we sit down to dinner. Dinner is quite a delicious affair, beef and salad, and promised cruciferious veggies, with garlic bread and perhaps other yummy things I don't remember because not only were we eating we were continuing to drink wine. So! Full of yummy food and several sheets to the proverbial wind, we come around to the fact that we're eating at the ping pong table. How entertaining and avante guard of us! And for some reason (read: I'm drunk) I say something along the lines of,

"Yea, I've only ever played beer pong at a ping pong table."

None of the other people (having not gone to college in the past fifteen years) have ever heard of the game of beer pong. Which means I have to explain it. And I have to explain that there are geographical standards and practices. That rules change depending on which college campus you're playing on. The elders are facinated. So, for some reason (read: I'm still drunk) I go on to explain flip cup to them. And Canoe races. At this point I am bright pink with embarrasement (I mean, have you ever explained to a bunch of people, including the woman in charge of your spiritual guidance, the "bitches blow" rule?)

So, the plates are cleared and we've eaten dessert and are hanging out drinking coffee when someone (I swear to God, it totally wasn't me) has decided that they want to play this new fangled game of "beer pong."

"Well, you need red solo cups and cheap beer."
"We have those."

So this is how, at 10:20 last night I was setting up red solo cups, filling them with Old Style (C had suggested Heinekin and I had to explain to her that Heiniken is way to classy for a game of beer pong) and telling K that he was going to be on C's team, P had already dibbed me, even though I suck at beer pong (this is true, I'm horrible at it. I'm dynomite at flip cup though). What came next was the surrelist game of beer pong in the history of my entire life (perhaps the entire universe).

Its three people who were alive when JFK was shot and me playing "Chicago Style" (their phrase, not mine) beer pong while all of their significant others stood around watching (if they weren't in the living room watching Boston Legal or you know, cashing in social security). Go ahead and picture that. No seriously, shut your eyes and imagine playing beer pong with a bunch of your parents' friends.

It was a close game, P and I lost. Then, because I made fun of him, C chucked a ping pong ball at my nose. That's right. Threaten a guy's manhood and he will get violent. At any age.

I'm waiting for someone (anyone?!) to e-mail me pictures. Which I will then post. Because you really need to see this to believe it.

Thanksgiving day gloat

Here is what I am currently thankful for:

The current weather forecast for Middletown, MD: Cloudy with few showers. 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Feels like 39 degrees.

The current weather forecast for Chicago, IL: Partly cloudy with a 10% chance of precipitation. 57 degrees Fahrenheit. Feels like 54 degrees.

Hahahaha. Suckahs.

Mail bag

Dear Sarah Paulson,

Please stop being on Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. You're ruining everything. I'm sure you're a super nice person and a great actress but you are distroying this show. So please, just stop.

Love and Kisses,
Rachel

Biannual PSA

Alrighty bitches, you know what day it is. It is voting day. If you haven't already done it (which I have, thankyou) go out and get your vote on. A wise woman once told me that you are statistically more likely to get laid if you vote. I don't know if this is actually true, but you're more likely to have a government that:

a) says you can love/marry anyone you like
b) gives you the right to do with your body what you think is right
c) won't make you go to war against your will

Think about it people, in the wise words of one Miss CJ Cregg, "decisions are made by those who show up. You gotta rock the vote." (okay, its possible someone else said this before her, but she's who I remember saying it). Its just that simple, if you don't vote, you can only blame yourself if something doesn't go the way you want it to in the federal, state or local government. And this being a mid-term election, most people don't think it is as important, but people it is just as, if not MORE, important to vote in this one because if you know anything about government, you know that technically the legislative branch (aka Congress) is the one with all the power. Tragically, in the past few years it has appeared that the executive branch has been the one making all the decisions, and really...its kinda true, so, fix it! Make the House and the Senate the ones with the speaking power so that in TWO years (not next year like some people coughcoughJohnGrandicoughcough think) we can fix the Presidency too.

Thus endth the lecture.

Go vote.

Do it.

Now.

