Housekeeping

Once upon a time, I had a friend named Chad. Chad was a very nice boy, but a little overbearing at times. I felt a little weird talking to Chad all the time because he'd say some slightly-inappropriate things to me whilst he had a girlfriend. I didn't know what to do.
Then Chad moved closer to me and didn't have a girlfriend. I liked him a bit, but he freaked me out a bit because he'd call so much. So sometimes I'd not call him back. And sometimes turned into all the time for a while, without any good reason.
One day, I decided to get over myself and I called him. When he answered the phone, he didn't say, "Rachel!" He said, "Who's this?" He'd taken my number out of his phone.
You know what, though? I didn't feel bad. I deserved it. And I found my way back into his life and his phone, and it was fine.
I also take people's numbers out of my phone periodically. Sometimes it's because the number is no longer correct (like my friend Eric). Or sometimes it's because it's for someone I didn't know that well, and we've fallen out of contact (like a guy named Stephen who asked me out once, but then I couldn't go, and then he moved, and then I moved...). But sometimes you take a number out for your own protection. Not the numbers that you keep for the caller ID purposes so you know NOT to answer the phone. But sometimes you have to take numbers out to save yourself.
Last night I took a number out of my phone. I just don't want to be tempted to call this person. I wanted to cut him off before he cut me off. That's pride, but that's ok. And then, at the end of the day, you really know who wants to talk to you. My friend David made it back into my phone because he started calling me. Andrew never did. The jury's still out of the recent removal, but I'm not sad. I feel free.

Missing Face

This weekend I had a little accident on my mountain bike. I hurt. But I wish I had some good battle scars to show for it. I don't. I wish I looked as bad as I feel. Not even for sympathy. Just so some people I really hate would get off my back. That sounds angry, I know, but it's because I am. It's rare, but it happens. I'd like to not feel that way, but unfortunately, I'm not seeing an end to it in the next fifteen minutes, and I live in a world of instant gratification. Typically.

On Bringing Home the Bacon and Frying it Up in a Pan

Every once in a while being self-sufficient is kind of a drag. You know, being the daughter of parents who encourage individuality, educated by women who faught in the sexual revolution, and motivated and conditioned to not depend on anyone sometimes catches up with you. Sometimes you just get a little lonely. But I still think it's better to be alone than hanging out with sub-par boys who are intimidated by my greatness. Or enthusiasm. Or honesty. Or gusto. Or who just don't think I'm worth their time. I'm sad.
I think my dad is right. I am like Katherine from "The Taming of the Shrew." But Kate wasn't such a bad woman. She just wasn't easily impressed. I'm guessing that in her younger days, she probably knew who she was, but probably got burned--BAD-- any time she tried to give some lesser mortal a chance. And so she came across as difficult. But she probably just didn't want to waste any more time on boys who didn't have much to offer... stupid guys like the ones who liked Bianca (who, were not stupid because they liked Bianca, but just happened to be stupid... there's a difference). As enfuriating as Petruchio was, at least he was a man who knew his own mind, and had one to know to begin with. He was accomplished and intelligent and strong and sure. And not afraid of kissing. Boys who can't kiss are a waste of time. So are boys who don't have social causes. I have no further use for either type of man, and those who fall into both categories need not apply.
Anyway, I'm off to my duties as the family 7th wheel. It's a position I'm getting used to, but it's lonely at the top.

Antibiotics make your urine smell

I broke down. I joined Facebook to save my relationship with Jacob. I went to the doctor because my throat and ear are ooky and painful. I ate at McDonalds yesterday because I didn't want to cook my squash and zucchini. I told Jeff that "the judger" is in love with him and is under the (false) impression that he spends all his free time with me. I got a pedicure instead of going to the gym. I kissed two boys in one night. I want to go to sleep and wake up better, but I have to work. Confession should be more cathartic.
In the doctor's office this morning, I saw a sign that read "We spend six days a week sowing our wild oats and pray the crop doesn't take on the seventh." This is me. I am bad. But I only feel bad about my ear and throat.

