rachelpink rides the bus

Oh dear god I am so tired. Two days of non-stop running. Coming home, exhausted, only to be greeted by SCREAMING angry cats hungry for dinner. Calgon? Get here and take me away. The rest of the week looks just like the last two days, so let's see how I hold up.

The pic of me is from a break in this morning's television tour for one of our kid's cookbooks. There were two sweet kids helping out with the interviews--one five, one four--and they were unflappable. This was the funniest video. Both kids lost it in their own little ways. Amelia ducked down and hid. The other young one started chowing down, licking her arm, and more! Oh it makes me laugh until I cry. Pure awesome kid honesty. You have to watch a little commercial first, but I swear it's worth it.

Bah, Blech, Bah

On a cold dark day in the Fall of 2006, I made an appointment for a physical with my dear and genius GP. Between then and now, I rescheduled that appointment EIGHT times.

Silly, stupid Rachel.

Worse yet, it's not like a didn't see my doctor at all in the interim. I've been there at least three times a year to re-up on my medicine or get checked out for a cold.

Still, physicals are linked to dread and the history is deep.

Back in my kinder years, we were required to have a physical. If you didn't get one, you had to get weighed at the nurse's office. My knees still feel wobbly just thinking about it. And why? What drives a third grader or a fourth grader to dread something so unremarkable?

That dread and loathing? It stayed with me.

And now here I am. Definitely a mess, definitely not taking care of myself. I know it as much as I know that a pint of ice cream with a can of Heineken doesn't make for a nourishing dinner. And still. This physical was to be my comeuppance. So I put it off and off and off and off. And finally I decided enough was enough. With cunning I rescheduled the physical one last time. My prescription was coming due, so I had to see Dr. K. Haha! I tricked myself into getting physical-ed.

And you know what? It was fine. Fine, aside from the fact that I acted like a crazy person. CRAZY. Dr. K said, "So, how are you?" I could have said, FINE! I should have said, FINE! Instead I went on and on and on about how I'd been dreading the appointment, that I'd had a remarkably gross year, that my regular exercise routine was also my subway commute. And on and on and on and on.

She was well within her doctor's right to excuse herself and make a call to the funny farm.

But instead, she listened. Nodded her head. Asked me some questions, checked out my blood pressure. Helped me come up with a plan, and scheduled a check-in appointment. I told her I'd rejoin WW, and check in with her every few months. No more two-year gaps between physicals.

So it's done. I'm done. The last guest at my personal pity party is being asked to leave.

Gratuitous Cat Pictures

Talking Points

My friends and I have talking points. My mom and I have talking points. And while everyone strays from the norm all the time, it's nice to know that I can fall back into a happy and comfortable discussion about cats with the folks I know who like to talk about their cats. Or cheese. Or work. Or Friday Night Lights. Or cats again.

This month I added a new volunteer project to the ol' schedule. I've mentioned it here before. I sit at a table with 3 or 4 people who need to practice their english. There are cards we can use to spur on the conversation, but most of the volunteers initiate conversation on their own.

My stand-by topics? Hobbies. Work. Dinner.

This week I rotated to two different groups. The first group of four people were all at different levels, and it was tricky getting them all equally excited enough to talk at length about anything. That is, until the subject of fish emerged.

Yes, the common fish was the tie that bound us all into a really interesting and passionate conversation about cooking and home countries and family memories. Even the student with the least confidence spoke elegantly about his favorite fish recipe, his belief that fish kept him strong, his love of cooking. It was just great watching our table go from quiet and polite to excited and chatty. Fish. I need to remember that one.

The next table? That's a story for another day. We talked about who should do the cooking in a household, and the ways in which men and women should be helpmates in the home(or not). And then the conversation turned dark and angsty, and it was a strong conversation, a moment of debate, but it was also pretty sad.

Thank you, Universe.

Thank you for sending good news to me and Meg about our project.

Thank you for the $20 I found around Union Square.

Thank you for colluding with Facebook to send some old good friends my way again.

Thank you for making my physical a lot less terrible than I feared it would be.

Thank you for funny coincidences.

Thank you for giving me a whole heap of hope at the end of a very very very long year.

Rhymes with Nicorette

Donovan told me tonight that he wanted to work at McDonald's and 7-11 before college. Then it occurred to me: those are the jobs I had before college, and he knew it. Awww. "What other jobs did you have?" he asked. I told him I worked in a bookstore, and that I was a teacher. That got him all riled up. "Oh right. Did you get your doctor-ette?" Sure I should have corrected his pronunciation of doctorate, but his mispronunciation was wicked cute. He asked me why I didn't finish it. "That's the highest thing you could do! You would have made a million dollars!" he said. Then he told me he might get a doctor-ette--in every subject. But no, he'd rather be a lawyer. You don't need math to be a lawyer, and he's not so good at math.

