Rachelskirts

Sheepish McLazyskirts

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 16:43:00 -0600

Dear Internet,

No, I haven't died. I'm not even sick. I just got super behind in blogging. (Signing up to write every single day for Blog365 seemed like a good idea once.) And the farther behind I got, the harder it was to write. Kinda like when you know you need to call someone, but you keep putting it off until it's way too late . . . Or when you stare at the bottle of Fabreeze for ten minutes, wondering how much longer you can avoid doing laundry . . .

I would have more gold medals in my closet if the Olympics had a Procrastination category.

Anyway, I'm writing this as a warning because I sketched out forty-something blog posts over the past two days, and I intend to use those to fill in the gap between June 1 and July 14. I'll keep a little listy-poo of sorts at the bottom of this entry as a sort of table of contents. Meanwhile, I'm just plowing forward and telling myself that writing is good. Blogging is good. Catching up is good. Not quitting is good.

Well then. Time to pull up my big-girl pants and get on with this.

Much love,
Rachelskirts

P.S. This entry will self-destruct once I've caught up to the current date.

Entries Added Thus Far:

June 2: Invitez-Moi à Votre Fête
June 3: Nine in the Afternoon
June 4: Putting My Best Feet Forward
June 5: King of the Boundless Sea
June 6: But, I Never Baked A Fancy Cake!
June 7: Return to Sender
June 8: If Only Irony Could Fuel Our Cars
June 9: Buck Up, Soldier
June 10: P.S. Put On Some Pants
June 11: P.S. Pull Up Your Pants
June 12: Ain't Too Proud to Beg

Ain't Too Proud to Beg

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 23:21:24 -0600

"I know you wanna leave me, but I refuse to let you go." That's exactly how I feel about the sunny, warm weather that has been flooding the Chicagoland area for months now. My mind is already fast-forwarding through the end of August and September, when the cold winds start biting and the smell of snow starts wafting through the windows. Of course, that very first snow is adorable and quaint, but I still haven't recovered from last winter. So I continue to take pictures of the sun and the clouds and the beautiful blue skies in the vain hope that I can use each photograph as a "Get Out of ~~Jail~~ Winter Free" card. Sadly, I'm guessing things don't work that way. But they should.

P.S. Pull Up Your Pants

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 22:47:55 -0600

Sometimes I forget that I'm an 82-year-old woman and blink in surprise when sentences like "Stop skateboarding, you little hooligan!" or "Get off my lawn, you good-for-nothing ruffian!" or "Put on some pants!" tumble out of my mouth.

Tonight, three 12-year-old punks decided that it would be funny to go to every door in the neighborhood and play Ding Dong Ditch. I wouldn't have even noticed except I was in my brother's room watching him play F.E.A.R. As the name of the game implies, it's fairly good at putting you on the edge of your seat, leaving you whimpering and clutching your blankie and crying out for mommy. I was in the midst of sucking my thumb when I saw shadows moving in my peripheral vision. I jabbed my teeth through my hand and jumped before I realized it was just the aforementioned 12-year-old punks.

Now, it was annoying enough to watch them attempt to pull the prank on our house while my brother shouted, "WE CAN SEE YOU," from the window. But it got even more annoying when they returned ten minutes later to do the neighbor's house. And then my office roomie's house. And then the house next to that. AND THE HOUSE NEXT TO THAT. Their giggling was so loud we could have shot them in the dark. But I'm all out of flaming arrows, and my Nerf gun won't reach that far. Instead, my brother and I spent fifteen minutes looking up realistic police siren noises online (which, holy crap, are hard to find).

We had everything planned out. The shouting at the kids, the cop noises, the setting off of the car alarm in our driveway . . . It was going to be beautiful. But those (apparently orphaned) hooligans stopped coming back, and I was left to my senile muttering and my thumb-sucking and my adult diapers. Grumblecakes.

Next time, my pretties. I'm gonna get you. And your little dog, too.

P.S. Put On Some Pants

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 19:39:17 -0600

Dear Girl at the Mall,

I regret to inform you that you have no butt. This is not an exaggeration. Your four-inch skirt (and man, am I being generous there) never revealed anything but legs when you and your boyfriend swaggered in front of my mother and me, which is absolute proof that you were born without a rear end. I guess that explains why your boyfriend didn't seem all that excited by your trying-so-hard-to-be-sultry ensemble. Too bad. In other news, I'd like to borrow that skirt from you at some point. I think it'd make a fantastic belt.

Yours truly,
Rachelskirts

Buck Up, Soldier

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 19:56:53 -0600

One of my favorite people on Twitter, Chrissy, wrote today:

My youngest sister just called me to ask my opinion on some adjectives. I love the things I am known for. (Source)

A few months ago, I received a call from my father. He wanted to ask me a question about punctuation. He was in the middle of a meeting at work, and he and his coworkers knew that I would have the answer. I was beaming when I heard that. I love the things I am known for. I need to remind myself of that more often.

