green underwears.

So, everyone has a favorite pair of jeans. They're the pair you buy, perhaps on a whim that you end up wearing three or four times a week until they literally decompose on your body. You stress out every time you wash them because it screws them up for like three days. Yeah, those pants. The day those pants die is a dark, dark day for everyone.

My jeans are from American Eagle. I bought them on a whim (isn't that always the way?) the day before I left for Nantucket the summer after my junior year of college. I then wore them every day for pretty much the next two years. They're the most perfect pair of jeans. Super comfortable and yet almost trendy enough to pull of wearing to a bar when you're just not feeling up to the tight, sexy jeans (uh, I guess I should have mentioned I wear jeans every day. No joke. I own -- seriously-- at least 20 pairs that I wear on a regular basis). Anyway, I got complimented on them pretty much every time I wore them and they looked good. I was a happy girl with a good looking ass.

Time passed and at one point a little hole began to form on the back right hand pocket. Right in the top inside corner. I still wore them a lot because I always have cute underwear on and I don't really have any shame Then something tragic, that I've managed to block from my memory, happened and the entire pocket started to rip off, right at the seam. I began to panic and rushed to my neighborhood American Eagle, naturally they had completely redone their denim section (STOP doing that! You're ruining lives, AE). The jeans did not exist anymore. I asked for a similar pair in their new denim line. The brain trust girl in the mini skirt was of no use to me so I went home and was sad. Then I had one of those minutes where I remember that there are people starving all over the world and some people have no pants at all.

So I decided to mend them. People, I am not a seamstress. In fact in the womanly arts I pretty much fail across the board. I can't cook or sew or clean or be submissive and docile...so me trying to mend denim was pretty laughable, but I did it. Then they got shoved to the back of my drawer for awhile because I thought they needed a rest (which they did), I got a new favorite pair (my first sevens) then another new favorite (probably my Polo Ralph Laurens-- although at this point I really like most of my jeans-- and I have three pairs waiting to be hemmed that will become favorites, I have no doubt).

So last week things at work went balls crazy and I found myself working late and (worse) worrying about work while I was doing the fun 20-something things that should be dominating my mental space. By the middle of this week, I had completely stopped caring about what I looked like at work, basically coming in and running around like a kid off her ritalin and then going home and passing out. I also hadn't done laundry in about three weeks. On Thursday morning, what did my comatose fingers find in the back of the drawer? The favorite jeans. I needed something to be happy about so I threw em on with a fairly long tee-shirt (as the corner hole was still fairly obvious-- though I was impressed with my pocket-seam hemming abilities.

Doodley-doo, off to work I went. The day was nothing short of ridiculous with the running around and the long stretches of time spent staring at a computer screen, trying not to cry. About mid-day I had my third potty break (I'm doing this new thing where I try to drink 2 quarts of water a day and that with the gallons of diet coke really run right through me) and I notice that the seams were starting to kind of stretch and the hole down the seam was getting a little bigger. I yanked down my shirt and went about my day.

At the end of my day (that was supposed to end at 5, but actually ended at 7) I go to the bathroom and once again look at my jeans/handy work. Either my butt grew three sizes that day or the running and the stress were apparently a match for my sewing because the hole was ENORMOUS. Like we're talking six inches, right across my rockin' ass. None of the guys in my office (now its me v. 5 guys all day every day-- its kind of the opposite of fun) mentioned anything about it, which was nice of them. Because seriously it was like every nightmare I had in high school, a giant hole and my green underroos (that ironically enough said Drama Club on them) sticking out for everyone to see.

I thanked my lucky stars that I had had the foresight to carry a messanger bag. I grabbed a men's tee-shirt that covered a little more of my heinie (although had my company's logo on it, which was pretty embarrassing the entire way home) and then I spent my walk to the train/home making sure that the messanger bag was artfully placed directly over the giant hole in my most favorite pants.

...Which I'm still not going to throw away. Nope. You can't make me. They're getting washed now, I'll figure out what to do with them when they're clean. A pair of denim, assless chaps perhaps?!

a moment of silence, please

There comes a day in every young-ish girls' life when she realizes that she is never going to dance on pointe again and she can finally do something about those nasty callouses. Ladies and gentlemen, for one young(-ish) girl-- that day was today.

Today I let some poor defenseless Asian girl shave 22 years of callouses off my feet.

Let me explain (now that you've had a chance to vom all over your keyboard)-- I was/still am one of those kids who refused to wear shoes in the summer. I spent my summers running around barefoot-- not just in the grass, sand and concrete but also cobblestones and broken shells of Nantucket (seriously, the road outside my Grandmother's house on Nantucket is literally made of broken oyster shells. And I would run and skip up and down that thing like I was walking on pillows). To this day-- the most you can expect out of me during the summer months is flip flops. And I have been known to walk around many a large US metropolis totally barefoot, which is not only hard on the tootsies, but a good way to get the foot herpes.

