30 June 2008

4 june: a revue

in no particular order & uttered by various citizens of the Oline in the City world

"i didn't know if that was you or your chastity belt talking."

"guess who's going to madonna..."

"my wife had a baby awhile ago and we really thought she'd be weened off the teat by now but that little heifer don't want nothing but her momma."

"it seems like she's having a really difficult... lifetime."

"we're very up-in-the-airsies about everything right now."

"he is way too gay to be that clueless about appearances."

"you do like drama."
"well, it's not like i subscribe to it and it comes on a weekly basis. it just happens."

"oh honey, it's ring around the penis."

"sex was never the same after coldplay."

"yeah... i wore a beret."

"when you really think about it, college is the opposite of God."

"girl, i saw your butt from a block away."

"i swear to God, once those kids leave i'm going to have my tubes tied."

"you just can't trust the blacks. i don't care if the mother was white and the father was green, you can't trust the blacks."

"if you're removing someone's pantaloons, then clearly that's fucking."

"well, i'm sure you're finger-lickin' good but..."

"they sent me a bag. and look! it's a yuppie on the inside."

"new york is 10 hours from here. i don't know what that means..."

"i didn't get much sleep last night, but i did whiten my teeth, so i can smile big, even if my eyes will be tired."

"that was one too many things to be wanting and waiting on. i can handle not having sex but i really needed the 'sex & the city.'"

"i have the personality of a soft prick."

"but sophie said ok..."

"...senssssssssssssssual massage..."

29 June 2008

8 oh, britney

after a weekend of blackout, i can finally admit:
she had me at "let's get naked (i've got a plan)."

28 June 2008

12 nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m.

actually, ted mosby (architect), that's not necessarily true.

after 2 a.m., girls- who are officially too old to crash on the couches of others, most especially after a six hour discussion of sophie and sensual massage- miss the last brown line of the evening and are forced to hike up addison, where they run into daisy-bearing, drunk depaulites who serenade them streetside with james blunt ballads.

i don't know that we would call this good, but it certainly was something.

26 June 2008

11 breaking up is hard to do


i have these yellow shoes. you know the yellow shoes. we've talked about the yellow shoes before.

the yellow shoes were the result of some croftie-condoned retail therapy after the dumping by the L9. there were the practical round-toed comfy tortishell heels and then... the yellow shoes.

yellow patent pointy-toed shoes.

even years down the road they still practically scream I AM RECENTLY OUT OF AN EXCEEDINGLY STUPID RELATIONSHIP THAT WAS A TOTAL WASTE OF TIME AND NEED TO FEEL BETTER ABOUT MYSELF SO I HAVE TURNED TO SHOES FOR LOVE!

the yellow shoes are so cute. so insoucient. so whimsical. madcap even. and they garner compliments at every turn. and yet, like most failing relationships, the yellow shoes hurt like hell. as in, they hurt even when sitting down.

in college, when i spent long weekend nights waiting tables, for hours after the flurry, whenever i sat down it felt like i was still moving. the yellow shoes produce this same sensation after about a minute and a half, sans the tips.

which means they're almost kind of not worth it. because even though something is cute as hell, if your automatic response to any and all compliments is thankyoutheyhurtlikethedevil, it's probably time to say goodbye.

that said, i won't. i will wear them and i will curse them and i will wear them again. because i am a silly girl and because they are the yellow shoes. which means nothing and yet says it all.

24 June 2008

2 time out.

i have ambivalently reached a truth.

when faced with frightful things (ie. the parker posey that implied that if i didn't go out more, i would inevitably have a one night stand with an action movie has-been, wind up alone and sad and drunk with a frenchman whose advances would make me have panic attacks in the bathrooms of pastry shops) or unfortunate separations (no comment), i automatically turn to dinners, summoning a cadre of friends to fill the evenings with burrito bols and bakery stops.

i don't particularly love dining out but i do like a filled calendar. and dinners, they are quite filling.

the embarrassing thing is that for someone with a heightened self-awareness- prone to accessing one's own emotional motivations in the midst of the actual emotional motivating- i only just realized this. that all of this was connected. that there was a real reason why one week out of every month my calendar becomes a veritable zagat social guide to chipotle and chinatown.

so here i am. a reactionary diner. a dinastic socializer? a socialized dinerator? a reactive socialistizer? all of which sound kinda sexy...

