The Illustrious and Illustrated Life of Rachel (Revised)

Note: The following post has been edited, with large chunks of text removed. If you are confused, so am I. But now you know how journalists feel when they obtain documents from the government under the Freedom of Information Act with large chunks of information blacked out or cut from the page.

So remember how much I was looking forward to a quiet, relaxing weekend, with only hope of something exciting enough to write about transpiring? Got my wish. Sort of.

However, before I launch into the gripping tale of my Friday through Sunday, I got to thinking it was time I illustrate my blog a bit. Don't count on it all the time, because uploading pictures is such a pain-- you kind of have to decide what order you want everything in from the beginning and work around them like the first-grade squiggle books of yore, right? But anyway, I thought I'd reward my loyal readers with some pictures to go with my musings this morning.

OK, for the sake of my stories, you should also know that sometimes I forget what people really look like. I'm really great with names, but if I'm trying to think of faces (especially early-on in friendships), I get a little confused, and so I have to cast the stories in my mind with more familiar ones. Also, I've noticed that most of us have very little concept of how unattractive we really are-- that's why it takes you by surprise in the dressing room of a department store when you see yourself in those three-way mirrors and you think, "My word! I'm short, and my bum is much bigger than I thought. Thank goodness no one sees me naked." Anyway, by way of caveat and explanation, you should know that in my mind, I look like Zooey Deschanel:

And of course, I don't look one bit like her. To be fair, I just snapped a camera-phone pic so you can see the difference.

I know, I know. Face like a fist full of worms, right? But I had a hard weekend, and have a busy week ahead (as evidenced by my messy desk in the background). Anyway, the halo of light is not super-imposed. Maybe it's the morning sun streaming in from the east window of my office, or perhaps I'm just that angelic. I'll let you decide. Regardless, the purpose of this example is for readers to understand the pictures included in this post are not necessarily accurate representations of the individuals discussed, though there are some striking similarities (my striking similarity to Zooey is a coordinating fashion sense, I'd say).

But on to the weekend.

Things started out all right. I got home from work and had a message from an acquaintance inviting me to a party. Want to know what he looks like?

Yes, something like that. Anyway, new friend said, "Please, please, please let me get what I want and come over to my party this evening. I know you want to dance the night away, but you really ought to come over and hang out." More or less.

I told this gent I really DID feel like getting my groove on, and if I heard the gypsy call of the music, I might have to stay and trip the light fantastic till the cows came home. However, if the stars aligned just right, I promised I'd make an appearance.

As I got ready for my evening out, making Clark Kent love me for my quick wit, I received another set of text messages, this time from my friend Jacob:

(Jacob is nearly as sexy as John Stamos as Uncle Jesse, except for when he's dropping it like it's hot.)

(CENSORED--CONTENT OMMITTED AS PART OF NEW RACHEL SENSITIVITY TRAINING)

A boy I think is super

PARAGRAPH ALSO OMMITTED-- SORRY-- IF YOU DIDN'T READ IT THE FIRST TIME, YOU'LL HAVE TO USE YOUR IMAGINATION TO FILL IN THE DISJOINTED STORY-- YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE.

The party was, largely, a smash. It was a very casual gathering, and I got a lot of artistic inspiration whilst there (don't ask me why the muses visit in the middle of a living room full of people, ping pong, and puppies, but they do). The highlights for me included meeting Clark's brother with the nice teeth, and noticing how Bobby Hill always wears the same shirt every time I see him. I actually love that about him a bit. Another grand moment: getting to tattoo Bobby's little brother. He was dressed up like a gangsta, but was missing some critical ink. As you might guess, I have no drawing capabilities whatsoever. Still, I found myself scribing the Pledge of Allegiance in espanol and a Zia Symbol (a symbol of perfect friendship among united cultures) on this chap's arm. Meanwhile, he tried to use the EXACT same line on me his brother once did. Seriously, their father must have coached them once upon a time at a family camp out. "Now Boys," Hank would have said, "The ladies really love it when you talk about how young they look." 2/3 of the brothers I've talked to in this family have accused me of being about 15 years younger than I am, which is a little excessive, but charming all the same.