101 in 1001 Update

I am very much regretting not dating the completion of things. But I'll try to go back and put dates in where I can.
1. Finish reading Long Walk to Freedom June 27, 2006
2. Join a union (not super picky at this point which one)
3. Have a healthy romantic relationship that lasts a substantial amount of time (at least a month)
4. Have photographs published July 17, 2005 I should have been more specific regarding whether they were pictures of me or pictures I took, but we're on a deadline here.
5. Get a mac
6. Live in an apartment for more than 12 months September 2005. 46 Underhill. Good times.
7. Go to Vegas
8. Go to at least 2 more foreign countries (repeats don’t count)
9. Graduate from college June 1, 2006
10. See a dermatologist Feb 27, 2006 Best choice I ever made.
11. Go to a Yankee game
12. Go to at least three concerts
13. Sing kareoke in a bar November 11, 2006
14. Get my second tattoo
15. Finish reading all of Margaret Atwood’s books. She needs to stop writing books if this is ever gonna get done!
16. Dance on a bar October 1, 2006. Thanks Rose and Crown for that delightful send off!
17. Start paying my school loans
18. Go to LA
19. Go to Chicago April 21, 2006
20. Learn to cook at least one decent grown up meal I make a mean Chicken Parm, with penne and wild greens.
21. Host a dinner party
22. Stand up to a guy and tell him how it is (I did this once, but I think I need practice)
23. Do another show at the Maryland Ensemble Theatre
24. Find a new agent
25. Buy a black blazer
26. Get new head shots
27. Go see a taping of "The Daily Show"
28. Get another piercing
29. Learn to hem my own pants
30. See myself in a feature film (not necessarily on a big screen because just because I’m in it doesn’t mean I’ll drop $10 to see it)
31. Get the zipper on my green bag fixed
32. Fill my ipod October 28, 2006
33. Buy a real bed
34. Go to a WNBA game
35. Do more community service work
36. Help Cougar throw that yard sale we’ve been talking about for years. May 20, 2006
37. Go white water rafting again
38. Lose 15 pounds (and keep it off)
39. Learn to make a classy cocktail
40. Have that photo-picnic in the park I’ve been wanting for years
41. Stand on a Broadway stage
42. Clean out my mom’s attic
43. Buy a bookshelf
44. Organize all my photographs
45. Visit Nantucket and hang out with people my own age who aren’t related to me Summer 2006.
46. Get digital Webshots pictures printed
47. See myself on TV again (and try not to look like a dimwit with poor posture)
48. Re-master my right split, attempt to master my left split
49. Take another trapeze class
50. Drive across the country
51. Go to South Africa again
52. Do at least one dance audition with confidence
53. Get an internship at a theatre company
54. Live somewhere other than New York or Maryland/D.C. Nantucket, 2006.
55. Go to the Village Halloween parade This is half done. I walked through it and realized that wow! Crazy Pants! and walked out again.
56. Use that gift certificate for free dinner for 4 for that Italian restaurant in Bethesda
57. Get highlights
58. Get a hair cut I can manage and don’t hate.
59. Get a bikini wax
60. See way, way, way more theatre including "Ave. Q", and "Lion King"
61. Find a really great hat that looks great on me that I can rock any time
62. Send away something I’ve written
63. Learn to play poker
64. Either get a new remote or a new TV and figure out how to hook up my dvd player and my cable box
65. Wear my gorgeous green dress a whole bunch of times Maggie's wedding, New Years, Granny's 75th Bday, Dad's 50th bday. Mom's 50th bday Love it!
66. Tone my arm muscles
67. Watch all of Roman Holiday without falling asleep
68. Whiten my teeth
69. Go to Prospect Park while I still live in Brooklyn
70. Learn what all the abbreviations in baseball mean
71. Become a decent New York City tour guide
72. Go to the dive bar down the street from my apartment, Soda March 24, 2006
73. Start playing soccer again (even if it’s only pick-up games)
74. Do something wonderful for my parents (both of them. But separately)
75. Get rid of all the gift cards that are hanging out in my wallet (by spending them)
76. Have at least one non-miserable Valentine’s Day
77. Wear that kinda crazy beaded shirt with the fairy on it out at least once
78. Donate Blood
79. Join a gym
80. Take swing/ballroom dance classes
81. Bet on the ponies
82. Have an incredibly fabulous 21st birthday thanks to all of my friends. It was a month long celebration of Awesomeness.
83. Have someone teach me the finer points of football
84. Go to Gillette Castle, we went when I was little but I don’t have a visual memory of it.
85. Buy a beautiful and expensive piece of jewelry that I am in love with
86. Climb the Washington Monument, the Statue of Liberty and the Sears tower (read: get over my fear of heights)
87. Live in a bedroom that I have painted
88. Be scandalous in a bar
89. Continue to be scandalous on New Year’s Eve
90. Get a subscription to a grown-up magazine (read: not Cosmo) October 2006, Dad got me a subscription to the New Yorker
91. Get back in touch with my pen-pal Jessie
92. Make enough money to survive doing only what I love (read: not temping/waitressing/working retail at least for like a month or so)
93. See every Oscar Best Movie nominee in a year (before the awards show)
94. Flit off to some place tropical for a weekend November 16, 2005
95. Take enough dance classes to warrant buying new shoes
96. Buy a stereo (or just any kind of cd player that isn’t also my laptop or my dvd player)
97. Find a print of the Dali painting I saw at the Elsa Schiaparelli exhibit
98. Have more male friends who aren’t gay
99. Take an improv class or join an improv group UCB-style. And Cornbread. Ahhh-may-zing.
100. Buy one pair of really awesome jeans that look amazing, are the right length and I can breathe in (the last one isn’t a deal breaker)
101. Get my pink shoes fixed

A Chicago Update, Or Why Reading The Historian was a bad idea...

I am still in Chicago. It is still cold sometimes. Though sometimes it is actually quite warm, in fact, I ran around on Saturday in flip flops. Well, technically, I did not run. I kind of meandered slowly to and from brunch trying not to move my head around too much as I was still recouperating from the previous night's shennanigans...

A Back Story:

I am fairly apathetic when it comes to vampires and vampire lore. I never read Dracula or a single Anne Rice book, I never saw any of the movies, I think I've only ever put in those fake teeth once...

I bought The Historian because it was on sale for $7.99 in hardback at Borders and a great deal of people had told me it was an excellent book. I think I had some idea in the back of my mind that it was about Dracula but I was mostly focused on how it was supposed to be good and I needed a new book to read.

Fast forward to the past week where I have been racing through The Historian like a monster (it helps that I have no job, no friends and no real responsibilites to speak of). I started having the craziest dreams. None of them were nightmares about vampires or really had anything to do with the undead at all, but I found corellations between the dreams and things that were happening in the book. Example: Many of the places that they visit are large castles/monestaries that are near large bodies of water. I started having dreams about large bodies of water and walking around in huge buildings (ie castles) and they didn't so much scare me as totally freak me out. I am really enjoying the book and learning all this fun new stuff.

Jump to Friday when I am going out with a friend from NYC, E and all of her new PhD buddies. We start drinking at like 5 which, I am now realizing wasn't the greatest idea ever. But we needed to catch up, and by catch up I mean get really drunk with each other and retell all our favorite scandalous South Africa stories (and between the two of us, there are a bunch). We drink at a resturant, then at a bar, then we end up at this club that looks and feels like a Midwestern rip off of a tres-trendy bar in NYC, both named Apartment (well, technically in NYC its called Apt. but whatever). So we're drunk and dancing and generally having a great time and E starts dancing with a guy and wanders off with him. Her friend comes up and asks where she is and I say, "Oh [E]? I think she ran off with a vampire."

