I got off the phone a few moments ago with a woman I'll call "Beverly" because that is her name. Beverly works at a doctor's office that is home to a patient who is coming to see one of the doctors I represent here at The Hospital. I called Beverly to ask her to issue a referral for the patient for her visit here. This particular visit is to an oncologist. Because she has breast cancer. Beverly was EXTREMELY upset about this visit, and its effect on her workload.

"It's a lot of work for me. I'm just one person. I bet this woman doesn't even think about that when she makes her appointments. I just think it's really inconsiderate."

No, Bev, I suppose she doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about how her CANCER TREATMENT might be an INCONVENIENCE to the secretary at her PCP's office, YOU HEARTLESS FUCKING SHREW.

And, no, she was not kidding. At all. This woman has truly lost all perspective.

So, my question is, when was the last time you were reminded that maybe you were taking things a little too seriously? What was that reality check like?

This whole week can just go right ahead and suck my dick.

Time for an informal poll for the ladies out there.

Which do you prefer - "Miss", "Ma'am", or something else entirely?

S and I were talking over the weekend and the topic came up. He was surprised to learn that I'd much rather be called "Ma'am". "But that's what you call old women, and no one wants to be called old." I explained that to my ear, "Miss" is what old rich people call The Help and what my mom called me when I was in trouble (well, she'd call me "Missy", but same thing), and I'd much rather be thought of as old, and maybe garner some of the associated respect, than to be regarded as diminutive and in trouble.

So, ladies, which do you prefer? Gents, in what situation do you use either one? Or do you just call everyone "Hey"? Is there a male equivalent to this situation? Everyone's just "Sir", right?

I hear it all the time.

"My girlfriend is jealous. She thinks I have a crush on you."

"I can't wait for you to meet /newgirlfriend/. She's terrified of you."

"Please don't write on my Facebook wall. /Girlfriend/ picks a fight with me every time you do. Just email me."

I was discussing this with perich last night, and he said "Well, you're attractive, funny, and confident. It makes sense." I nearly spit my burrito out at him. The first two items may be debatable, but confident? ME??? No, you must have me confused with someone else. Loud, maybe. But certainly not confident. I don't know how I've managed to fool so many people, and inadvertently gotten so many people to be scared of me.

I guess I don't mean "people". I guess I mean "women". My friend's girlfriends, women I've never met, women I know with whom I'd like to be better friends - they're all intimidated by me. I don't understand it and I have no idea what to do about it. If I were to possess less of the qualities they're intimidated by, I'd be a boring ugly idiot, and who wants to be friends with that girl? I try to be demure, but it comes off as standoffish, and then I live up to expectations. Should I come after them, instead? Demand their friendship, insisting, fists in the air, that I AM NOT THAT SCARY STOP BEING SO SCARED OF ME LET'S HANG OUT SOMETIME??

Maybe this is why I've had so many of the same friends for so long - I'm scared to let go of them because making new ones is insane.

Happy First Day of Fall!

"But Rachel," you say, "it's not fall until 9/21! I mean, some people use Labor Day as a symbolic marker for the end of summer, but either way, today is not the first day of fall."

And to you, I say "Nu-unh." Because I am wearing my favorite (and, technically, my only) argyle sweater today. And no one would wear an argyle sweater in the summer. So, therefore, it is fall.

Not that I'm wishing summer away. Certainly not. I've very much enjoyed my summer of weddings, and road trips, and summer camp, and state parks, and hot dogs and beer. I've met a lot of new people and done a lot of new things and pet a lot of strange animals and fallen in love. All in all, that's pretty much all you can ask for from a season. But facts is facts. The Sam Summer has been pulled, the Halloween candy is out, and the fall concert tours are starting. I am wearing closed toe shoes. I close my window before going to sleep. I hug a little longer just to keep warm. (Okay, that one's a lie. I just like hugging. And besides, you're super hot. Who wouldn't want to rub up on that for a second?)