Not only am I a filthy hippie when it comes to footwear, I've also spent a majority of my life trying to keep my feet from throbbing due to the turning and balancing and jumping I did on them (not so much anymore). I remember vividly one of the "older girls" limping into Dee's with her pointe shoes on, cursing the Gods that told her that shaving off her callouses during a pedicure was a good idea. She was in pain for the next four months. After that I swore I would never let anyone near my callouses, particularly when I started doing a lot of barefoot work.

Anyway, my feet were getting to be pretty bad news. I kept putting off getting a pedicure because I don't really like the idea of people touching my feet and it seemed kind of silly since I didn't have any reason to get a pedi. Also there was a secret little part of me that hoped that maybe I would some day shed fifteen pounds, gain some strength and a massive amount of flexibility and become a dancer again. Although, if the past three years are any indication that's probably not going to happen. Although I did bust out some serious foutes at the bar this weekend (barefoot, obvi)...I think it was time to put the dream in the scrapbook and try not to have such crackwhore feet. The salon across the street has $30 mani-pedi specials during the week and I have a bar mitzvah to look hot at this weekend (not to mention a fiesta del tragedy) and work is making me want to kill myself, so I went for it.

I'm not gonna front, it was pretty g-ross looking at like 22 years of foot skin peeling off (Oh, I'm sorry-- were you eating?!) but my feet feel really nice and they look kind of attractive, like attractive enough for me to allow someone else to look at the bottom of them.

While I was getting all pampered I kept thinking about Courtney's post about nail salons-- I have no doubt that the poor girl was bitching about absolutely filthy my feet were.

Anyway, I'm a whole new girl.

Oh, and Reason number 349023420345721 why I should NEVER, EVER get a manicure EVER-- Because it takes me LESS than a HOUR to totally fuck up at least one of my nails. Seriously, I had been home for twenty minutes before I screwed up my thumb nail. Does anyone know if I can just go into a random salon and ask if they'll fix it?

true.

I don't normally repost other works of genius directly into my blog, but I was reading at my internship yesterday and came across this passage in a fantastic book that everyone should read.

"Unrequited love was, at that period of my life, the only kind I seemed capable of feeling. This caused me much pain, but in retrospect I see it had advantages. It provided all the emotional jolts of the other kind without any of the risks, it did not interfere with my life, which, although meagre, was mine and predictable, and it involved no decisions. In the world of stark physical reality it might call for the removal of my ill-fitting garments (in the dark or the bathroom, if possible: no woman wants a man to see her safety pins), but it left undisturbed their metaphysical counterparts. At that time I believed in metaphysics. My Platonic version of myself resembled an Egyptian mummmy, a mysteriously wrapped object that might or might not fall into dust if uncovered. But unrequited love demanded no stripteases."

Yes.

Okay, back to my screenplay that is way harder to write than a novel.

gah

Dear Rachel,

Please stop buying jeans.

Love,
Your Wallet.

In case you aren't already...

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but I have a huge, huge writer-crush on Eugene Robinson.

I'm bad about reading the paper these days, mostly because I don't really have any feelings beyond contempt and disdain for the papers of Chicago. I never even got really good at reading the New York Times. Something about the fact that there are NO comics in the Sunday paper (which costs 5 bones, btw) always turned me off to NYT, I mean, seriously?! what is the point of a Sunday paper if it doesn't come with a kickass Style/Arts section AND Garfield/Slylock the mystery solving fox.

The Washington Post is one of those ridiculous things that my Mother's family gets all "old-money" about. My great-grandmother used to get it shipped to her in Conneticut, even though it was normally 2 days late (rendering it pretty useless) and on Nantucket (when it would come when ever it felt like it, as most things on Nantucket do).

WaPo (as I so lovingly like to call it) was always around when I was growing up, I didn't normally read anything beyond the Front page and the style section until High School. I do remember that my Mom, because she was wicked and mean, made me dig through the A and B sections for weekly Current Events projects in Elementary School while all my friends got away with using articals from The Frederick News Post (which, while my Mom is now v. important over there, continues to be a rather shoddy excuse for a newspaper, relying mostly on Wire copy for anything that didn't happen in a 217-zip code).