If Only Irony Could Fuel Our Cars

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 17:37:21 -0600

I am embarrassed to say that I did not catch the unnecessary apostrophe on this keychain before I bought it. In fact, I bought this in high school and apparently didn't read it until some time in college. No need to fight, folks; there's plenty of irony for everyone.

Return to Sender

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 17:27:45 -0600

Me: I'd like to fill out an application—
Post Office Employee: [world's largest eye roll]
Me: —for a P.O. box.
Post Office Employee: Oh. For a P.O. box? Sure thing.

What, like I was dragging my 22-year-old body to the Post Office with my mommy in tow to fill out an application for employment? Nice try, buddy, but you'll have to find some other gullible soul to make out with in the janitor's closet. But keep up the good work on the eye rolling. The ladies dig that.

But, I Never Baked A Fancy Cake!

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 00:28:10 -0600

Skirtsville is not home to any great chefs. My mom doesn't cook. My dad doesn't cook. My brother doesn't cook. I'm doing well to put together a bowl of cereal in the morning in less than three tries. "Hell's Kitchen" is redundant to us.

Foods we have managed to mash together to form edible meals or snacks:

Peanut butter and bagels
Grape Nuts and raisins
Ham and cherries
Jelly and pancakes
Canteloupe and ice cream (pictured above)

Now, my brother and I did spend a lazy, summer day dipping a variety of foods in chocolate pudding, but no great recipes came from those adventures. (Note to you: Pickles and Doritos should stay far away from chocolate pudding.)

Being Culinarily Challenged doesn't usually bother me because, well, I live in Chicago. There are at least fifteen decent pizza joints within walking distance and just as many great pizzerias within a reasonable driving distance. I could live happily on a diet of cereal, pizza, and chocolate for the rest of my life.

However, it dawns on me that, should I end up back in Texas this fall, I will be one thousand miles away from edible pizza. I will be in a forsaken land of places like Pizza Warehouse and Pizzas 'R' Us, where "Chicago-style" translates to "thicker crust" or something equally stupid.

That said, I'm asking for any tips you may have on cooking. Favorite snack food that's easy to make? Easy dinner recipe that makes for great left-overs? Anything, people. (And zomg, yes, I know I can have Giordano's shipped anywhere in the United States. I already plan to do that at least once a semester.) Please help!

P.S. Title stolen from Sleeping Beauty, and, yes, I still want to change my name to Aurora. And marry a handsome prince. (Hopefully, he will be able to cook.)

King of the Boundless Sea

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 20:03:32 -0600

Last time I mentioned books, I was buying a lot of them based on some some stellar recommendations from you peoples. In the first week, I polished off White Oleander, as it came with the most lovin'. I was skeptical as I read the first paragraph, but by the end I was weeping because it was finished. I wanted to live in that story for months, not days.

Then I moved on to A Million Little Pieces. The writing style threw me off at first, and it took me a full week to convince myself that "abnormal" does not equal "stupid." And so I dove in and devoured every crazy word as fast as my eyes could stomach them. (Hey, I aced biology, thank you.) I was sad at the end of that book, too, but I was beginning to remember how fun it could be to hop from one imaginary world to the next.

Enter Moby Dick, stage left.

Holy (sea) cow, I have been stuck on page eighty-four (which is really page three, but what's an obnoxiously long book without obnoxiously long introductions?) for ten years now. I know, I know. That doesn't really fit the timeline of the story, but I'm pretty sure there was a black hole involved. And that black hole looks suspiciously like the ghost of Herman Melville.

The quitter in me wants to find another book and come back to Moby Dick later, but too many people have seen me lugging it around. Soon, they'll want to know what I thought of the book, and I do not have the energy to tell them that I would rather sell my soul to the devil than read another quote about whales.

UGH. All this to say, please help me find a less tedious book to read next. If it's one you've already suggested here, please let me know (so I don't go out and buy a second copy or something stupid). New recommendations are welcome, as well. Just nothing involving whales or 300-page introductions. Please and thank you.

Putting My Best Feet Forward

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 18:29:08 -0600

Internet, meet my feet. Feet, be prepared for some weird Google searches.

These feet of mine are not particularly gorgeous, but they're not really ugly either. To be honest, I quite like them just as they are. I particularly like them sans socks and shoes. I'm a big fan of stripey socks and gorgeous, peep-toed, man-seducing heels and, hell yes, I want to marry the person who invented flip-flops. But really, I would rather not have anything on my feet. At all. Ever.

My grandmother is much the same way. We walk through the snow barefoot, across the scorching sand barefoot, to Mordor barefoot, and around the office barefoot. And that last part seems to BOGGLE SOME MINDS.

I can't tell you how many times I get stopped each week by people wanting to comment on my foot status. No shoes? In the office? No way! (Or . . . "Zomg, you're wearing shoes today! What do you mean you already knew?") Of course, these are the same people who poo-poo my decision to play piano barefoot for church services or my right to wear flip-flops in the winter. Hi. None of your business.

I guess I'm really only bothered by it because I cannot for the life of me figure out what it must be like to be so incredibly boring — no hobbies, no internet connection, no weird birth mark — that you have nothing worth conversing about except my current footwear situation. Get a cat or a dictionary or some knitting needles or something. Good heavens.