I welcome Autumn. It's my favorite season by far. And so far this one has some great stuff on tap. Apple picking, trips to Western MA for loafing around purposes, and maybe, if I can keep my anxiety about closed spaces and being lost under control, maybe the Maize Maze. I'll also celebrate my neice's first birthday, my nephew's promotion to kindergarten, and my own birthday, if a bit belatedly. Stay tuned for details on that one.

To me, fall is about starting over. I guess it's because of the new school year, even though I've been out of school for longer than I was in it. I still buy a new notebook, and I am still convinced that I need new school clothes. Maybe just a new skirt, or a pair of boots. I do love boots. And I also love where my life is right now. It's not perfect, but I'm really happy, for the first time in a long time. The Boy has a lot to do with it, of course, but it's not all about him. I'm feeling better about myself in a lot of areas, I'm recognizing just how many friends I really do have, and I've got a project to write for, which always makes me feel better.

So, happy First Day of Fall, everyone.

I got an email today from my cousin. She sends them a lot - the kind of forward that gets passed around and rewritten a million times, and nothing in it is true, and it kind of talks about God and patriotism a little too much and makes you a bit uncomfortable. This one purported to be a collection of quotes from children ages 4-8 defining the concept of love. Like I said, I'm sure none of them were legit, but this one got to me.

'When someone loves you, the way
they say your name is different.
You just know that your name is safe
in their mouth.'

I have found a place where my name is safe.

Today, I called the first phone number I ever memorized. No one answered. They were gone.

For months now, my mother has been in the process of selling her house. Our house. MY house. She's moving to California, y'see, and though she'll be back to visit a lot, she saw no sense in keeping a big empty house. So she bought a new house for my sister and her family to live in, in which she will stay on her frequent trips East. It makes sense. Her logic is sound. But I'm still heartbroken. I went over on Sunday to say goodbye to the house I grew up in. When I got there, I was greeted by Mom, her fiance, my sister, her husband, and their children, who I love nearly as much as their parents do. They were sitting around the kitchen table (as we always are) playing a board game. It was "Sorry". I flashed back to the million times I played the same game as a kid, in the same room, with many of the same people. As the game went on, I snuck up the back stairs to what used to be my sister's room. And also my room, and also my parents' room. We switched rooms a lot, is what I'm saying. I looked in the closet, and remembered snooping for Easter baskets and Christmas presents on the high shelf. Through the door into the adjoining room. My room. The room I first slept in, when I shared it with Jill's crib and tattled on her regularly for climbing out of it. I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling and remembered the New Kids poster I had up there for way too long. I remembered listening to the same Eagles Greatest Hits cassette night after night. I sang "Seven Bridges Road" a little bit. I sat on the landing above the steps and remembered sitting there and listening to what was happening downstairs, the good and the bad. I jumped over the stairs, from one bedroom to another, just like I did the day we moved in, when I was 4. My parents' room. And also the room where I dance-acted to "Thriller". Right, sure, like you've never done it.

There are countless memories in each room of that house. In every square foot, something good, bad, happy, scary, sad, or some mixture of all of them happened to my family. After a while, and a terrible defeat at "Sorry", I sat on the porch steps. There are 13 of them. 2 stone, the rest wooden. I sat there, my 5 year old nephew on my lap, and thought about the future. Will Brian remember this house? These steps? Maybe, but maybe not. The future is now. His home is in New Hampshire, now. It's a good home. Plenty of room to run around, huge yard, a little farm up the street with chickens and ducks and stuff. He will count the stairs to the front door and find his own hiding places and dance-act to his own music. So will his sister. And there will be room for me there, too. Home is where the heart is, and all that.

So I went back inside and said goodnight to my mom. I yelled up the stairs at my sister for the last time. I got into my car and drove away and started sending text messages. Because who remembers phone numbers anymore anyway?





(As I wrote this, WBCN was ending their broadcast and becoming a new station. Everything's always changing.)

During discussion of the ubiquity of the name "Madison":
Him: "I want to have 50 kids and name them all after state capitals. Poor Bismarck."
Me: "You want to have 50 kids? Yikes. I'll see you later."
Him: "Oh. Well, will you have, like, 10 of them?"

