I had a dream last night wherein I toured the site of several childhood nightmares — this time viewing the scene as a young adult. A friend in the dream pointed out scary-looking elements from the backyard and noted, "Huh, that must be why this place was always so creepy for us." Everyone had aged. Several characters didn't show up. A few books were missing from the shelves. But aside from those small, appropriate differences, the setting was identical.

It was super weird.

On one hand, I'm glad that I've grown out of that particular dream series. (Like many of my recurring nightmares, the subject revolved around the darker sequences from The Wizard of Oz.) On the other hand, wow, I hope that never happens again.

The way I walked around in the dream gave me a glimpse of life as a pretentious adult, as the kind of person who sneers all the way through art museums and who doesn't drink chocolate milk. That person would have laughed at the child who found witches and black castles scary. That person has no imagination and a bad attitude. That person doesn't properly appreciate the color pink.

I don't think I'm at risk for becoming that person, since I still feel sympathetic for other peoples' irrational fears (past and present) and still drink chocolate milk almost daily. However, I definitely want to avoid dreaming like that arrogant old fart. I probably don't have much control over that, but I think I'm going to start falling asleep to Spongebob Squarepants just to be safe.

As some of you may remember, I've been following along with Unclutterer.com for months now, gathering tips and motivation for clearing the clutter from my bedroom. (Click here to go back to the initial post on the subject.) I have twice as much stuff as will fit in here, mostly because I made my dorm room in Texas really cozy all those years ago and then just boxed up that life and took it back to Chicago with me.

I've pared down a lot since then, but I think there is a hoarding streak in my dad's side of the family that occasionally rears its ugly head for me. I distinctly remember crying as a child because I had to throw away a tissue (probably one that had been cried in earlier). What if it got mad at me? Would it feel lonely or abandoned?

Suck it up, Miniskirts*. It was a tissue. What was it going to do? Seek revenge? Cry little tissue tears into an even smaller tissue?

Ahem. So anyway, one reader mentioned that she only allows herself to listen to podcasts while she's cleaning, and that has made the whole process much more fun for her. I tried it this week, and whoa dang, totally works for me. Mind you, I'm only in the uncluttering phase right now (not organizing or cleaning, really), so I might end up listening to every available episode of every podcast ever before that is over, but at least I'll be happily distracted while I'm working toward my amazing new life.

Recommended resources for other clutterbugs: the Unclutterer website, the Unclutterer book, Real Simple magazine (the pictures alone are usually great inspiration, but I also love their tips; archives are available for free online), and anything else that reminds you of what you want your life to look like and/or that helps you get there.

*I don't really want to have children, but if I ever found myself with a daughter, I would totally call her Miniskirts (as a nickname). Don't hate.

First things first: THANK YOU to everyone who chimed in on the new look here at Rachelskirts.com. I'm blushing! Y'all are too kind.

Secondly, I've been chided for not ever telling you what the Gilmore Girls quote was in this entry. As the first two ladies guessed, it was the "hunky, hunky boyfriend" line. Great episode from season two, featuring Lorelai and Rory's adventures in a terrifyingly cutesy bed-and-breakfast. Watch it.

And now on to the real story:

I recently took a week-long vacation to Texas to see some of my good friends graduate. As I was packing my bags, I came to the unsettling realization that I have become one of those "pink people." It's not exactly the newest of news; I'd seen this day coming for a while. However, the bulk of my pink possessions seem to be related to travel:

SEND HELP. (And a microfiber cloth for that slightly filthy laptop and seriously gross iPhone.)

I was literally so freaked out by the blatant colorism (like racism; work with me here) at my feet that I actually had second thoughts about getting on the flight the next day. I could not imagine what an entire dorm floor's worth of guys would have to say when I showed up with my frilly ways so garrishly on display. I was a living, breathing manifestation of the toy store's Barbie aisle. You know the one.

It took less than a day for someone to muster the courage to call me out on this unhealthy obsession. I was flustered, but I remained good-natured. The boys teased me a bit, but by the end of the week, I was comfortably wearing my pink sweatpants around a friend's apartment during breakfast with the group. We had all come to accept this new element of my insanity.

But a week later, I woke up in my own bed (on pink sheets) with a groan-inducing development to the story. That's right — PINKEYE.

Kill me quickly.