Then Delaney recited the days of the week and the months (pre-school is working) in her sing-song way. I could hear her mom getting things ready for dinner in the background. "I love you, Delaney. Now go eat your hot dog dinner." "HOT DOG DINNER???" she squealed. The next thing I knew the kid was cracking up. "Hot dog dinner? Hot dog dinner? Hahahahahahaha." Pause. "Aunt Rachel I miss you and love you." Unpause. "HOT DOG DINNER!!!!!??? HEHEHEHEHE. Bye, I love you."

Just 2 more months and I'll see them.

French People Hate Me

This morning started off crabby. I slept late, couldn't get my boots on (to buy: shoe horn), and almost burned my breakfast. I planned to leave the apartment by 8. I actually left the apartment by 8:45.

The only benefit to running that late is a less-crowded train. Not so today. Just another crabby thing.

At 42nd St. I missed a 1 train by 1 second. Another followed, and I got on and found a seat. Right before the doors closed, four Parisian tourists piled on. The women sidled in next to me. The men sat across from me.

I'm going to call the men Frenchie and Jacques.

Frenchie looks over at me. His eyes go wide. He turns to Jacques and says something in his ear all while staring at me like I've got a fucking third eye. Now Frenchie and Jacques are both staring and there's nothing subtle about it. They stare. They confer. I stare back. I read more the meh book that I had with me. I look up. Still, staring.

So I take it that in France, they're free of fluffy chicks? That's the best I could tell. Or maybe they just hated my leg warmers?

After a few more stares Frenchie and Jacques turned their gaze away from fluffy me and onto a teenage boy with a skin condition. Charming! And these are the tourists that Mayor Bloomberg would like me to treat with care and kindness?

But I digress. I readied myself for the next stop, and I wondered what I should do. The stares where so glaring and obnoxious that I felt the need to act. I thought back to the David Sedaris story about riding the train in France with the bad American tourists. He did nothing. I couldn't do nothing. What I wanted to do, in a really primal way, was give Frenchie and Jacques the finger. It was a crass thought, but satisfying. And then I thought back to Meg's recent subway anecdote and stopped myself. Instead as I got off the train I swung my head around to Frenchie and Jacques and made a crazy, twisty, monster face. No comment, no screaming, just bugged out eyes, a grimace, and a scrunched up nose.

I left wishing I'd done something more dignified.

All day long this encounter bothered me. I should have said something. I should have done something. I should have beaned them on their beret-bereft heads with my library book. Instead, I made a crazy face.

So tonight I'm at Times Square. A W train pulls in and I kid you not--those same tourists spilled out of the train onto the platform. Frenchie, the instigator, opened his eyes and mouth wide with recognition. My eyes followed him. He turned to Jacques and the women and pointed at me. POINTED. Frenchie wore a smirk, and Jacques laughed, and the women all looked confused.

I couldn't believe my good fortune! There they were. I had a real, live second chance for justice! In that second I loved New York and all the second chances it gives to those of us who need them. I stared down Jacques and Frenchie. We made eye contact. We held eye contact. And then I gave up and ran into the train.

And the moral of the story? Always carry a stale baguette in your bag to use as a weapon against nasty French tourists.

Meg has a craft army, and I'm one of the soldiers. Here's my first finished object:

Paper Trail

As a young lass I kept notes, wrote poems, and saved unsent letters.

This weekend I went home for my mom's birthday, and I thought I'd check on the whereabouts of my teenage archives. I found them in a corner of the basement, stuffed in the sticker-studded steamer trunk I used in college.

The Rachel I found in that trunk was so damn clueless and adorable, I wanted to stuff her in my pocket and feed her tiny pieces of cheese. There were copies and copies of god-awful poems about homeless people and unrequited love. There was schoolwork including a book report on The Bell Jar and crazy scribblings about loneliness.

Some meta themes:
1. I really liked a guy named Jeff and the evidence is cringe worthy.
2. I fancied myself quite the rebel.
3. I had a passing interest in social justice so long as it was convenient.
4. I was both overly confident and lacking in confidence, a brutal combination.
5. I loved my friends, and saved all the bits and bobs they gave me.
6. I was fixated on the idea of starting over.

Although it's been 10 years or longer since I've looked at the archives, I could still recite most of the poems from memory. I was my biggest fan.

I'm going to start up a Tumblr site for the writing--it will spur me on to digitize it. And I already used my brother's scanner to put up some old pictures because they just make me laugh and laugh. Especially the dancing school pix. God, I hated dancing school.

Happy Birthday, Mom

My mom is a good sweet funny awesome patient mom. And now she's one year older.