We're talking with his friends about an upcoming wedding. Another Steve is described as being "Katie's date."
Me: "You're Katie's date? I thought I was your date."
Him: "I'm your date. I'll never be anyone else's date."

Such a good weekend, you guys.

EDIT: Guys, did I make him sound like a creepy baby farmer? Because he's not. At least, I don't think he is...

It's Thursday. We are soaking wet, sitting in the car we've been sitting in for 24 hours already, and preparing to spend the night in it again. Winds are whipping at tents of questionable stability and tornado warnings are blaring on the radio. Lightning is striking everywhere, with no thunder. We look at each other. "Rachel, let's make a pact to never do this again." "You got it."

That's how my trip to Bonnaroo got started. Well, sort of.

Jim picked me up on Wednesday night around 10. We were shooting for 7, but, well, that's Jim. After 13 years of friendship, you'd think I'd have expected it. The ride down was great. There was singing and laughing and deer counting. (There were 10 deer along a mile or two stretch in New York. I don't think I've seen 10 deer in my entire life!) We sang songs like Elmer Fudd and yelled the theme from "Sanford and Son" at each other. We made fun of city names and landmarks ("Blacks Run? Is that a river or a command??") and pulled over for a quick nap somewhere in Virginia. That's also where we had a brush with the law. "You know, this is our first speeding ticket. We never got one during the cross-country trip." "Right. I just got that parking ticket that I never paid." "Where was that?" "Um. Virginia. Think there's a statute of limitations on that sort of thing?" There must be, because no one was arrested.

We arrived in Tennessee and thought "We're almost there!" We were wrong. Tennessee is a long state, and we were crossing the whole thing. But we got there, sat in line, the car passed inspection, we were sent to our camp site, and then, BOOM. The skies opened. I was terrified, certain that some stoner hadn't hammered his stakes in all the way and their tent was going to come crashing through the windshield. Or a goddamn tornado would suck us up and throw us somewhere in Arkansas. We were basically a trailer park, after all. We were asking for it. But after a few minutes (just long enough for us to get soaked putting up the tent before realizing we couldn't find the top tarp) it stopped. People got out of their cars, finished setting up, and set to the most important part of the first night - finding the bathroom. We did that, revelled in the relative cleanliness of the port-o-potties, sort of got our bearings, and went to sleep.

Friday morning the rain had stopped. The ground wasn't dry, but it wasn't quite the mud pit we expected. We got the tent to a liveable condition and blew up God's greatest invention, the air mattress, which we immediately passed out on for a few more hours. It seemed that maybe we wouldn't have to give up and go home quite yet.

Then we remembered there was a concert to go to. We checked the schedule and mapped out our day. Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, Grizzly Bear, Al Green, Beastie Boys, and Phish. After Grace Potter's blues explosion burned the goddamned house down, Jim said "If I could Twitter, I'd tweet this: Grace Fucking Potter." It's not fair that a woman can be so pretty and so talented. If she comes anywhere near your area, GO AND SEE THEM. Do not hesitate. For real. The night before started to wear on me during Grizzly Bear, and the bass was so loud I felt my esophagus shake, so we went and sat down for a bit. I regrouped in time to bear witness to the Rev. Al Green, taking it back old school in a beautiful suit in the 90 degree heat. He brought the hits, and I was nothing but grateful to be standing near him, which was a trend that continued all weekend. After Al finished, the Beastie Boys took the stage. Mix Master Mike is honestly the best DJ I've ever seen. Blew my damn mind. The Beasties made everyone happy. Everyone was smiling like idiots, yelling along to Paul Revere, shaking our rumps, and rocking it root down. Then Nas showed up. What?? NAS?? I'm not as into the hip hop scene in general as some of my friends, but I was able to recognize a master of the artform. He did his part on the new single and left, but it still felt like I had seen something important. After the show we wandered around, silly grins on our faces. We noticed that David Byrne was playing a few feet away. We snuck in for "Take Me To the River" and "The Great Curve", my favorite Talking Heads song of all time. Then I turned to Jim. "I'm having a crisis of loyalty and I need your advice." "Okay, what?" "Jimmy, Public Enemy is playing. Right here. Very soon. At the same time as Phish, the band you and I came to see. The band we haven't seen in 5 years. The whole reason we are still such good friends! But... I mean... It's Public fucking Enemy. When will I get this chance again? I wore my tape of "Apocolypse 91" OUT. What do I do?" "Go see them, Little Rachel. I'll meet you here when they're done." "Really? You're not mad about seeing Phish alone?" "Nope. Go." So I went. And it was amazing. Flavor Flav was there. Chuck D was there. Professor Griff was there. The S1W were there. In front of me. About 20 feet away. I threw my white suburban fist in the air in solidarity and it all felt okay. And they did the entire "It Takes A Nation of Millions" album. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. At least until the next day.