Yea, it kinda just came out like that and I spent the rest of the night very sure that this kid was a vampire. Not joking, I actually was dead serious that this kid (who was Eastern European and had a dark sinister look to him) was a real actual vampire. This deep seated belief in me probably had something to do with the 7 or so beers I'd had that evening; but it was still there.

And so THEN! (Yea, there's more. Sorry, this story is totally for Courtney, who could have just gotten it in an e-mail, but its pretty hysterically ridiculous, I figured I should share it with the general public) last night A and K, my guardians/landlords throw a dinner party and they and all their approaching-middle-age-ish friends get trashed. So I join in and we're running through bottles of wine like they're water and we're in the Sahara and someone holds up a bottle and the first thing that comes to my mind is, "Thats vampire wine." I manage to keep the thought to myself (but just barely) but can not stop staring at the label and I'm thinking, "Seriously, that is vampire wine."

And so we're gonna see how long this vampire trend lasts...and fyi, the ending of the book? So very, very disappointing. Also, my godmother and I are all wrapped up in the fact that Elizabeth Kostova is way, way, way too pretty to be a librarian.

Anyway. My first week and a half in Chicago have been a success. I have a job that starts in early November teaching dance, theatre and gymnastics to 1-8th graders and if you know anything about me, you know this is one of the most perfect jobs for me ever. Tragically it's only about 6 hours a week and so I do need a second job for which I am "searching" (I really am, but it doesn't actually feel like work since I don't get up until 11:30 and I do it in my pajamas). Now that I can use the internet in my house (sometimes, right now it's kind of being a bitch) I don't even really have a reason to get out of my pajamas ever for awhile I was going to the public library, and for that I felt I should put on some pants, if only because vampires are way more likely to come after you if you live in your pajamas.

rainy day sunshine

Chicago is cold. It is cold cold cold. Now that I have accepted this I can move onto other things. The starting is slow here. Today was my first actual day that didn't feel like a vacation. It was as productive as one can expect with my affinity towards procrastination.

I am maybe-sorta-probably enrolled in the coolest sounding acting class ever.

I have two potential improv classes that I'm waiting to hear back from before I sign up.

I have a job application from the 'Bucks... my reasoning for such a low-esteemed job being as follows: health insurance, flexable schedule, health insurance, close to my house, health insurance, free coffee, health insurance, v. little thinking involved, and health insurance.

Tragically none of my acting classes will start before the end of the month (unless I end up in one of the improv classes that starts this week, in which case I will have really jumpstarted things).

I still need to find a headshot photographer, but Annie and Kevin say they have a guy who will do it well and for cheap which is nice because neither food nor acting classes grow on trees aparently.

I already miss living with people my own age, although I'm sure this will change once I get out there and make friends. There's a concert tonight, one of my new favs is singing and yet, I'm probably not gonna go, simply because the codependent in me can not imagine what one does when they go to a show by themeselves.

I'm getting impatient, simply because thats one of my habits, but I've done okay for one day...Also, the mere idea of taking a circus class is gonna keep me feeling warm and snuggly until I actually get to take it.

Sweet Home Chicago

Okay, I'm officially (well, as officially as I'll ever be) a resident of the fine city of Chicago. I have a bedroom, housemates (my godmother and her boyfriend, both supercool) and 3 cats (Squid, Agnes and Miller). I have two tentative dates with the closest thing to friends I have in the city. So far I've found dill pickle potato chips and diet Cherry Coke in a 20 oz bottle, plus a winter coat, boots, and a really great thrift store. On my first morning it snowed and hailed as a little test to see if I would run screaming back into the warm embrace of Maryland. But nope...I'm a little stronger than that.

I Hate Moving, part 34573458

I am *giant exhale of relief* done packing for the 4th time since late May. I am still in my pjs, I stink, and I've been mainlining coke zero and caramel hershey kisses for the past 48 hours but it doesn't really matter because tomorrow I embark on yet another journey into the unknown.

This journey is a little different...first of all, I'm moving to a new time zone! I will be all alone in this new world of everything-one-hour-earlier. Everyone I love sits comfortably in Eastern while I'll be out there in Mountain or Central or one of those middle ones. Plus, I have NO safety net. This will be the first move where I have no job, or school, or given purpose for being there. For the first time in my whole (very short) life I'll have to find my own purpose.

Thats kind of fucking terrifying.

But I'll be fine. I had a wonderful last week in the Eastern standard thanks to Courtney, Daniel Vosovic, Jon, the casts of Carmen (the opera) and The Last King of Scotland (the movie), various delivery men in Queens, Uggs, the crepe guys, the fine people at Gap, Tierra, Lizzie, Niki, the bartender at Fado, Annie, Taryn, Moira and the folks over at the Monocacy Goodwill.

And Courtney gets one more shout out for not passing judgement on the Uggs, the fact I wear kids clothes, the fact that I flipped my shit over Daniel Vosovic, the fact that I have to change clothes like 6 times and many more things I'm sure.

And the moral of the story is...

*I posted this over on livejournal, but then realized its much more fun and less dreary than my last post, so it's going here too.

A moment can't be an actual moment unless some sort of learning happens. So as I sit surrounded by mounds and mounds of crap I apparently own, fending off the worst hangover ever (damn you tgi fridays), and refusing to be actually productive I give you some of the potential morals that came out of this summer:


Remember how fucking fabulous you are or no one else will.

Drinking tequila out of a water glass will probably cause you to make bad choices that'll make you feel really, really good.

Never believe the hype, particularly in regards to attractive guys, after parties, or $60 shirts.

A guy who thinks he dresses better, is probably a total fucking douche bag.

Wearing heels on cobblestones everyday does not make you a better person, infact, it makes you kind of stupid (Hello! They're cobblestones, why put your ankles through that?).

There is nothing wrong with hating someone for not being able to tell a story well.

There isn't anything wrong with getting up and walking out of the room in the middle of the never ending sucky story either.

Good friends take your keys, your cellphone and you out to lunch the day after they've put your drunk ass to bed.

Great friends don't make fun of you the next morning...after anything, except for maybe when you started throwing french fries.

