Posts from — February 2012

Also smothered and covered (but the first person to say chunked gets it)

Much like the tasty hash browns you will find inside the above establishment, I am scattered. Hither and yon all over the interwebs, tweeting and updating and blurbing and writing and writing and writing. I’m on Facebook both here and here (for jobbish things). I have the Tweets. I’m on Pinterest (although truth be told, I am quite the pinning slacker). I blog here as part of my work-type activities and also write a whole lot of the stuff you find here in general. And look! This is back! My column is here and will be resurrected soon. So many URLs, so little time! No, I mean that literally. And actually, that may explain my current obsession with Instagram. I am feeling very pro-picture/grumpy with words at the moment. Rah, Instagram! (P.S. You should be my friend/follow me/come on over to my stream/whatever the kids are saying these days on Instagram, fo sho. I’m rachelrellis, and I take many pictures of things. Also, I will heart your pictures. I will heart them so hard, you guys.)

All of this is to say there are a plenty good number of places for people to get sick at the sight of my ALL CAPS multi-parenthesesed sentences. HEY GUYS I AM PREGNANT! I HAD A SANDWICH! IT IS A VERY PRETTY DAY OUTSIDE, ETC! It’s kind of ridiculous, actually. Internet domination! Racher for President of the World (Wide Web) 2012! Yes we CAN*!

*Except for today, when I don’t really feel like it. The end.

February 29, 2012   No Comments

Commute comments

I vacillate between hating the fact that I have to drive nearly 50 minutes to and from work and relishing the every day alone time with my tunes and thoughts and occasional stops for decaf coffee. Mostly I dislike the fact that I’m so far away from everyone in my family, and that it takes so much of my day to get to the place where I do my job. Because, you know, gas and time and traffic and rush rush rush and uggghbleerrrrgggh.

Here’s a weird quirk about me—when I get to work and pull into my parking spot, it is as if a bomb is going to go off in my car and I have to exit as quickly as humanly possible. I hate being inside the confines of my vehicle for one second longer than is necessary to pick up my bags and get out. It’s kind of phobic, actually. I guess I figure I can maximize my time at work if I sprint to my desk from the parking lot. 47 seconds saved—YES! That’s 47 more seconds of my day taken back. EAT IT COMMUTE. OCCUPY CLOCK … Street?

I think maybe I should start listening to audio books. Perhaps that would calm me down a notch. Or I could go ahead and invent teleportation, like I’ve been meaning to. Yes, I think I’ll just do that.

February 28, 2012   2 Comments

Attention shoppers

I took Rosie with me to the grocery store yesterday, partly to give L and Noah a little time together to concoct their race car for the Cub Scout shindig-thing that’s happening Friday night, and partly because, well, I … like to take her with me to the grocery store. Riddle me that, last year self!

But it’s true—she can turn a humdrum chore like the weekly food run into something entertaining, with grown men smiling and waving as we pass and little old ladies just about lifting her out of the buggy to take her home in their boat-sized Lincoln Continentals. She sat face to face with me as we shopped, swinging her legs and making up songs with lyrics like “I like everybody on the inside and I like everybody on the outside …” and shouting out “Mama! THAT GIRL HAS BANANAS JUST LIKE US!” as we rolled past cart after cart in the crowded aisles. Halfway through the store, somewhere around the salad dressings, she asked to get down and I obliged, making the trip stretch out several minutes more, but hey—it takes extra time to traverse a Kroger when you’ve got dancing ruby red-slippered feet.

At the checkout, the Middle Eastern cashier had the stickers out before Rosie even reached the bagging area. “How old is she?” the woman asked. “She’s three,” I answered, as Rosie carefully applied her sticky spoils straight across her mouth with careful reverence. “Ah yes,” the woman said with a knowing smile as she handed me my receipt. “Three years old and full of the world.”

Which, of course, is precisely what she is.

On the way home we trailed our waving fingers out the open windows, while our heads bopped in time with the beat of the music.

February 27, 2012   3 Comments

Weekend Still Shot

Birthday cards, party invitations, Halloween greetings—he saves ’em all. Rest assured, if you ever sent him a note by mail, it’s somewhere in that room of his, tucked away with love.

Explanation of WSSs here.

Compilation of past WSSs here.

February 26, 2012   No Comments


Lately I’ve been feeling like my writing is a quarter-full jar of peanut butter and all the places I need to put words are like pieces of toast. I have too much toast, you guys. I’m spread too thin. But in the meantime, I keep sticking the knife back in and scraping the sides, hoping that there will be just enough for one more meal.

All of that is to say that I am leaning heavily, therefore, on my old standby insta-post solution: Here we go, pictures, here we go! (CLAP! CLAP!):

Saturday Rosie got her very first haircut. After many a hem and haw about “I should cut it! I can’t cut it! How can I cut it? I should cut it. But no! But ugh! But waaaah!” I finally just decided to get over myself and make an appointment.

She, of course, thought it was fantastic, and had in fact been telling me for weeks, “Mama, I need a shortcut.” Her mama, however, needed to go by baby steps. “Just a little off the bottom. But not too much! You know, a little trim! And maybe … try to keep the shape? Like how it grew in naturally? And also maybe—”

Meanwhile, Rosie had scaled the chair solo and settled right in, like she’d had 65 haircuts and also maybe a brow wax or three.

Once the hairstylist was done, she dried Rosie’s hair with a hairdryer, which up to that point I thought surely caused instant death. Or at least, that’s how Rosie always reacts to the suggestion at home. But nope. No big, Moms. Bring on the hair drying! With the loudness! And the heat! And the sitting still!

Her hair was so sleek and shiny and smooth when it was dry, I wanted to rub it against my face. She was like a Pantene commercial, swinging it this way and that. Oooh la la! I could tell she was feeling it.

Aaaaand then the hairstylist decided to keep going and add a little side braid action. And … hairspray. And … a tiny hot pink banana clip. But whatever! It was finished. The scraggly bits were gone. The very first hairs to ever grow in to her tiny head lay on the floor in a pile of salon chum. But I did not sob, no! I was steadfast in my non-freakoutedness, raging pregnancy hormones be damned. I think that may have been the secret purpose of the ridiculous-looking banana clip. That hairstylist, she’s like a Jedi master with the understanding of human nature. Because she knows that somehow, unexplainably, hairs cut in a straight line = babies transformed into little girls, even when they’re already 3 and some change. Even when they’ve really been little big girls for a good long time.

After we paid and picked a lollipop and said our goodbyes, we headed back to the car—me, my boy and my trim-tressed, smooth-locked, grown up girl.

But her hair flapped behind her with wild abandon as she ran, just exactly as it always did before.

February 21, 2012   4 Comments