Shopgirl.

Sometimes,

when I'm running one or two minutes late

to catch the bus in the morning,

I find myself running a few yards,

walking a few yards,

running,

walking.

And I feel like shopgirl

going to meet ny152

at the end of You've Got Mail--

which, thankfully,
brings a small glimmer of dignity
to this embarrassing habit.

(But don't watch the whole clip.
I don't support chick flicks.)

All Hallow's Eve

Dear Halloween,

You've changed.

It's like all you care about anymore is

over-the-top party decorations

and food that looks like

it's not food anymore.

And wait,

what are we celebrating, again?

Oh, you don't have a good answer?

That's what I thought.

Call me back

when celebrating you means

burning old crops,

wearing animal heads and skins,

telling each others' fortunes,

and trying to divine the name of my future husband.

Until then,

I'm just here for the candy.

Love,

Rachel

Personality Portrait.

Last week,

my friend Michele

asked if she could take

a personality portrait of me

for an assignment.

I said yes,

of course,

but it made me feel existential.

If I were to try to capture

my entire personality

in one picture,

what would I be doing in it?

Listening to Stevie Wonder?

Looking out the UVU library's big picture window

at the lake

and the mountains?

Playing the piano at my house

with my family in the room?

Hanging out at the Lincoln Memorial

with my best pal Abe?

I don't even know.

I'm not a princess.

I live with two sisters from North Carolina,

and they love that South, they do.

Today, one of them said,

"If you fall in love with a Southerner,

you'll be very lucky.

He'll treat you like a princess."

And my immediate reaction was,

"Ick.

I don't want to be 

anybody's princess."

She asked me why not,

and I wasn't sure.

So I've been thinking about it ever since.

I realized it's a metaphor problem.

Prince and princess is just not the metaphor

that I would use to describe love.

When I think of princesses,

I think of entitlement.

I think of being the object of the prince's affection,

but not his equal partner.

And that's not it.

When you're in love,

you deeply respect him,

and he you.

He's precious to you,

and you're precious to him.

But not because you're a princess.

Because you're a human.

Because you're you.

I don't think we need a princess metaphor

to understand what love is.

My Favorite Expletives.

Things I say when I'm frustrated:

"Pooh sticks!"

Instead of saying poo, 
you're talking about a cute game
you play on a bridge.

"Crud monkeys!"

I'm not sure what crud monkeys are,
but I'm sure they're adorable.

"Crumb diddle-dum-diddle-do!"

There's no picture for this.
Mary thought crumb would make a good swear word,
and it's spiraled out of hand.

Inside the Book.

There's something special

about reading your friends' favorite books--

just because they're their favorites.

When you're reading,

you're not alone:

They're there inside the book with you.

It's like comparing apples and peaches.

It's Fall, guys.

I'd done my ritual,

and I'd officially accepted it.

Coat, socks, rain.

Everything.

But last night at Sprouts,

there was a big ugly empty spot

where the yellow peaches

were supposed to be.

Genevieve asked them to check.

And the handsome clerk came back and said,

"I'm sorry.

That was the last of them."

It felt like a sentence of death.

I got tears in my eyes.

I don't know what my deal is.

This is the twenty-third time

that this earth has shed summer

and put on autumn

since I got here.

But this time I'm taking it hard.

There's beauty to it, of course.

I feel like I can see God

in the snow on the mountaintops,

in the inexorable change of the seasons.

And even though they didn't have peaches,

Sprouts had pallets and pallets

of honeycrisp apples.

On sale.

When I got home,

I hugged my bag of apples

and smelled them

and cried again.