Anyway, the best feature besides the Style Invitational on Sundays is anything written by Eugene Robinson. I don't care if you agree with what he says or you think he can get kinda preachy (because he can), everthing he writes is thoughtful and written in a way that even if you don't know anything about the topic he's discussing you can walk away with an opinion on the matter, and whether or not you agree with what he says doesn't seem to make a difference to him. He just wants you to know what he thinks (hence an Opinion column). He also has the ability to write well on pretty much anything, while he does write a lot of politcal stuff (something you would expect from a DC writer) he also waxes poetic on subjects such as The VA Tech Shooting, Kanye West , and even American Idol.

With each topic, he displays a sound knowledge of both sides of the coin as well as firm stance in his own beliefs. He basically rules, and if you aren't reading him at this point... you probably should.

Hurrah!

I got cast in an improv troupe last night. Details are sketchy at this point, but it looks like I'll be performing at bars and various other venues around the Chicago area...I'll be doing short form instead of long-form which is kind of a step sideways for me (Long form works totally different mind muscles and that's what I've been doing for the past 6 months, although on Nantucket we did short form and that was only a year ago).

Anyway, this makes me very happy as not only will I be performing improv (something I've been increadibly anxious to do since I started classes), I will also be getting paid. To do improv. Off the top of my head I can't think of anything else in the world I've wanted more than this.

Its the end of the world...

People...the apocolypse is upon us.

My dear Mother, Comfort Cougar [redacted] has finally joined the 21st century and purchased a cellphone.

Seriously.

She was the last holdout...in the entire universe. My crazypants Granny had a cellphone before Cougar did. And now C is the proud owner of a pay-as-you go tres cute flippy phone. Although she refuses to give out the number, because she's kind of a tool like that.

Also. Bagels come in squares now.

The world is really about to explode.

100th post

So...I've been trying to decide what this, my 100th post should be about. There are a few thoughts that have swimming around, but the emo factor of this blog is already reaching a dangerously high level, so I've decided to give a little sample from my mental salad bar instead of bitching about all the things that are going wrong.

1- 100 Posts. That's pretty awesome. I'm guessing that about 40% of them are entertaining. The rest are pretty much drivel and the above-mentioned emo crap.

2- H, the cousin I mentioned in the last post who recently got hitched, is apparently knocked-up. Hahaha. I kind of win.

3- I have yet to try that KFC stoner-bowl-of-awesomeness. But I really want to. Except for the fact that once I try one, I'm probably going to want them all the time. And my eating habits are disturbing/disgusting enough without bringing fake-chicken and a bowl of starchy-carbs into the mix.

4- I just ordered a sample of $37 soap

5- I am so glad that I am now on the winning side of the Mac/PC ads. Sometimes I just want to hug Bunny the laptop forever and ever.

6- Since living in Chicago I have received some of the nicest compliments ever including my level 2 iO teacher telling me that I reminded her of herself at 22. Considering she's pretty much everything I want to be at 30, I can't think of a better indication that I am on the right track.

7- I think I like the show Brothers and Sisters so much because it reminds me of My Mom's family, except they have way too many boys. And we've managed to stay away from dating political figures.

8- Can someone explain fake-bake tanning to me? Like, if I need to be super-tan by the 2nd weekend in June when should I start going to the sketchy tan place next door?

9- I haven't seen one of my roomates in 3 weeks. Its not that I don't like her as a person, but its been kind of nice not having negotiate bathroom time.

10- Why do I feel the need to eat immediately after going grocery shopping?

Something blue

So it's been a slow day here at [redacted as it turns out my bosses do know what a blog is] and I'm trying to keep myself from falling asleep directly on my keyboard so I'm trolling the internets and I found the e-mail Cougar sent me with the pictures from my cousin's wedding in it that I never really bothered to give a good look too.

For the sake of brevity and my fingers, I will refer to the bride as my cousin although H (the bride) is not actually my cousin, she is my first cousin once removed (aka My Mom's cousin, aka My Grandmother's brother's kid) but she is exactly my age (we're 4 days apart) and her dad is actually my grandmother's half brother and she's actually adopted so we'll just call her my cousin.

I've spent the past 45 minutes looking at her pictures and I keep having these waves of various emotions; jealousy, sadness, contempt, disdain, immaturity -- I'm pretty much like my own Pandora's Box over here.

We weren't particularly close growing up. She's always lived in CO, we met for the first time when we were 12 and had a great time of it, then saw each other maybe 4 or 5 other times ever but our family is fairly close-knit and I've always felt quite the bond with her, particularly because I've always felt that my older cousin (who is 4 years older than I am) found me annoying and always picked being a "grown-up" over hanging out with me and the next in the line of succession is my brother (4 years younger) so I never really had anyone to be close to (and on the other side of the family I'm the oldest, and then its 4 boys, then 'Bear-- so that's fairly useless in the bonding department). I've always felt like H and I were on the same wave-length, being that we were the same age. Granted, she went half way across the country for high school, dropped out of college and did that whole "growing up early 20's" thing a little differently than I did, but different strokes, right?