Saturday we took Vickie's suggestion and trudged over to see Rodrigo y Gabriela, a brother/sister guitar duo. They were - to steal a word - incendiary. I don't know how those guitars got off stage in one piece. Then we got out of the sun and watched Gov't Mule cover Radiohead while we sat under a tree. Next was the act I'd been looking forward to most - Elvis Costello. He was billed as solo, but there were enough instruments set up to know that wouldn't be the case for long. The first few songs would have been enough for me. "Veronica", "(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes", "Watching the Detectives", "Radio, Radio". Then Allen Toussaint showed up. Then some other guy. Then Jenny Lewis and her band, who had been on just prior. This was bittersweet for me. I love Jenny, but I love Elvis more. As soon as she showed up, the man onstage turned from the coolest guy in Tennessee to some old guy trying to keep up with the young kids. This is why I get so grossed out at couples of greatly different ages. The older person looks lecherous and pitiful, and the younger person looks like a baby who has unreconciled issues with their parents. Stick to your own kind, people. Ahem, anyway. Rant over. It was an amazing show and I may have cried a little during the "You Have To Hide Your Love Away" cover. That was all we could take for the day. We hiked back to the tent and listened to Bruce Springsteen on the mainstage doing "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town". We fell asleep somewhere after "Thunder Road".

Sunday morning we woke up sweaty. Tennessee is hot, y'all. Believe. We got up, hosed ourselves off as best we could, and hightailed it over to see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. I'm not as familiar with the band as I'd like to be, but the show was awesome. Ted kept knocking his guitar out of tune. He'd spent a few minutes retuning, then he'd say "Eh, good enough for punk" and play the song. This happened 3 or 4 times. After the set, we just sort of wandered around for a few minutes. After 3 days of running around, we finally took some time to just look at stuff. We saw some of the smaller stages featuring unsigned bands. We washed our hands and faces with the only public running water onsite. I bought cherries at Whole Foods. They were outstanding. We wandered back to This Tent (as opposed to the That Tent and The Other Tent, along with the Which and What stages. It's Bonnaroo's little way of screwing with the hippies) and saw Robert Earl Keen open for Merle Haggard. Merle Haggard is not an act I would have chosen myself, but Lynn and Christopher both requested that I go, so I obliged. I think i've described all the shows as "awesome" or "amazing", and this was no different. I feel like I got to see a lot of acts that I won't get a chance to see again, and I am so grateful to have had the opportunity. After Merle was Band of Horses, then Snoop Dogg told us to both Drop It Like It's Hot AND to Jump Around. The man kept us busy. After Snoop ended, we got down to business. It was Phish time. We snaked through the crowd to find the perfect spot. We stocked up on food and water, staked our claim, and prepared. We played "What Will They Play?" and "JimShirt" - the game in which Jim gets punched if I see someone wearing a Phish shirt that he owns. Dude's got a lot of shirts, so he gets punched a lot. I don't know why anyone is my friend.