The best friends don't judge even when you total deserve judgement.

Nice guys are probably actually only nice guys, like, 56% of the time. The rest of the time they're just as sucky as all the other ones who wear their suckiness on their sleeves.

A good night's sleep is probably better than whatever you're doing that keeps you up until 5:30 in the morning...probably...

Drunk text messaging is always a bad idea, even when it seems like a great idea.

Pinching people's butts to get their attention in the middle of a crowd works all the time.

Girls are funny, probably funnier than boys, its just that no one gives them a flippin' chance.

Wearing a captain's hat at a bar full of drunk, horny people will probably get you laid.

Being a girl in a bar full of drunk, horny people will probably get you laid.

Family can bond over anything, but hot doctors on TV are always the best bet.

A shot of Dr. McGillacudys (I'm not gonna pretend to know how to spell that) will never taste as good as you think it will. It will always taste like a shot of Aquafresh toothpaste....but you will do it anyway.

Wearing raggedy underwear when you go out increases the chances that someone will see them by about 40%.

Life is normally better after two or three Life is Goods.

Faraway friends are always the best for a little perspective.

There is nothing wrong with a redheaded slut. Or six for that matter.

An 'I hate penises' night every few months will do a girl some serious good.

If you throw a girl in a puddle, you will have to make out with her.

A little longer...

So I've had this old camp song running through my head the past few days. We always sang it at the last camp fire of the week and it always made me cry. I don't remember much of it but I remember the chorus:

Mmm-hmm I want to linger
Mmm-hmm A little longer
Mmm-hmm A little longer here with you

Mmm-hmm-hmm-hmmm

It's such a perfect night
Mmm-hmm It doesn't seem quite right
Mmm-hmm That it should be my last with you

Mmm-hmm-hmm-hmm



Its better when its actually sung, and even then there isn't much too it, but its kind of how I'm feeling. How I felt last night and this morning and now, as I sit in Logan Airport utilizing their very expensive wireless trying to figure out where my summer went.

It wasn't the most amazing summer, it wasn't everything I let myself dream it would be, but it was my summer. It helped me discover who I am and what I want and it got me ready for that big, scary world I'm heading out into.

The last month has been so strange. Ever since I came back from my brief sojurn to Maryland, everything has been slightly skewed and twisted and left me missing all the beautiful people I had been so anxious to leave to get back to my island paradise.

I've spent the last 30 days counting down to this moment and now that its here I realize that I didn't make the most of it when I had it. I should have said things, done things, spent less time in bed, spent less time in bars, made more bad choices, made more good choices, and really just experienced and embraced the time I was given instead of fighting it.

The fourteen days have lingered, perfumed with confusion and yelling and tears and (what else?) bad choices. They've just sat there, in bars, with half empty coronas and flip flops with long sleeved shirts.

Then last night it was the last night. The last night of laughing about jokes that aren't really funny, the last night of being mean, of stupid pictures and cheese-y waffle fries and I realized that that's all Nantucket it is. It's lingering. Nothing really happens. It's an island...what can happen??

My favorite nights on the island were spent doing nothing, being nowhere, and I didn't appreciate them until now...when they're gone.

I spend my whole life waiting for the next big thing to happen, even if it's as small as seeing naked McSteamy on my TV (OMG, can we discuss???) and antisipating whats gonna happen next week, and now I get that on Nantucket it's not about that. Its about lazy mornings, and "nantucket time" and appreciating what you're doing while its happening.

I'm gonna miss that little island out to sea. It made me smarter, sexier, sassier, funnier and more aware of how totally freaking awesome I am.

An Open Letter to All the Nice Guys

Dear Nice Guys,

I am sorry. I really, truly, deep in my unconscious am very sorry for the way we treat you. By "we" I mean girls. Pretty girls, nice girls, sweet girls. We're not "hot" or particularly "sexy". We're the girls who befriend you instead of just brushing you off. We treat you bad, and I'm sorry. We throw our arms around you and profess our undying love with that "like a brother" hanging unsaid in the air. We drag you out as our straight friend accesory so that maybe you'll help us land a douche bag. A guy who will take us home and never call. A guy who will make us cry on your shoulder. The guy that we'll take back over and over again in all of his different identies because when you're a girl and you're warned to "stay away," it only makes you want it that much more.

Eventually one drunk night we'll figure it out. We'll realize why you always call us back, why you always buy our drinks and let us crash on your bed while you take the couch. We'll deny it though, out loud and in our brains, stressing that you need "a good girl, a nice girl," our very definition. We don't mean to lead you on, even though we know it's not gonna happen tonight, tomorrow night, this year, next year, but we need the security of you. Of someone wanting us, loving us and being nice enough, sweet enough to hang out with us while we hunt out and take down any number of bad choices.

I'm sorry that this is the way it is, but we're probably not going to change quite yet. Give us a few more years of scavaging then we'll realize that it was you. The whole time. You were the perfect person and you stood there night after night waiting for us to figure it out. Maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get a better girl, a girl ahead of the curve who figured it out that much faster. And you deserve her.

You also get one night. One stupid drunk night where you get to, either directly or with the use of euphamisims or metaphors or whatever, you get to make us feel bad about the way we live. Because we know its bad and knowing you're pissed makes it even worse. You should probably apologize the next morning, because even though you're the one with the hangover, we're the ones with the soul, just slightly cracked, that has to rebuild and reflect. What you say probably won't change our behavior, and you'll go back to your status as official Boy Who Makes Us Feel Better, but you'll have said your piece and it'll stay lodged in our brains as we go out looking for the ones who will break our souls and never turn around to help pick up the pieces.

And for that, and everything. I'm sorry.

11 things I learned during my 56-hour* "vacation" in Maryland

*This is an exact number people, we're talking time spent on land in the state of Maryland. It should have been 54 but American Eagle Airlines (which does NOT provide you with free polos and jeans contrary to my hopes and dreams), Logan Airport, The City of Boston and Tropical Storm Ernesto can suck my balls for the extra two. THANKS.

