30 June 2009

3 june: a revue

"i salute you in your half-hearted endeavor."

"it is new! it is fun! it is love!"

"no woman should be this excited about fish oil."

"well, her vagina's not 6' 2"."

"it was like giving birth to a hairball."

"we are reaching an age where will begin to lament never having learned to sew."

"that would be profoundly romantic, to be able to announce a birth to someone in paris."

"which raises the question of whether he is trying to have relationships or cast a broadway musical..."

"women who previously would not make eye contact or who haven’t had sex since the 30’s will suddenly envelop you into this secret club."

"i feel like i need a bra for my tummy."

"if/when you get a baby put in you..."

"apparently they only make blackout curtains in colors that would be suitable for the bedroom of liberace."

"so let's talk about your butt."

"they have the best children's clothes in europe."
"well, they've been having babies so much longer than us."

"clearly, i never should have bragged about how my vegetable/fruit/fish lifestyle change had made me the healthiest person i know."

"eatons love organization."

"just don't get comfy enough to leave poops in."

"i think the whole of adulthood is coming to terms with the fact that you actually love all of the things you made fun of as a teenager."

"i love your laugh. i think it's very graphic."

"seagulls, i believe, are a portal to hell."

"your laughter really sheds the light on who we are."

"i've never been to The Taste."
"it's awful. it's like 5,000 walmarts rolled into one."

"clitorally, she's a bitch."

"so the truth is dawning in your loins?"

26 June 2009

3 showtime

in 1993, josh poteet was quite possibly the coolest kid in page middle school, if not the world. at the time, i wasn't aware of having a crush on him. i was all consumed with unexpressed love for tony cromier (pretty much because how elegant does the name "caroline cromier" sound?) but looking back now, i think maybe i was a little in love with josh poteet as well. in that way that middle school girls can be in love with eleven boys at once.

because josh poteet was hot. an undeveloped yet dangerous, skinny sixth grade boy type of hot. he had a cowlick. he wore white button-downs and black pants. and he had a michael jackson impersonation.

a white button-down and pop music. this is all a girl needs.

josh poteet was semi-famous school-wide for this michael jackson impersonation. we're talking winter of 1993, so michael jackson was everywhere. he'd not yet been accused of molesting little boys. he'd just married lisa marie. their joint barbara walters interview was so significant that josh poteet brought in a VHS that we watched in mr. adams' history class as an example of "seeing history unfold."

josh poteet. the page middle school talent show seemed to have been invented just for him.

we're talking about a school that was literally situated between two cow farms. for a month out of every year, the whole place smelled like manure. it was a setting in which a michael jackson impersonation seemed the height of glamor and we reacted accordingly.

every year of those three years, when talent show time rolled around, josh poteet's performance was held to the last, presumably so he wouldn't shame the other acts. when the lights were dimmed and "beat it" came pounding over a sound-system so out-dated it seemed the music was thrashing inside to fight its way out, we cheered for josh poteet as though this were a once-in-a-lifetime sight rather than a spectacle we were treated to whenever a teacher finished early in class and had nothing else with which to fill the time.

i often wonder what happened to him. he seemed awfully big for a school so small. is he married? is he gay? has he gone on to do great things or did he peak at page middle?

but mostly i wonder if he remembers those days-- those moments, innocent in their showiness, that have flickered through my mind every time i've seen anything to do with michael jackson ever since-- when a boy with a cowlick moonwalked across the cougar painted on the polished floor, reveling in being someone he wasn't as 250 preteens cheered for him in a darkened gym as if he were the real thing.

25 June 2009

8 like riding a bike

riding a bike is one of those rare skills that once acquired, simply cannot be lost. this is what They say. that unlike croquet or playing the lute or paul revere's ride, you can always remember how to ride a bike. other much more difficult things, when discovered to be easier than one had anticipated at first, are likened to the simplicity of remembering how to ride a bike. because riding a bike is allegedly so simple that, after the passage of time, even the simplest simpleton can take it up again.

careening perilously down webster the other day, my lopped up pigtails fanning about my sweaty neck as, looking like a suicidal muppett, i bumped my way along a row of four parked cars, it dawned on me what complete bullocks this is.

i fancy myself not the stupidest person in the world. not the brightest, certainly, but still not the stupidest by far. so when my father rehabbed the red bike for which he'd paid $35 on my 12th birthday (we eatons, we get our money's worth) and carted it up to town, i assumed a glorious future of cycling lay ahead. i was led to believe riding a bike would be easy.

in fact, riding a bike is a rather mortifying exercise in self-abasement.

i've spent a considerable portion of the past two weeks sitting in the middle of intersections going round-and-round with pedals that seem magnetically repelled by my feet.

i have been honked at by buses.

i have hit six stationary objects.

i have prompted two (TWO!!!) taxi drivers to point and laugh.

which has brought me to the scary realization that riding a bike isn't so much like riding a bike as being a clown.