Phish took the stage, and I didn't stop grinning for 3 hours. I stared at the band. Trey looked old. He's had a hard few years, and it shows around his eyes. Page is adorable and I want to keep him around me all the time for hugging purposes. Mike is Mike. Fishman looks like he took a job on Wall Street during the break and just threw on his trademark green dress 5 minutes before the show. Both sets were everything I could ask for. There were glowsticks, fireworks, ridiculous dancing, smiles all around, and Bruce Springsteen. Trey started talking about growing up in Jersey and the first show he ever went to, and how nothing ever compared to that show for him, and ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Bruce Springsteen. They played Mustang Sally, Bobbie Jean, and Glory Days. Bruce clearly hadn't met the whole band, as he kept referring to Page as "Mr. Keyboard Man". Hilarious. After the show we hopped on a golf cart driven by Samuel L. Jackson's long-lost brother and got the fastest and most potentially dangerous ride back to camp of the weekend. And then sleep.

Monday morning, and it was time to go. We cleaned, we packed, we broke down the tent, we killed most of the ant colony that took up in the backseat. Then there was a lot of driving and we only accidentally ended up in Kentucky one time. We stopped for the night in Salem, Va, then another full day of driving and counting deer. This ride was quieter, though there was still plenty of laughing and singing and Elmer Fudd. We talked about important stuff, I called him out on some bullshit, and he threatened to throw me out of the car. But I got him back on my side. They always come back. Tuesday night at 9 we pulled up in front of my house. We unloaded my stuff and thanked each other for the thousandth time.

"So, Little Rachel. Next year?" "You got it."

Hi there.

So I'm going to Bonnaroo this week, because I have the heart of a hippie. I am thoroughly unprepared, because I live like a spoiled city girl. I need your help.

I'll be on a farm for 5 days with no running water, no refrigeration, drinking warm beer and slopping through mud (if the current weather prediction of scattered thunderstorms bears out). The music will be amazing - seriously, check out the schedule - but who do I see? There are so many bands playing at the same time!

I am at a loss, internet. Help me. What one item should I be sure to bring, what band can I not miss, what words of wisdom do you have for a weary traveler to help me avoid murdering my companion after hour 11 in the car on the way home?

I was asked to write a letter of recommendation for my friend perich so he can officially officiate the wedding of two of his friends. It's probably the easiest thing I've ever had to do, and I was honored to be asked. What I actually wrote was brief, because I didn't want to go babbling to the Commonwealth about how much I love my friend. That's what the internet is for. :) So, please, allow me to expound.

John Perich is a good man. He is smart, and strong, and can rock a mic like you've never seen. He is a wonderful writer, an expert martial artist, and an unreserved dancer. And he's an amazing friend. This week I was sad for a lot of reasons. I called John and he was there for me. That sounds like a small thing, but it's not. I needed him, and he was there without question and without delay. The look of concern on his face when he got to me is not something I'll forget soon. He let me ramble about the reasons I was sad, holding my hand and listening closely. This sort of thing is not out of character for him.

My relationship with John has not always been wonderful. There have been miscommunications and hurt feelings. But we pushed through them, and I couldn't be more glad. Because if we hadn't, I wouldn't have one of my best friends. It's easy to miscategorize John as aloof, or cold, or otherwise hard to know. But really, he's just tall. You have to get up on your tip-toes to see into his eyes and get to the real guy. Once you get up there, you'll see that he's a giant heart in a crunchy outer shell, just like the rest of us. A giant heart who holds his beliefs strongly and loves his friends ferociously. I consider myself very lucky to be his friend.

So, yes. I recommend John Perich. For just about anything.


(If you want to take time today to recommend a friend, I think it's a neat thing to do. After all, opening day was postponed. What else are you going to do all day?)

It's Ticket Time again. I'm going to see Mountain Goats this Wednesday at the Somerville Theater. I have an extra ticket. I would like to go to this show with you. You probably don't know the band, so I will tell you that they are nerdy, and quiet, and have the kind of lyrics that break your heart and make you smile at the same time. Here is an example.




John van der Slice (no relation) is opening. Let me know if you'd like to come along.

I just cancelled my MySpace account. All these social network things do more to make me crazy than to keep me connected. Too much information about what my friends are doing at all times only serves to make me feel lonely and disconnected. Why wasn't I tagged in that note? Invited to that event? Who the hell is that pretty new friend of his? It hurts me instead of heping. I've been holding on to MySpace for too long. I don't what I'll let go of next.

However. I did have a blog over there, and while I had deleted most of it a while ago, there are some entries I want to keep. So I'm sticking them here for now, until I think of something better.

