31 July 2008

1 july: a revue

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

"it takes a lot of alcohol for me to have emotions."

"you have to have delicate hands to be a convincing tranny."

"in my mind, frankpank was a gay man who was giving you fashion and love advice."

"all the little fuck yous... i love them!"

"for a jamaican man to think it was slow... i was like, 'dude, your whole life is slow, you're from jamaica.'"

"i'm so disappointed he doesn't find me as funny as i do."

"have you seen her dress? seriously. i think i need hazard pay for having to work with that."

"he must spray-paint her makeup on because, i mean, it was kansas city thick."

"you really need to declaw me sometimes."

"it's hard to tell lashundra not to chew gum when she's out there having unprotected sex."

"i'm apparently deadly afraid of missing the batman boat."

"i smell like lawn now. in a bad way."

"yes, i have the move. and i have the financial horror-show that's gonna come around soon after."

"you probably should have said goodbye to that in 2002, but now is just as good a time as any."

"nothing minimizes like plaid."

"no one looks at the back of my shoes, mother."
"men will."

"jessica simpson turned 28 today. that was somehow reassuring."

"we were definitely out-picnicked here."

"you do realize you have more guest stars than will & grace, right?"

30 July 2008

10 targeted

frankpank kicked off the week by erecting her pistol target practice sheet over my desk.

i don't know if it's just the havoc of this week or an indicator of my wanning elitism, but i find myself almost really wanting to fire a gun. because it looks so fun when reduced to the level of dart pricks on a worksheet.

(and, though i used the words "erecting" and "pricks", this is not smut.)

25 July 2008

10 busted

i hug funny. i know this. i am known for this.

at breakfast, MJ spouted off on how he wanted a "real" hug. not one of my side hugs, but a manly hug. i did my best to whip out a paul bunyon bearhug. i failed.

MJ has always called me out on the side hug. within his idolatrous adoration there exist two realms of criticism. my love life and the side hug and i'm pretty sure that in his mind they are inextricably linked. if my love life was a freakshow, the side hug was undoubtedly to blame.

much to his horror, MJ's youngest daughter has started doing this. hugging him from the side. he gave me his best men are from mars look and asked me, why?! why?! as though the university of chicago might've bestowed upon me some great hegelian answer to explain the gender hug divide.

the first thing to come into my refined, publicly intellectual mind?


right? we do this because of boobs. or at least i have always done this because of boobs and speaking for my entire gender i'm going to go out on a very precarious, self-aware limb and say all other girls in the world who do this do this because of boobs.

because in a hug, they are undeniably there. boobs. in the center of everything. all up in everyone's business. this works very much to our advantage in instances with certain someones, but in most (for example, with older, father-figure-like, black men) it is awkward.

so i said it. i leaned back in my chair, looking wise and noble and impossibly pulled together for someone who had been up late the night before and had yet to have a shower or caffeine. i looked into the questioning eyes of my old boss and offered the answer of every 12-year-old boy: boobs.

i don't know that he'll ever recover.

16 July 2008

9 the soup

i don't have the most extensive dating history. that happens when you pick highly inappropriate people and stay with them for inexplicably long periods of time.

so there's been the gay boyfriend, the angry mexican, the shit and the douche. and in between the gay boyfriend and the angry mexican, there was the soup. who we never really counted because he was a bit of a blip. he happened during The Poems and i've long been of the belief that nothing counted during The Poems.

in the schematic of my dating history, the soup was kind of an anomaly. the only one i ever regularly encountered after breaking up. the only blonde. the only one who cared about things like race cars and guns.

our first date was coyote ugly.

in his innocence, the soup misinterpreted the subtext of my initial offer to go dutch (the subtext being i just accidentally dyed my hair purple with bargain bin colorant and know i turn men gay and thus i want to pretend this movie about hot, midriff-baring women adrift at a bar in the big city is not a real date because i secretly believe you are overcompensating because deep down you know you are gay and i am repulsive so please let me pay for my own ticket) as some bold condemnation of the patriarchal capitalistic amerian dating system.

i dumped him about three weeks into whatever it was we were doing, largely because when we went to a chinese restaurant, the waiter had to guilt him into paying for my $1.25 bowl of soup. i was happy to pay. hell, i was already digging in my purse for the change. but suddenly, like the waiter, i realized i probably deserved more. at the very least, i was worth 5 quarters.

we went back to his dorm and, as we watched a marx brothers movie and he coyly tickled my toes, i tried to summon the courage to devise the words and say them. 45 minutes in, i landed, unimaginatively, on we need to talk.

the better part of the next three years were spent avoiding him.

it was only as i was getting ready to graduate and move to chicago that we sat at the bar one night. with the angry mexican glaring at us from the sidelines and the shit trying to catch my eye, we sat and talked.

the soup was in town this week. we did dinner and walked about my city. it's been five years and we're still pretty much the same except i talk more because i don't give a damn.

i've always been of the belief that you have to be friends with everyone you've ever dated. two people have proven me horribly wrong. but, in the long run, i think there's something to be said about seeing someone years down the road and sharing a sandwich and some stories. it's comforting. to know they're still out there. and that you didn't turn them gay.