20 June 2008

13 call me demanding

but there's more to love than shopping at target and loving the sex & the city movie, right?

18 June 2008

39 sex talk

last night, in the course of one of our typically rambling conversations, meggie and i wandered back to the fundamental subjects of our friendship: weddings, birth control and lubricant.

and in the midst of this meggie recalled that when we were 16, there was a rash of articles in seventeen magazine. a rash of articles about girls getting pregnant through their underwear.

i think maybe i'd blocked this out. because i remember- as a 16 year old girl who wasn't having sex but always wore underwear- how very fucking scary this was.

as i remember it, these stories were always the same. a good girl who french kissed. or stayed out too late. or dated a bad boy. or made a B- in history. or didn't wash her gym shorts. and then oops!

there were no details of sex, so in my naive, overly creative, 16 year old mind, there never was sex. there were just random, pantily conceived babies.

and this, of course, threw all my sex education- which was already a little shakey- into question. as though the notion that chickens climbed into the beds of married couples and shoved eggs up the wife's vagina wasn't a traumatic enough beginning, then came this revelation that the sacred underwear shield was so easily permeated.

mind you, i was 16. i'd been introduced to my reproductive organs in a health class where they were illustrated in pancake batter on a griddle. monica hadn't gone down on bill. i hadn't read the star report. and partner and i hadn't yet begged definitions of oral sex, g-spots and orgasms from her mother at the christ presbyterian academy fall fundraiser concert and endured the horror of hearing the words sometimes when a wife loves her husband she puts him in her mouth uttered by mrs. house as michael w. smith crooned in the background.

so in my little innocent world back then, because of these damn articles, there was a sudden fear that anything- hand-holding, kissing, shopping, baseball, oh my!- could meet with equally reproductive results. as though babies could be picked up like the common cold.

i'm somewhat better educated these days. and i get what these articles were trying to do. clearly seventeen was playing the abstinence card in a big, big way. but now i can't help but wonder: 1) what the hell were those editors thinking publishing shit like that? and 2) how many sex lives did they destroy?

16 June 2008

10 hey, lady

today i wore a purple top, a denim miniskirt, and leopard print peep toe shoes. at 10:30 a.m. i looked down and realized i had on bright green toe nail polish. a teeny tiny detail that rendered the whole outfit positively hookeresque. it's amazing the power of paint.

11 June 2008

2 ouch, my heart.


i want a collie. to the extent that my heart cramps up at the sight of other people's collies. because there they are all gorgeous and smiling with their hair flopping about in the wind like farrah fawcett. i want one. i may have mentioned that once or twice before. because i really really really want want want one. (isn't neediness attractive?)

yesterday, in our epic 12 mile walk of the 3 miles home, after we'd pretty much who would you rathered everyone under the sun and arrived at the obvious truth that christian bale always wins, frankpank and i fell into more fanciful hypotheticals. the end result being that we now know i would willingly sacrifice the vieve's tail for four fuzzy collies. and somehow, the fact that bingley, knightley, swarley and toulouse now have names just makes me want them that much more.

06 June 2008

8 oh. bam!

it's effing hot out there. and there's all kinds of noise and tourists and rain and delayed trains and that funky white fuzz floating about in the air. so there's a whole heap of reasons why we might get so distracted by the ridiculously long and winding friday noontime wrigley shuttle line to our right that we would almost miss the presidential candidate speaking to our left.

02 June 2008

9 what's with these homies dissing my girl?

there was this moment on friday night- when i was sitting with jmills, us continually swiping our eerily similar bangs out of our eyes, where the gentle breeze seemed determined they stay, and drinking kool-aide and hard liquor on her back porch in the shadow of wrigley as we expounded upon the subtle difference between hard mingling (boo!) and soft mingling (yay!) and a cover band played the greatest hits of our high school years three stories below.

there was this moment where 27 felt a perfect fit.

shortly thereafter, on the walk home, a triumvriate of drunk-ass depaul boys attempted to bust some kind of move by the johnny depp set. if pulling a girl's ponytail can be called a move. and i don't know that it legally can.

i only know this:

i'm 27. and a roving band of teenaged boys pulled my hair.