1. I hate flying. No two ways about it people. Flying death tubes aren't for me. I discovered this at about 10 AM on Friday morning as the 50-seater I was on rocked back and forth like two fat kids on a see-saw and I sat gripping the arms of my seat, quite sure that any moment we were gonna drop out of the sky and I was gonna die before ever meeting and seducing Michael Vartan. I know that the life of the rich and famous requires a great deal of red eyes and hops across the pond so it's something I'm gonna have to work on. Luckily when you get to the rich and famous level you get things like first class and valium.

2. I'm a very neurotic traveler. If they say be there two hours ahead, I'm gonna be there two hours ahead. If someone tells me a horror story about a cab being late, I'm gonna set up a cab for half an hour before I need to leave. If I'm connecting to a different flight and my first flight is delayed, I'm gonna call the other airline every 30 minutes to make sure I'm still gonna make my flight. This may seem like an obnoxiously sucky way of living, but the amount of weight I lose in worrying alone makes up for the chocolate croissant and pumpkin spice latte I inhale en route.

3. I love Malls. I know, malls are trashy and tres tres un-chic, but they are SO convienent! All the stores! Right there! In an enclosed air contitioned space! And a food court! I love SoHo and whatever funky boutiques I come across in my city dwelling but deep down inside, my favorite place to shop will always be Montgomery Mall (though Columbia Mall is also v. nice).

4. I am an excellent listener. Particularly when my mother is telling me that if I tell the waiter at the chinese resturant that it is her birthday she will have me killed and mounted and not feel bad about it. At all.

5. When given the choice between hooking up with a kid that I kinda knew in high school and talking to Lizzie, watching Mean Girls and falling asleep at a "reasonable hour," I'll take the latter...


WHERE DID THE REST OF THIS ENTRY GO?! I'm fairly certain one of the blogger gods ate it for brunch with a mimosa or two. Weirdness. Anyway, sorry I've killed too many brain cells to remember the other 6 things... I bet they were super important and had something to do with the fact that I love my Mom, my friends, my magic green celery dress and champange straight from the bottle.

my head is a box...

I am a writer. Occasionally by profession, sometimes by action, mostly for recreation, I am a writer. I can't predict if writing is going to have anything to do with whatever I end up doing when I become a grown up but I am a writer. As a very great man, Toby Ziegler once said, I don't need paper. Its true. I spend my entire day writing stories and blog entries and just crafting sentances that will someday come out of my mouth and awe the people around me, "So well-spoken," they'll say. Most of the time when I'm staring off into space as you talk to me its because I'm crafting a story of you. Taking the pieces of you I like and making them a better reality which will sit lodged in my brain for a few days until I either a)forget about it or b)write it down (which is super rare--because things rarely sound as good on paper as they do in my head).

So in the past week I had been crafting a sentance. It was a run-on to be quite certain--but run-ons are how I am. I crafted it with a person in mind. I saw his face, blurry in my memory but quite vivid in the reaction I wanted. I cradled this sentace for about 4 days, hoping the situation would arise when I would get a chance to present it to this person.

Fast forward to last night. We start celebratory drinking at 6:30. On an empty stomach. I find that margaritas are quite delicious. Then comes a small dinner, more drinks, a play (which I totally fell asleep during because I'm an asshole- shh, don't tell), more drinks and a stumble out into the street where I pronounce to those listening on this island that I am quite shitfaced.

Then he enters. And I stop thinking. Because that's what boys and alcohol do to me. They make my brain stop. And all of a sudden I'm saying it. My precious baby of a sentace. Its falling out like drool without the appropriate facial gestures or pauses for emphasis.

And he doesn't even react. Well, he does. But not how I want. He laughs at me, doesn't really hear it, brushes it off, argues with the factuality of it (!!!). He acts as though he hasn't heard one of the most well written sentances that are meant to tell him how it is.

Then hugs me, kisses my cheek and walks away.

This is not how I wrote it ending. Which is why you should never drink and write.


**has anyone seen the new dell commercial with the kid and he's picking out the stuff for his computer and there's the song (which is where the blog title comes from)...who sings that and what's it called?? I love it.

Its good to be back.

So, last week on orders from a doctor, I gave up drinking. Completely. Cold turkey. For a whole week and 2 days. When I annonced that this was happening there were a few nay-sayers who were saying...well, they were saying nay. They didn't think that this pint-sized-genetically-disposed-to-alcoholism-girl-who-likes-to-celebrate had it in her to lay off the sauce for a few days. I figured we should solve things like they do it on Nantucket: throw some money at the problem. And so a fifty dollar bet was made, people were thrown in puddles and I took my last sip of Corona in the wee hours of last Friday morning.

Unlike many people who don't drink, I didn't take this as a week where I should stay home and re-evaluate my life, I still wanted to be social. What I didn't take into account is that on Nantucket you're either drunk or you're at home. There isn't so much a crew that's like, "Hey lets drink Fanta and go bowling!" mostly because there is no bowling on this rock out in the ocean. And so I found myself a Sober McSoberson in a see of Drunky McDrunkards. While this made me pretty miserable for most of the week I did learn some things.

1- Drunk people always assume that you are either a)not listening when you ramble at them or b)too drunk to remember anything they say for more than 15 seconds. People will say aaaaaaaaaanything when they are drinking. And most drunk people forget that you are sober and just view you as another convientent sieve for them to throw all their problems in. You will learn many things when you are sober.

2- Drunk people make shitty backseat drivers. I apologize to anyone I ever yelled at when they were driving my drunk ass home because it's really obnoxious to be told you're going to slow. And that you stop too long at stop signs. Designated Drivers are good people. Shower them with love and affection or just sing to the radio real loud like a normal drunkard.

3- The song Sexy Back will make me dance like I am drunk even if I have not had a drink in 6 days. Even if I'm in a car. And driving on cobblestones.