14 July 2008

2 transitions

today, croftie and i had our usual noontime heart-to-heart walk and talk, traversing the bp bridge as we mulled the up-in-the-airness of our lives at this point. then, in the middle of state street- five minutes to one and half a block from the drum corps whom croftie passionately loathes because they once serenaded her on an empty bus- she turned to me and asked, oline, do you like turnips? at last, a question with an answer. and no, i do not.

13 July 2008

13 oh, girl

we don't talk about this much. because it's kind of awkward and there are boys here.

but seriously. hormones. ouch.

there are these mornings. not too often, but still, mornings. where my eyes have barely begun to think about opening before my brain has lept into a giant heap of neurotic dung.

it goes like this:

[oline, lying in bed, eyes closed, furrowed brow]: i will never kick this diet coke habit and my grocery bill will always exceed $125 a month so i will never be able to live on my income or pay off my student loans and will instead creep further into a hole of university of chicago debt in $73 increments and the crofts'll move to maine and oil will rise to $800 a barrel and then airfares will go up and then i'll never make it to north carolina ever again and i'll be stuck here the same as always, alone and going nowhere, pining away, trapped in borderline abusive administrative positions that sap my will to live and do not pay accordingly and i'll never be able to read all the books i want even if i live to be 112 because if i do live to be 112 my eyesight will probably fail around 71 and if i'm lucky i'll be subjected to 41 years of books on tape (dear, god! not books on tape!) but i'll probably be deaf long before then so i'll just have 40 years of sitting around twiddling my thumbs and laughing at quotes my friends- who'll all be dead by then- uttered 50 years before and the vieve will die of some highly preventable disease at an impossibly early age because i never take her to the vet like a good catmother would and i'll spend the whole rest of my life- all 100+ years of it- thinking "dear god, why didn't i just take her to the vet?!?!" (though frankpank says you don't have to and i trust frankpank) and my parents will die, having never read jackiebook, and i'll wind up all alone- with no friends or family and a boyfriend whom i can't get to because the bush family sucks- living in a hovel with 4 million rolls of toilet paper and a taxidermied vieve because i'm an evil bitch who never wanted any brothers or sisters because i liked being the only one.

skirts, eyeliner, sexy lingerie, and multiple orgasms do not make up for these mornings.

oreos and tabloids, however, almost do.

11 July 2008

6 the 400 calorie snack bar

there is a 400 calorie snack bar on the cabinet by my desk.

no one will eat the 400 calorie snack bar because it has 400 calories.

thus, this has been my morning: oh! a snack bar! is it any good? 31 grams of sugar... that's a bit much, but it's got flax seed and... but oh... wait... 400 calories. i can't do 400 calories if it's just a snack bar.


oh! a snack bar! 31 grams of sugar... that's a bit much, but it's got flax seed and... is it any good? but oh... wait... 400 calories...


oh! look! a snack bar! is it any good? 31 grams of sugar but it's flax seed and... oh... wait... 400 calories. i can't do 400 calories.

i'm tempted to eat the thing just to stop the madness. but... y'know... it's 400 calories...

06 July 2008

0 dear francine du plessix gray,

it irks me that we must condense a lifetime to a single platitude, but of all the morals to be drawn from de sade, this seems rather tame after 424 pages of pseudo-porn:

"i am not happy, but i am well" [...] how many of us have been truly happy, how many have been merely well? might not all of life be a constant compromise between those two poles?

04 July 2008

7 you live, you learn

last night, KI and i stood on north avenue beach in the freezing, windy chicago july and watched the top 1/4 of what appeared to be a reenactment of the gulf war bombing of tel aviv. this seemed a brilliant idea until eF's voice-message that he saw the whole of the chicago fireworks extravaganza on WGN from the comfort of a couch in his tropically temperatured north carolina home.

01 July 2008

4 pinned

so we're supposed to wear our patriotism on our lapels, eh?
now they tell us. and here i've been wearing zack morris for years.