Speaking of Bobby, I know he's having a read, so if you'll allow me to take a short break from my weekend to pay tribute to him, I'd appreciate it.

Bobby is one of my new favorites. He acquired the nickname one night when we bunked out of FHE for a few minutes so he could get something to eat. I'd been the driver, and I hate the idea of anyone starving, so when he begged for a quick-trip to McDonald's, I obliged. We had a few good laughs over I don't remember what, but the best was that this poor chap had no money. I suppose I could have been extra charitable and offered to buy him some food, but instead I let him order his dollar menu meal and watched him eat in peace, mostly because I was pre-occupied contemplating the play place, and how many dirty diapers have ended up in ball pits throughout America. Anyway, B came to our little bar-height table with his food and two cups of water. I love water, actually. It's the elixir of life. But upon examining his receipt, I noticed he took the large, 25 cent water and gave me the free one. Not that it mattered, but how could I resist telling him (and now the world) just how cheap that was?! It's OK. It's not like he was 99 or 100, so it doesn't matter all that much. Still, that fun evening + his good taste in music (despite his generic Mormon boy love of Dave Matthews) + the age flattering basically =

NEWLY EDITED PARAGRAPH: Instead of making fun of the boy who looks like Bobby, let me just say I like him and I hear music whenever we meet.

Ba-da-da-ba-ba-- I'm Lovin' It

But back to the weekend. You're in luck-- there's not much more to say.

Basically, Saturday I spent part of the day with my parents, who needed to go to Costco and wanted to go to lunch. They now qualify for senior discounts. They love Furr's Cafeteria, and that's where we went. I was pretty much the only person under 60 there. The long and short of it was we had lunch, went to Costco, and then I thought I would die of food poisoning. Ma and Pa were also feeling poorly, but I was the one who got the worst of it. No more Furr's!

Fortunately, by Sunday morning, those symptoms had abated. Unfortunately, I honestly had the world's craziest stiff neck when I woke up. I had to hold my head to get out of bed. It was rather comical, really. The most comfortable position was to keep my head bowed, which would have made me look very pious at church, but would have presented a major problem with say, I don't know, driving. It wasn't that I just couldn't check my blind spot so much as I probably couldn't see over the dashboard. When I felt the stiff neck coming on Saturday, I plugged in my trusty heating pad to sleep on-- I thought some low heat might loosen things up. But sometime in the middle of the night I awoke with a start because my neck was really hot. I held up the heating pad and saw some sparks-- I kid you not. So this weekend included a nice, near-death experience. "Did you hear about Rachel?" "Yeah, what a way to go-- her bed caught on fire, but not with passionate love."

Anyway, I didn't make it to church. Of course, rather than lounge around, taking it easy on the old neck, I fidgeted until I had to get up and do something. Something included cleaning out the kitchen junk drawer and then taking my bed apart to move a different one in. I don't know where I get these hair-brained ideas, but there's no containing the energy, even when I'm down and out. But by about 6 p.m., that rush of energy had left and I was crippled up again and in bed.

Another thing I should mention is that no one seemed to notice I was gone yesterday, with the exception of my sweet little friend Arlinda, who sent plenty of text messages checking on me, which I appreciated. I didn't really expect the world to end without me there, but you know-- I call a lot of the missing people each week to check on them. Around 3 yesterday I heard the text alert on my phone, and my heart was warmed. Ooh! Someone noticed, I thought! Actually, it was Phil, wanting the branch president's phone number.

So I must have retreated to sleep in my bed of pain around 7:30, but woke up again around 10 and couldn't sleep. I checked the time on my phone and noticed that Phil had called about 8. I shot off a quick text. "Hey Phil, sorry I missed your call. I'm laid up at the moment and my sleep schedule is on the fritz, so I was asleep. Did you need something?" His answer: "Nope." So I sent back a message along the lines of, "Then you just missed me and fancied a chat?" Again, "Nope. I just needed another phone number." I guess that's what I get for being information, but I'm sorry Phil, 411 is closed!

And that, my friends, is what I did this weekend. Otherwise known as very little.