4- Theme parties are really dumb and kind of lame unless you are totally shitfaced.

5- Bartenders give you ridiculous looks when you order straight diet coke. Particularly if they remember you as, "the girl that did 6 shots that one night and then threatened to do a cartwheel on the dance floor."

I am now back to my regularly scheduled program of drinking my brain cells off. Though I think that week did me good, its nice to remember exactly what you did for a full nine days.

please

Will someone please, please buy me this shirt.

Anything with a Saved By The Bell tie-in is really the way to go.

It could happen to you

Everything in your life can be going peachy keen sometimes. Maybe there are a few bumps in your road a few missed exits on your life map, but you can lay awake at night and think, "Yes, being in my twenties is kind of awesome."

Then it happens. It can be anything, a magazine ad, an off-hand comment, a story you hear, a text message... something.

And you realize that even though you can hold your own at the bar, can pay an electricity bill, cashed in your V card, owe money to the goverment, and not even have a curfew... you realize that you are the exact same person you were when you hated yourself the most.

You are the same person now you were in high school. Despite your new found confidence and ability to stand on your own two feet, you are still the acne-ridden, chubby, awkward girl who wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next 10 years.

People might say they grow. And maybe they do. But at some point all the self-loathing and the fear and the pit of your stomach disgust at the face staring back at you in the mirror could come back.

Then what do you do?

there is something wrong with this...

"So how many times had you seen him before that night?"
"Uh. Twice."
"Right, and that added up to..."
"Like 2 hours."
"Do you know his middle name?"
"No."
"Do you know his last name?"
"Uhhhh...no."
"And so you hooked up with him?"
"...he gave me a ride."

Stupid insticts

I love cats. I think cats are the queens of the animal kingdom. I think dogs are obnoxious and slobbery and just lame. I am re-thinking all this love...

Today, Belinda and I got home from my first training sesh at the ice rink as I get ready for the Olympics and I got myself a Hershey bar and turned on the TV preping myself for some unwind time when I stepped on something that I assumed was a stuffed animal...

...until I looked at it.

See, what Belinda forgot to tell me when she let me move in is her outdoor kitties are very much intouch with their lion-like instints.

It was a dead...something. Rodent sized. With its innards all on the floor. Are you disgusted yet?! Well, I. STEPPED. In. It.

Thankfully I have a habit of walking on my toes so it just hit my big toe, but the big toe on my right foot will never be the same, people.

So once my brain took the 45 seconds to process what I was actually looking at I screamed for like, an hour and ran upstairs and into Belinda's room still screaming. Thankfully she was really calm about it and was like, "Oh yea, happens all the time." Although she did tell me that Kiwi does normally eat all the innards and just leave the fur as a present for her...

I take it back. Cats are stupid. But at least they're smarter than dogs.

yo quiro

After a 3 night drinking binge and no chance for hangover recovery. My newest favorite person in the world up-ed her total fucking awesomeness by bringing me taco bell from the mainland.

Ooooh. Delicious taco bell crap. All that dog meat and my hangover is totally cured.

Jamie is my most favorite.

the puddle part deux

This is it, ladies and gents. This is my puddle. Be in awe of its hugeness. It may have given me a flesh eating bacteria-- not many puddles can say that. Thankfully if there's no rain for more than 5 days it dries up and just becomes part of the road instead of something that belongs on a map.

A Ship's horn just blew. I love living on Nantucket.

Update-a-licious (101 in 1001)

I still have almost two whole years to complete this thing but I figured I'd give an update on the ones I've completed in the last few months.

1. Finish reading Long Walk to Freedom <--It's amazing what 12 hours on a bus can do for reading your 600 page book. It's increadibly, everyone should read it...

9. Graduate from college <---June 1, baby. I'm a college graduate. Uh-oh actual world!

19. Go to Chicago <---Spring Break! Sooooo awesome, I cannot wait to live there

36. Help Cougar throw that yard sale we’ve been talking about for years. <---It was kinda a bust but we made a decent amount of beer money and cleared out a lot of room

45. Visit Nantucket and hang out with people my own age who aren’t related to me <--that's what this summer is all about

54. Live somewhere other than New York or Maryland/D.C. <---what's up Nantucket?!

No booze 'til we cruise...

A lot of my friends have been being all weird about coming to visit me on Nantucket. Wanting to do it but not sure if its worth the time/money/gas to see me on my new island home. Think no more! I have discovered the why (to come visit)--well, one of the many whys (like: Duh, its me, of course you want to visit) but I think this is the one that'll tip the scales in my favor.

Drinking on the ferry.

I cannot speak for the fast boat (as I've never taken it, it could end up in Narnia for all I know) but on the slow boat you can buy booze and drink it on your two and a half hour journey to paradise. This was a novelty I had never experienced until this year, but now that I'm 21 I've embraced it, like my drunk ass family before me. Here's the thing 1 beer+ fatigue from traveling + boat swaying = decent buzz. Particularly if you don't eat anything. Imagine the possibilities with two beers! Hello boat dance party! The selection is sparce (mostly frat beer and cheap wine) but they have Sam Adams Summer Ale since Ch-ello! We're in Massachusettes! The birthplace of democracy and delicious beer! And its not anymore expensive than an NYC bar but its better! Because you're on the Ocean! Well, technically the Sound but its water and all water eventually leads to the ocean.

So Okay! Seriously!! Come visit! Not only can we drink together, you can arrive drunk! Awesome.

PS- Yes, I wrote this drunk while on the ferry and yes, I took that picture of my half-empty beer and yes, I'm sure the people around me started to judge the second the flash went off. The sooner everyone recognizes I'm a mild alcoholic the better for humanity

PPS- A big shout out to the Boston Culinary Group for hanging out, particularly the foreign gentleman working behind the counter of The Nantucket, who was maybe trying to give me my beer and bagel for free but I was too stupid/tired to pick up on it.

Stop the time machine...