( Here they are! )

I don't think she looks much like me, really, but I'd be thrilled if Sara Rue played me in the movie of my life.

Me


Her

Do you guys read Achewood? It's a web comic, and it's weird, and I love it. Last week brought me this, and I genuinely think it's genius.

So, for the next 24 hours, I'm declaring National Admit It Day. Comment here, either anonymously or not, and let it out. Happy things, sad things, things that show you aren't meant for the art department at hallmark, whatevs. You'll feel better.

Neil Gaiman has a children's book coming out.



I'm only watching this video over and over and crying my eyes out because I'm hormonal, right? Because my body is doing the thing it does around this time each month, and because I love my niece so much, and because I spent hours the other night discussing names for my friend's unborn baby, and because so many babies are coming, and because Neil's accent is really charming and because I wish someone had written something like that for me when I was a baby and NOT AT ALL because I've finally decided - after years of deliberation and the disintegration of a marriage - that I want to have a child of my own and am feeling profoundly sorry for myself because I feel my chances for that are slim. Right?

If it's that second one, I am hosed.

Fine, fine, you caught me. I've lost a little weight. Not a ton. A pretty tiny amount, percentage-wise. But my body is starting to look a little different, and I can't wave it off anymore when people notice. When you look at me in places I'm not used to having looked at and say "You're smaller." I have to smile and say "Yes, a little. Thanks for noticing." Even though I feel completely naked when you do it and want nothing more than to eat a cheeseburger and put on a burka so no one will know. I am Linus without his blanket over here.

I'm doing it on purpose, of course. I don't end up on the treadmill, sweaty and grunting, by accident. There's a reason I haven't punched my perky blonde trainer in the face. I want this. I want to be smaller, to feel better, to wear cuter clothes. It'll just take me a while to get used to it, I guess.

So, if I cringe at you and wave you away and tell you to shut up or deny it altogether, what I mean is "Yes, I've lost a little weight. Thank you for noticing."

Do you guys remember Voltron? It was an early 80s cartoon that involved a bunch of crime fighting teams or whatever. I'll be honest, around that time I was pretty busy pretending to be She-Ra. But as I recall, at key moments everyone would join together, all forming one giant superhero monstrosity of awesome.

I want Voltron to be my boyfriend.

There are a lot of men in my life that I'm not dating. And they each want something separate and specific from me. One wants to spend hours talking about our feelings. One wants to be my drinking buddy and give me noogies. One just wants to hug. One wants to take long road trips with me. On his wife's birthday. One wants to make me mix CDs, 10 years after we broke up. And one wants nothing more in the world than to hit this. He's not getting that.

Because I don't want any of that. Okay, I want all of that. But I want all of that from ONE GUY. I want all these guys to join forces and become one giant guy. One guy who wants to give me all of that, and wants all of that from me.

I don't want to date just the Red Lion. Or just the Green Lion, or just the Blue Lion, or just the Yellow Lion. I don't even want to date the Black Lion. And he's the one that forms the head. I want all of it. I want the whole monstrosity of awesome.

I want Voltron to be my boyfriend.

Today is shaping up well. At the bus stop, a strange woman said to me "Those are GREAT shoes!" Having my fashion choices validated is a wonderful thing. And THEN, I get to work, boot up and settle in, and the first thing I see on Ye Olde Ell Jay is this piece of unexpected kindness from one of my closest friends.

It's probably going to be an okay day.

The red paper hearts are up at the office. People are looking for romantic dinner destinations over email. Commercials for flower delivery on television. Valentine's Day is everywhere.

I hate it. I really do. I hate the expectations it puts on couples to have The Most Romantic Night Ever; I hate commerce getting intertwined with emotion; and, of course, I hate not getting to be a part of it because I'm not in a relationship. So, to make myself feel better I made myself one of these things so you can send me a Valentine. Feel free to tell me how much you secretly love me, or how much you want me to shut the hell up. Whatever's in your heart. ;)

Oh, and I like peonies and caramels. Just in case you wondered.


Get your own valentinr