Anywho, she is married now. Cousin H with whom I had a matching mint green chenille Gap sweater and who once convinced me that we could dye my hair in a bowl of tea now has a husband. Something about this sentance doesn't really compute in my brain. Looking at her pictures isn't really helping because instead of thinking, "Wow. H's wedding, sweet." I'm thinking, "Oh look, H got someone to take pictures as she had a pretend wedding." Which is really twisted and bizarre on my part, but how I'm feeling. Can you imagine waking up next to the same person for the rest of ever? I mean, obviously in this millenium, that's not really the way it works, but I feel like were I ever to take that giant plunge, I'd want it to be for keeps. Except, the idea of "keeps" is crazytown to me.

I just feel like the future is coming at me quite quickly these days. Although after looking at her pictures I found myself at the jcrew.com wedding site, which if you've never been, is like a big old scoop of crack-cocaine. I would stay away from the flower girl/ring bearer page unless you want to have a big old pang of uterine hurt. But while I plan the wedding, its still a total hypothetical to me.

I just feel like the future is rushing up at me.

I had a moment at Gap last weekend as I breezed past all the maternity stuff I alighted on this dress and had a biological clock moment of, "Oh WOW that would look so cute if I was pregnant and glow-y" and I left the store in a haze of dreamy, "maybe it would be kind of fun to be pregnant" clouds when halfway down the block my brain slammed on the breaks and went, "Hold the fuck up. After you're pregnant for nine months you have a BABY that you have to live with and provide for and love for the rest of your life." While this is a fairly obvious statement to most people, it was the first time I had ever really pulled it all together.

Little black maternity dresses maybe cute and weddings maybe a beautiful and expensive game of dress up but they still seem so grown-up to me and yet, not distant. Does that make sense? I feel like I'm on this bridge to grown-up-hood-dom and its kind of terrifying in a very pretty flowers and sparkles kind of way. Its the ultimate strange man with candy. "Hey little girl, I have a pretty white dress and some crab cakes for you. All you have to do is get in my van. Permenently."

Yikes.

I also have no idea why all of a sudden at 22 and a half this has suddenly become a huge thing (seriously, people, I find myself thinking about babies and weddings and buying houses and all that shit all.the.time). Maybe its because other not-so-fun parts of my life have started speeding up. I had a nightmare about health insurance last night (wtf?), I realized I need my job, and when I look into the horizon and think, "where will I be in 5 years?" the empty road isn't a gleeful adventure as much as it is a stomach-dropping-to-your-shoes terrifying exercise in procrastination.

For reals, yo

I think I may have written my name on one of the forms... other than that, its all you.

101 in 1001 Update

I just realized that I only have a year left on this sucker! Holy crap! I have a lot left to do!! Also, there are somethings on this list that will probably NOT happen in the next year, but I don't want to take them off quite yet... we'll see how I'm feeling at the 6 month mark. I have managed to accomplish a lot though:

5. Get a mac-- Thanks to my amazing, super-fantastic Mom this magical dream came true on Christmas this year... and its true what people say-- everything is better in happy, magic, mac land!

8. Go to at least 2 more foreign countries (repeats don’t count) -- This is now halfway done! I went to England for a week in February. And it was lovely...

26. Get new head shots -- This will be totally done by the end of this week. I'm really happy with how they came out.

33. Buy a real bed -- YAY! I LOVE my new bed. I love my bed frame and my super wonderful mattress.

49. Take another trapeze class -- Circus class is trapeze and so much more (I think when I wrote this list I meant a high-trapeze class, but I'm editing myself a little bit because time is of the essence).

68. Whiten my teeth -- Ehh, I'm going to say this is done, although its kind of an on-going thing...

73. Start playing soccer again (even if it’s only pick-up games) -- This will be completed on April 1 when I have my first game with my new soccer team.

75. Get rid of all the gift cards that are hanging out in my wallet (by spending them) -- Oh man, I am so excited that this is done!!

76. Have at least one non-miserable Valentine’s Day -- I think I probably meant this to be something along the lines of, "get some nookie on vday" but I actually had a wonderful Valentine's day this year and spent zero minutes wallowing in self-pity.

83. Have someone teach me the finer points of football -- I actually kind of taught myself, and though I'm still learning (well, the learning is on hiatus until next season) I feel confident in my ability to talk about the game now. Also...go bears.