My little cousin Courtney, who is not-so-little anymore is in the process of having a slumber party to celebrate her 10th birthday. She only has two friends over, which is a totally respectable amount...

However.

I now understand why eventually my mother refused to ever let there be another slumber party again. Little girls are loud. And walls anywhere besides a top secret military bunker are not thick enough to keep out the giggles and the screams and the TV. And this is only two kids. I used to have slumber parties with up to 5 friends!!!

Sorry Mom and Dad. My bad.

I'm not so much liking this getting older thing. I was in the car today and I could not remember what being 10 was like. I had no memory of 10, no real idea of what that year held for me until Courtney's little friend came up to me and asked if I liked sea food.

Boom.

All of a sudden I remembered 10. It blends into 9 and 11 a little bit but it's all there. The uncertainty about boys (gross or cute?), body image (the training bra debacle) and what was "cool." I also remember that it was still okay to play pretend, and with barbies and occasionally just run around the backyard screaming. That's pretty much the last year of that. Once you hit 11, it stops being uncertainty and becomes self conciousness. At 11 you may want to play dress up but know that you can only do it by yourself or maybe with your best friend for fear of looking like "a baby."

The Horror.

10 is awesome. The space between 10 and 16 is bleak. 13 is okay, but really-- that six years sucks. Hard. And from what I've experenced, except for the alcohol and making out, its pretty much all down hill from there anyway.


Happy Birthday Courtney. Don't grow up too fast.

Crossing the pond with The Beatles

I don't quite know why, but it seems that nothing really blog-worthy has happened since I've been on Nantucket. Yes I have a new job, new house, new roommate, new almost-friends (we don't know each other well enough for me to call them friends but they will be), I've seen celebrities, I've gotten drunk, I've flirted, danced, lied, made bad choices, made good choices, spent money, spent more money, talked to Tierra like a bajillion times on the phone, been home sick, considered spending the rest of my life here, and just kind of hung out. I've yet to go to the beach (maybe today), but I'm still dealing with the last dredges of poison ivy so I'm not too distraught about that.

Seriously?! Its weird, everything is fine and okay but...I keep expecting something to happen. I keep comparing this summer to Theatre on the Hill 2004 and my trip to Cape Town, which is kind of stupid because while those events had a lot in common (many people in a small confined space who had to forge relationships with the help of much alcohol and who had very little actual work to do), this summer I'm working full time (today is my first day off in 7 days...gross) only living with one person I'm not related to and since she doesn't have the same running-rampant alcoholic gene I do we've only gone out once. And we had a great time. So I shouldn't complain. And I've only been here a week and I have like 10 weeks left. So I really should just give fate a litte time to work itself out.

Anyway, the one thing that I kept thinking about that was almost blog-worthy in its total randomness is the title of the blog. On my walk to work there is a "puddle", in quotes because the thing is pond-sized. It should be on a map, there should be fishes living in it. It comes when there has been a day or more of rain because the people creating the drainage system for the island took a big old bong hit before they did this little patch of road. If its sunny for a few days it dries up, but this is Nantucket, so the weather is as reliable as a crack whore so, it's pretty much always there. And completely unavoidable on my journey to work.

So, normally I try to look just pathetic and dim enough to get someone to drive me over the puddle, but occasionally my timing is totally off, forcing me to find my own way over. So I take off my shoes and pull up the legs of my jeans and grumble my way over. But EVERY time this has happened, a Beatles song (twice Let it Be, once Dig a Pony) has been playing on my ipod.

You can't spell, "I've really lost the will to live" without I-V-Y

It is not going away. Everyone said it would go away but they lied. They are liars. I am still covered in this nonsense and I'm wondering if it's due to the wonder drugs that are running merrily through my system and effing everything up. If that wasn't bad enough, it seems to be spreading. It was on my forearms but now its on my upper arms (and getting bigger) as well as on on.my.FACE! Well, luckily its the underside of my chin way over next to my right ear. But still?! SO. GROSS. and totally ruining everything about my new adventure in Nantucket (which is totally awesome, btw). I know its pretty ridiculous to be bitching about this, especially because I AM on Nantucket and not a poor, starving child in Somalia. But this really, really sucks and makes me a)totally terrified to be outdoors and b)desperatly miss New York City where we didn't have silly things like plants to fuck everything up. According to About.com it could take as many as 20 days for the Iv to have its way with me. So far, its been 10, and that's counting the days before I saw it so it may actually just have been 7. Faaaaantastic.

I'm gonna go clean my grandma's house because I do not want to go out in public, because I hate everything.

The Ivy Update

TWO THINGS:
1- this is a tmi post. On many levels. Just a heads up. Don't say I didn't warn you, foo'
2- if you had a hand in my chromosome I would appreciate it if you would stop reading right. Now. For all of our sanities. Thanks.

So, according to my mother, who is the foremost expert on poison ivy I could find without getting out of my chair, the ditty about The Iv (as I now call it, which sounds like the Hiv, but is way less traumatic and uh, not permanent) is "three days coming, three days with it, three days going," according to my astute college graduate calculations, that's nine days. Saying that I got it the day of my party, I have until the 12th or 13th with this crap, and as it stands now, it looks like it plans to be around for a bit longer than that. Anywhoodle, this time frame totally overlapped all my time in Maryland.

Enter A Boy. He is not The Boy. He just happens to be around a lot while I'm in Maryland and he's a decent enough human being for being raised in this god-forsaken hell hole of a town. We met socially on many occasions in high school and now that we've all grown up a little bit, things have shifted slightly into new territory. Sort of. When things look like they're about to start shifting, other things get in the way. Namely Annie. Who is neither sweet, nor nice and is also kind of a bone head. But she's my friend and I love her, when she's not ruining everything for me. So! Annie is in NYC. I am here. Boy is here. Things are gonna be delicious, no? No.