Of course, if my feet had their own Twitter account, that would be totally different. That would be interesting.

Nine in the Afternoon

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:16:30 -0600

People say that you shouldn't judge something until you've tried it. This is generally stupid, since I already know that I hate refried beans and working at McDonald's and running marathons and green eggs. I don't need to try them. I don't want to. If it makes you feel better, though, I tried them in my head, using my imagination.

What have I really tried? Mornings. According to an internet calculator, I've tried them more than 8,000 times. I DO NOT LIKE MORNINGS. And I would like to stop trying them now.

I did not like them when I was a child and my mother would pull fiercely on the shades, laughing as the sound of the THWAP SNAP CRASH muffled the sound of my screams.

I did not like them in the summers when my mom would wake me up by dropping the cats on my face, laughing as the sound of their mewing muffled the sound of my screams.

I did not like them after I replaced the shades with blinds, when my mother would sing loud and obnoxious songs, smiling as her own voice muffled the sound of my screams.

I did not like them in high school, when my dad would come stand at the doorway and whisper my name over and over while I pretended to sleep. "Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel, it's time to wake up. Rachel. Rachel," he chanted, while I screamed silently.

In fact, the only good thing worth associating with mornings is breakfast. I grew up reading Calvin and Hobbes every day with my bowl of cereal or my Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes. Even the cat-shaped pancakes that looked just like the Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes were fantastic. (The snowman-shaped ones were my favorites, though.) And I couldn't make it through the day now without my Pop-Tarts or bagels or chocolate chip pancakes. So mornings, you win. For now. But the minute someone tells me I can have breakfast for dinner, you're done.

Hey, wait a minute . . .

Invitez-Moi à Votre Fête

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 17:35:44 -0600

I'm at a place in my life where I feel incredibly insecure all the time. I grew up being "the smart girl" who excelled at school, but here I sit with several years between myself and a college degree and with a growing number of universities who don't even want to look at my transcripts. As a perfectionist, this is extremely difficult to swallow.

I try explaining to people that I really just didn't go to class at all, and they smile and nod politely. But I can tell from the sad little flicker in their eyes that they think I'm the world's biggest failure.

Hello, humility. I don't think we've met.

That said, I was extremely uncomfortable at my friend's wedding reception being surrounded by four of the smartest individuals I have ever met. The gentleman to my right speaks at least four languages, and his wife is fluent in several, as well. He's a college professor. They've lived in Italy. Their combined IQ would probably be around three million. Not possible, you say? Well, shut up. It's true.

Throughout the course of the evening, I did a lot of listening and a lot of learning. I have since forgotten the phrases I learned in German, French, Italian, and Spanish, but I did remember one key lesson:

If you want to really impress people, memorize the pledge of allegiance in another language.

The smart wife of the smart man to my right had committed to memory the French pledge of allegiance, but she let it slide from her tongue so elegantly that I thought she was simply making conversation. She then repeated it to me in an angrier tone, showing how she could recycle the same material with different inflections and still manage to impress people. (Only now does it occur to me that perhaps it was the American pledge of allegiance in French. Either way, it was amazing.)

Of course, anyone who is fluent in French probably wouldn't be fooled by the ruse, but it is certainly a great party trick to have on hand here in America. And by golly, that Hey, look how many rejection letters I have! trick just isn't working for me anymore, so I'm happy to replace it. What cool tricks do you have up your sleeves?

P.S. No, I do not want to know that my title actually means "there's a monkey in my pants." Ignorance is bliss.

Green-Eyed Monsterskirts

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:05:25 -0600

This is how it should be. I am in the front seat, blinding people into submission. My brother is in the back seat, quietly reading manga. REMEMBER THAT, "SuperSanko," while you sit at your computer and woo the internet with 140-character quippy statements on Twitter. I AM IN THE FRONT SEAT HERE.

Not to Mention the Biggest Ella Fitzgerald Ever

Sat, 31 May 2008 14:36:43 -0600

Things to Love About the Ocean's Eleven Soundtrack:

George Clooney's voice on several tracks.
The instant Badass Boost™ included with each song. You could be doing laundry the boring way, or you could crank up the stereo and do some badass laundry.
Brad Pitt's voice on several tracks.
The opportunity to grunt, "UUHH!" really loudly whilst singing along to "Papa Loves Mambo." Do this in the car and count how many jealous people scowl at you.
Some really groovin' no seriously who thought to put George Clooney and Brad Pitt in the same movie? Because I'd like to hug that person. Right before he or she introduces me to the future Mr. Georgepants and Mr. Bradpants.

Go Team Venture!

Fri, 30 May 2008 11:58:41 -0600

My fish, he has a name. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Timmy Venture.

I promised that my brother and I would put together a video explaining how to properly pronounce and appreciate this beautiful name, and I have not forgotten. Adam just seems to think that it's more important to earn his paycheck than to make a video with me. Maybe tomorrow.

Meanwhile, go run out and watch some South Park and/or Venture Bros. to celebrate! All the cool kids are doin' it.