97. Find a print of the Dali painting I saw at the Elsa Schiaparelli exhibit -- Once again Cougar came through on this one. Its sitting rolled up in my room right now, waiting for me to get my act together and put it on my wall.

45.5 out of 101-- So I'm not quite halfway, but I feel like over the past 6 months I've accomplished quite a lot...

Stupid government

Why my taxes aren't going to be filed until the day before they're due in a style reminisint of the 15 page paper written 12 hours before its due:

In 2006 I lived and worked in 3 different states, none of which were the state I am technically a resident of (if we're to go by my lisence and voter registration).

The state I made the most money in, was the state I lived in for the shortest amount of time. It also happens to be the state with the most fakaktah tax rules (shove it masshole.)

The state I made the least money in is the state I currently live in (although I was not a resident during 2006 as I didn't have an apartment, or bills of any kind) AND its the state where I was employed by a company that has yet to pay me OR send me a w-2 (although I would be cheesed if they sent me the w-2 without the paycheck).

The state I actually lived in for the longest amount of time (a whole 6 months), most of the money I made was either non-taxed (oh, 10-99...you are my nemisis) or under the table (oh, sweet nannying).

Not to mention I was a student for half of 2006, this is the first year I'm not someone's dependent, and all of my tax info goes directly to a house I haven't actually "lived" in for 5 years.

Oh IRS, there are no words in which to describe the firey passion with which I hate you.

In other news, I just bought myself a health insurance plan. Yep. I'm a grown-up. Ass.

In case you were confused

Dear Boys/Guys/Men or whatever you've decided you wanted to be called,

If you are out with a group of people and you are drinking and carousing and making merriment in general and there is a girl with whom you have a very hard-to-define-will-they-won't-they-she's-up-all-night-dissecting-conversations-with-her-friends relationship and you turn to her after a few beverages and say, "Hey you wanna get out of here?"

She is automatically, automatically going to think that you want to take her home, or in the very least- maybe make out with her on the street.

Seriously?! Seriously.

If she is 24-or-less-months out of college, and she's had a few, and you have a beautiful smile and tell her she's funny and you say the words,

"Hey, you wanna get out of here?"

Her brain is going to go NUTS. I don't know why those words have secret-spell-powers, but they do. She gets over it soon enough, but that little sensation lingers far too long for any sort of comfort. So please, use them with caution because the mental anguish you cause with those little bastards is kind of out of control.

Thanks.

Love and kisses,
Rachel

They got the "foggy" part right.

I don't know if it's me, or large metropolises in general, but after 2 days in London, I am totally confident that I could move here tomorrow and be totally fine. This is my feeling with most big English-speaking cities I meet (unlike small communities, ie Nantucket or Middletown, where after a few weeks/days/hours I get that, "uhhh, this was fun but its time to go back to the real world" feeling).

There would be some adjustments though, namely the weather. It really is grey all the effin time here. R says that this causes her to be uber-depressed most of the time and really has a detrimental effect on her work/social life. After 5 months in Chicago, I'm pretty excited about the fact that I've worn flip flops the entire time I've been here (my toes have been kinda cold and wet, but they haven't fallen off yet which is what would happen if I tried to pull that kind of stunt in Chi-town).

Other than the weather, everything seems to be very similar to any other large city...the streets are complicated (no grid system whatsoever), but you write down directions until you figure out... the tube is fine, the buses are amazing (you know those sweet signs they have in DC that tell you when the next train is coming? They have those for the buses here! Well played, London. Well played).

Tonight, R stayed in to study and get rid of a massive headache and I went out to explore and do some shopping, I found myself completely confident walking down the street-- and realized I've never NOT felt confident (with the exception of Capetown, but that was such a sensory overload it was to be expected-- and even after a week or so, I walked down long street or the waterfront with complete ease -- although I never attempted public transportation, so that was probably a false confidence on my part).

I love that I'm a city person. I love that after 24 hours in a strange place, in a strange country I have the mental capacity to say, "Nah, I'll just wander around until I find something to do."

Tomorrow is Oxford. Then Sunday and Monday are more exploring. 5 days is almost perfect for visiting London, incase any of you were planning a trek. Although, I have to warn you-- the vintage-y red phone booths that show up in every single movie that's set in London are practically wallpapered in flyers for phone sex operators and hookers!! I was shocked and appalled at this, and rather disappointed that none of my mates who have been here warned me about this crushing blow to my childhood dreams.

Also, most of the parks look really similar, so its probably not the smartest thing to blurt out, "That was the park in the Parent Trap!" while walking by the first park you see.

Photos and other helpful hints to come once I'm back on the other side of the pond.

Cheers.

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.