Because I look like Jeff Goldblume in The Fly. Not a joke people. I sat on my bed with my siblings and I was like, "can this happen?" and they both try to break it to me nicely, "hell no Rachel, you are disgusting."

Having zero self esteem on a normal day, it has managed to dip into negative double digits with this predicament. So I made up a believable but totally lame stall tactic, which will turn into me blowing him off and feeling really bad about it.

That's right ladies and gentlemen, I got cockblocked by Mother Nature.

irony is an ugly, dirty whore

I graduated from college on June 1. On June 2, I was no longer a resident of the city of New York (well, Brooklyn, but whatever). On June 3 I celebrated my return to country-bumpkin Maryland life with a quaint, little, backyard graduation party. The party was delightful. A good 90% of my favorite people were around to help me eat delicious food and shower me with wonderful presents. I looked adorable. My hair was as straight and non-poofy as one can expect from Maryland humidity. Today is June 6. Every appendage (meaning both arms and legs and (very possibly) neck) I have is covered in poison ivy. I haven't had poison ivy since I was ten when I got it on my eyes (not pleasant, btw) at summer sleep-away camp. I am itchy, cracked out on benadryll and wondering if I made the biggest mistake ever when I left my nice, warm concrete jungle.

grumpy face.

So.

I hate packing.

I don't hate moving. Moving is exciting. Moving means new adventures. If there was a way to move with out packing than I would move a whole bunch more. My first few years in NYC I was bouncing around so much that I lived with just the bare essentials (which are not as bare as you might think...because I am insanely materialistic. No judging. Its hereditary). Then I moved to Brooklyn. And I got a huuuuuge closet. And I got comfortable. So here I sit, 18 months later, surrounded by garbage bags and boxes and piles of random shit I haven't seen in months but can not bring myself to get rid of. I'm close to done, but the closer I get to done the more I realize that there is no earthly way this is all going to fit in the back of a Mazzda Pick Up and a Chevy Impala. And there is the lingering fear that I won't sell my futon. Which means that I will also have to get a 600 pound futon mattress home as well. I'm freaking out. Freak.ing.out. It's 12:25 AM on Tuesday. I have to be out of the apartment by 10:00 AM on Friday. This seems like so much time but I'm working full time, going to tea, spending the night in a mansion, graduating, attempting to survive a meal with both my parents (ps. I wouldn't be in Tavern on Dean on Thursday afternoon if you don't want to deal with that hot fetus of mess) and uh...oh, going to my post office box. And buying my first piece of Hunter clothing (now that I don't go there, I'll wear their colors).

It also does.not.help that there is approximatly 100% humidity in Brooklyn with a whacked out pollen count. And where's my allergy medicine? Maryland. Because who gets allergies in the concrete jungle? Yea. I hate everything right now.

In happier news, I had a wonderful last weekend, full of all the right amounts of drinking and sailors and kisses and tears and smiles and self actualization and reality checks and true friends (occasionally via telephone) who I am far too lucky to have. I'm sorry I took absolutly no pictures. Boo, I suck sometimes. Luckily I have enough memories (and old pictures) to last forever.

And can we please discuss how Fraiser is the worst.show.ever!?

I win! I win I win I win!

I would like to take this moment to discuss how awesome I am.

At 6:05 this morning, as the sun rose over the condo monstrosity across the street, I finished* my last college paper ever (at this point, people, I have a fat kid's chance in gym class of making it to grad school).

I was going to take a picture of the sunrise but I smelled pretty badly of stupid and could not manage to get my camera to function. So here's a Brooklyn sunset. Just as pretty, only on the opposite side of the apartment.

*finished means that I could not possibly come up with another word to type so I saved it, now in the next few hours I have to make sure I did all those fancy things like write in complete sentances and use periods and stuff.

I think its appropriate to pull an all nighter for the final big paper, if for no other reason than it reaffirms my choice to be D-O-N-E with school all together.

Anyway, so I'm feeling that a little acceptance speech is in order.

First and foremost I'd like to thank the various forms of liquid caffine that prevented me from having to inject it directly into my eyeballs to stay awake after only getting 4 hours of sleep Sunday night. I'd also like to thank that bag of Microwave Kettle Corn for hanging out and being crazy delicious, even 4 hours after being popped. The West Wing season 2 dvds need to be recognized for their abilitly to lull me into a condusive writing mode. My Nantucket shirt, for giving me the drive I needed to finish this nonsense up so the summer can begin. Natalie for the coffee, and Mel for the I Can't Believe its not Butter for my toast (though as of this writing neither one actually knows that they helped the cause, thanks anyway girls!). Hallie, Tierra, Rachel, Waseem and Aimee for the cheerleading and the emotional support, particulary Hallie for still being around at 4 AM and Aimee for getting me totally excited about our upcoming "Sex and the City: Chicago Style" existance. My blogging boss needs a huge thanks for not yelling at me as I haven't done work in two weeks, Myspace for being the best distraction tool ever and Limewire for letting me download that episode Grey's Anatomy that I got to watch when I was done as my "reward" for finishing.

At this point I'm too wound up to sleep. I'm gonna do some editing, start packing (!!!) and get ready to turn this sucker in.

I can't believe its over. I've spent the past two weeks telling grown-ups that the reason I've waited until the last possible second to write this piece of horse poop is because I'm feeling, "slightly nostalgic and sad about it being my last paper." And while that was total bs when it was coming out of my mouth, it's actually kinda true. Though I bitch and moan about it, I love writing and I love having to write. Its so hard for me to write without being faced with an imenent deadline.

Anyway, lets graduate and see how things go.

OH! And while I have your attention! You HAVE to go to this site here: Help Meredith Choose and buy lots and lots of adorable stuff. Do it. NOW!

dude

Anyone else freaking the fuck out about the Grey's Anatomy finale tonight?

Okay, cool. Its not just me.

Oh man, Shonda Rhimes...I am soooo your bitch.

fat

I doubled my caloric intake today...

...with 5 cookies.

Stupid Girl Scouts. You are so delicious.