I wish everyone were 26

Being 26 is the best thing that will ever happen to you (except, I hope I say the same thing a year from now about being 27). I've been floating on Cloud 9 for the last 72 hours or so, and despite disappointment associated with my lover Ricky Martin canceling his concert and thus depriving me of those 4th row seats, I'm still living the life of a clam. Happy, that is.
Also, we can all rejoice. I must be over my breakup heartache. This morning I had an email from my good friend Melissa, expressing her solidarity and saying "the guy sounds like a jackass." And all I could think was, "Who?" Oops. Jacob is actually a wonderful little boy. I did feel a little odd at first, but I still adore him. That's the beauty of a fake relationship. That's why they're the only kind I feel comfortable with. So I love Melissa. She's completely loyal and wonderful. But don't worry, I love Jacob, too.
Speaking of all this loving, I've certainly been the recipient of a lot of love recently. For this, the most wonderful of birthdays, my friend Hunter organized the party to end all parties, complete with Polish food and games. I can't begin to tell you how touched I am that he'd take something so fundamentally important to me and turn it into a party theme. It was amazing! And so many of my friends were there, which meant sooo much. Just seeing Pam and Mel and Katie and Terry and Jess and Gabe and my sister and Mo and Aaron and Sam and Anna and Benson and on and on and on (if I didn't list your name, it's probably to protect the guilty!) was the best present a girl could have. These people bring so much joy into my life, I'm about to burst with happiness. I absolutely don't deserve all the goodness I get, but don't think I'm not grateful. Don't think I won't take it. I'm undeserving, but not stupid!
I also received some other very special things, chief among them was a tape of Hunter interviewing many of my friends telling stories about me. It was so precious. Now if my house were burning down and I could save only one material possession, I guess I'd have to give up my copy of "Knowing I Have Feelings He May Not" by Allison Ann Budd (a highly-recommended read) to save this tape. I hereby request it played at my funeral in 77 years. I hope they still have cassette players then.

Back on the market

Last night my fake boyfriend and I had a real breakup. I'm sad today. Remember the beautiful (minus the red flags of illiteracy) sonnet he wrote me for Valentine's Day? Well, it turns out he didn't write that for me at all. Actually, that part doesn't bother me so much. I mean, the Valentine I gave him contained the words to Mr. Rogers' "It's You I Like." Not only did I not write it, but some time earlier I posted it to Reuben's page (and it was more sincere to Reuben). What was really sad was that after he told me, we went bowling with some of our good friends and THEY ALL KNEW! OK, a couple of them didn't know. But a lot of them did. And I'm embarrassed.
Here I was, thinking I'd secured a position as my friend's archetypical platonic ideal, and it's all (as Georgia Nicolson would say) a facsimile of a sham. While I was proudly displaying said sonnet on my fridge (the only thing on that stainless steel beauty), my little pals were "tut-tutting" because even though I turn 26 tomorrow, I act like I'm 11. I just noticed my nose looks HUGE in my profile pic, by the way. Sigh.
The worst part is, it reminds me that I'm a girl boys admire instead of fall in love with, even when it's fake.
Plus also, I just came by my parents' house to feed the animals, and my dog was acting weird. Turns out she got out last night and the neighbor kept her. I feel awful! I'm going to be a terrible mother! I can't even take care of a dog!
Oh well. Tomorrow is another year. And I'm ready to party.
The old Rachel would mope around today (OK, that's a lie... I'm really only about 20 percent broken-up about this) but the new Rachel doesn't let the man get her down. The slightly-old and slightly-naughty Rachel I've turned into needs a pedicure, will go out to lunch, and maybe indulge in a little retail therapy. After all, I need to find a good outfit for my 4th-row, center Ricky Martin concert tickets. In truth, I feel the bands of oppression loosed. I'm tired of being fettered. I'm going to go jam to Cyndi Lauper and go to a movie by myself. Finding out you are a little joke to someone is fine, so long as you have the last laugh.

Feasting

I said this to my best friend forever Sokphal this morning, and I'll say it again-- there's a certain satisfaction that only comes from deciding you want something and then making it happen. Even if it's a little, inconsequential something. It launches you into a whole new level of productivity and hope and sets you apart as an accomplisher. I am a champion. Put me on a Wheaties Box.

Termagant

The Dictionary.com word of the day for May 2, 2007:
termagant-- a scolding, nagging, bad-tempered woman; a shrew
I know one. I hope I'm not one.
Last night I was on the phone with one of my very good friends, and he was telling me about his experience with said termagant. First, she told my friend that he ought not pursue a girl he's been digging because he's not worthy of the girl and he'd hinder the object of desire's spritual progress. Next, she apparently started dogging me for my so-called immodest clothes (sue me, there were holes in my jeans!).
You know, people like that bug me more than a little bit. I'm pretty sure that my friend is a great guy and the girl he likes (who, by the way, likes him back) will be thrilled when things finally come together for them. As for their spiritual growth, 1) it's not termagant's business and 2) she's completely wrong. What a crap thing to say to someone!
And I don't know if it's that I'm loyal to a fault or that my defenses are up because she was being rude about the way I dress (truthfully, I'm sure it's both), but I do know that people who have all the time in the world to talk smack about and to others need a real hobby.

"The One that Got Away: The Rachel Sego Story"-- A Lifetime Orignal Movie

The other day I had one of those experiences that will surely hit the small screen when my life becomes the movie of a the week after I hold public office. If I were a Gilmore Girl, it would be the decision between Christopher and Luke or Dean and Jess. If I were Peggy Sue, it would be Nicolas Cage or Barry Miller. If I were Felicity, it would have been the Ben or Noel moment. Except that I chose better than my WB and Pop Culture forerunners. Don't worry. When the flick comes out, you'll still have to hold your breath.