Watching: The commentaries on Moulin Rouge. I am becoming re-obsessed with this movie.

I also spent a good five minutes amusing my cat by opening and closing the drive on the DVD player from my seemingly unrelated position on the couch. (Okay, I was amusing myself. The cat was not amused so much as just plain freaked out.)

Reading: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I've heard people saying that Kenneth Branagh will just be playing himself in this movie, but I still think he's going to be good.

Eating: Half a shrimp salad sandwich before I realized that it wasn't chicken salad, which is what I ordered. It must not have been all that shrimpy, because I did eat half of it, and that's probably more shrimp than I have ever eaten in my life up to this point. I then convinced myself that I didn't feel good for the rest of the day.

Listening: Room for Squares by John Mayer. Seriously. I may never listen to anything else again ever.

On July 14, TNT will be airing Door to Door, a movie about a man named Bill Porter.

I saw the 20/20 piece on him a few years ago, and positively bawled through the entire thing. (I can't even read the website about the movie without weeping. It's that amazing.)

Bill Porter, who is now 69 years old, was born with cerebral palsy in a time when people with that disease were shut away in homes. His mother encouraged him to go out in the world, and despite being told over and over again that he would never be able to work, he became a door-to-door salesman for the Watkins Company in an area of Portland, Oregon that no other salesman wanted. He walked 8 to 10 miles a day (even though walking is extremely difficult for him) for 40 years, eventually becoming Watkins' top seller.

It's really an incredible story. I have enormous sympathy for everyone who goes door-to-door doing anything because of the amount of rejection they must get. But for Bill Porter, it must have been unthinkable. He walked with a strange gait, had big ears and slurred speech, and lacked most fine motor skills, such that he could not tie his own shoes. I cannot imagine the rejection -- and likely outright cruelty -- that he must have faced, but he continued to do his job, day in and day out.

When the 20/20 piece was over, I was a complete puddle of tears, and all I wanted to do was write the man a letter and tell him how happy I was to have heard his story, and when I saw a commercial for this movie yesterday, I nearly jumped out of my seat with excitement. William H. Macy wrote the screenplay and will also be portraying Bill Porter, so I would imagine it's going to be amazing.

Speaking of William H. Macy, who had a little guest run on Sports Night and who is married to Felicity Huffman who starred in that show, Eliza recently informed me that it will indeed be coming out on DVD in the fall, and even though I have every episode on tape and there will apparently be no extras on the DVD (like Aaron Sorkin is busy or something), I will have to own it. I think I can justify it because not only did Comedy Central do this bizarre thing of not putting commercials in the places where the commercials were supposed to go, the commercials themselves are for gut-wrenchingly awful shows like Strip Mall and The Man Show and local commercials for places where you go if you can't get regular phone service, and they're all just way too annoying.

So, it's Saturday night, and the only phone call I've received all evening went something like this:

Me: Hello?
Male caller: Rachel?
Me: No, there's no Rachel here.
Male caller: Well, who is this?
Me: What number were you trying to reach?
Male caller: 703-XXX-XXXX.
Me: Well, that's the number you called, but this isn't Rachel.
Male caller: Who am I speaking with then?
Me, rolling my eyes: It's not Rachel, and that's pretty much all you need to know.
Male caller, all indignant: Jeez, sorry to bother you.
Me: Dude, don't you know that the first thing they teach you when you're five years old and learning how to use the telephone is that you don't give out your name to strangers who call you by accident? And you're all pissed at me now?
Sadly, he had hung up before that last part.

I went to get my hair cut last week, as it had been almost a year since I had had it cut and it looked awful, and I did one of those things you are never, ever supposed to do (like give your name to strangers on the phone), and went willy-nilly to the salon in my neighborhood.

It turned out great, though. The stylist spazzed out on me and told me I needed highlights, and because it's summer and I just moved and I'm all about change, I agreed. And she cut it and highlighted it and I paid an enormous amount of money (because of course, I had to get products) and it looked great, except after a couple of days, I realized I didn't like the length. It was that bizarre length of three inches below your shoulders, not long, but not shoulder-length, and not flattering, and those of you who may have seen pictures from Melissa's wedding would certainly agree.

So I called and explained the situation, that I had just been in and it was great but I just needed it trimmed a little more. I went back yesterday -- one week later -- and had her chop another few inches, so it rests lightly on my shoulders and looks much, much better. And I went up to the counter, and the guy asked me for $55.00, the full price for a long-hair wash, cut, and blowdry.

So I asked him what he had been smoking.

No, not really. What I did do was kindly explain to the guy that I had just been in here a week ago and given them pretty much all the money I had in the world and that I really didn't think I ought to be charged full price for just coming in and getting it trimmed a little more. And he agreed with me, and went and talked to the owner, then went and talked to my stylist, and then came back and charged me $23.00, which I still think is a big rip-off considering that it would have cost me nothing if I had had it cut the way I wanted it a week ago, but whatever.

And you people actually missed me? Seriously, you missed my rambly, run-on, comma-spliced sentences full of inane stories about my Aaron Sorkin obsession and wrong numbers and getting fleeced by hair salons?

Really?

Aw, shucks. Thanks. I missed you too.


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