22 June 2009

17 June 2009

3 hey you

a story:

last night poor little innocent oline trod home in the rain. rain so great that she defied her fabled umbrella fear in order to preserve a beloved purple taffeta skirt. alas, no umbrella could protect her. within moments, poor little innocent oline was soaked to her underpants, not to mention the beloved purple taffeta skirt.

taffeta is a sneaky thing. it seems all standoffish at first glance, all calm and cool and collected. but taffeta is, at its heart, a clingy bitch.

thus, much to poor little innocent oline's horror, with every onward step, the taffeta lining of the beloved purple taffeta skirt slithered further up her bare, wet legs exposing the entire outline of her thighs and ass through the remaining, now-transparent taffeta that clung like lilac saran wrap to her pasty, soaked skin.

poor little innocent oline briefly found solace in the presence of a messenger bag, which could be strategically positioned to conceal the more revealed areas. for six and a half blocks, in an exercise of deft denial, she almost succeeded in convincing herself that she had handled this circumstance exceedingly well. that she did not look like something crawled from a drain. that looking at her, you would not know her ass was on public display.

until she passed a certain girl. a girl dressed entirely in jcrew, strolling down fullerton without an umbrella as if she didn't have a care in the world. and it was this girl who looked at poor innocent oline and said, hey you, your butt's hanging out.

15 June 2009

8 lincoln/halsted/fullerton

my dad's return to memphis has been followed by an onslaught of chicago architectural tidbits, of which this has been the most fascinating.

09 June 2009

14 remember the children

in the winter of 1989 (ie. 20 fucking years ago), my parents bought a giant-ass green couch from the damaged goods division of rich's department store in the after-season sale.

let's unpack that thought.

in their infinite wisdom, my dear beloved parents intentionally left the showroom floor where the intact, healthy furniture was, ventured to the shitty furniture quarantine and purposefully paid good money for something that had been publicly left for dead.

this is how we got the green couch.

i vividly remember it's arrival into our home, it's massive greenness shrouded in cellophane. i was 8. aside from the refrigerator we'd ordered when i was three and the water buffalo at the memphis fair, this was the biggest thing i'd ever seen. i thought it was the sarcophagus of kermit the frog.

the green couch was my father's response to my mum's prissy queen anne chairs and settees. she had those burgundy, breakable-looking things, he had this. a man couch. the hulk.

i remember this couch in his various libraries until they moved to memphis, at which point he upgraded to leather and the hulk disappeared, presumably taking up residence in the corner of the attic entitled Things That Caroline Will Inherit When She Has Her Own Place And Is Desperate For Furniture And Is Therefore Willing To Take Furniture That Will Ultimately Be A Karmic Burden For The Rest Of Her Natural Life.

that moment of desperation came in the winter of 2005, at which point, i moved into my first real apartment, found my dormroom's worth of stuff severely lacking and in my stupidity actually begged for the hulk, which was enthusiastically handed down to me.

i promptly covered it in red and overlooked it's obvious shortcomings. the sheer size. the uneven cushions that seemed in constant conflict to break free from the couch's confines. the inevitable chasm created by their attempted escape and the subsequent cavern permanently strew with cheerios and cat hair. not to mention the sag of use that, upon prolonged inactivity, slowly drained one's lifeblood southward.

we had rescued the hulk from certain death and this was how he repaid us- with bad hygiene and blood lust.

but when one is committed one will overlook certain things. all in all, i was perfectly content with the hulk. free is always good and he'd been around for so long i never thought to factor him out of my life. even in my early adoration of the fainting couch, the hulk was still in the picture. the fainting couch was always intended for the The Other Room. yes, i was perfectly content until, with the recent addition of a kitchen/communion table and chairs, the hulk became a big, fat, fucking bother.

and now, suddenly, our relationship has soured. over the course of the past week and a half, i have cultivated such a loathing, such a blinding hatred for this couch. it destroys everything. for the first time i understand why the titanic's makers were so bothered by the clutter of lifeboats. at this point, i too would sacrifice human life to avoid such aesthetic upset.

i'm tempted to throw the whole mess out the back door, never mind that i'd be financially responsible for the stairway it would undoubtedly take out on the way down. to be rid of this blight would almost be worth it. almost.

my bitterness is only increased by the whole world of exciting sofas that would be opened up were the hulk to ever die. i come from an aesthetically oversensitive family, and as word circulated that the hulk had become an offense to an entire room, the barrage of clippings and snapshots and sketches of affordable couches from around the world began.

this has not only upped my couchlust, it has increased my stress.

because i have set the bar very high here. with my epic struggle over hand-me-downs and couches and the imagined burden of old things, i have defiantly forged a world order in which one can only buy furniture that will be agreeable to anyone who may ever ultimately wind up with it. but, let's be honest, how can one really be assured that a couch will be agreeable to the children of the children one has not yet had?

04 June 2009

0 hmm...

i can't decide if it's incredibly fucking awesome that blago would want to hang out with the dude who plays him in rod blagojevich superstar or incredibly fucking stupid. or maybe a bit of both.

03 June 2009

6 trampoline

today i wore a skirt.

a lovely springy green skirt.

i had some reservations, but The Family was out and i was all devil-may-care. i thought i could pull it off.

i rationalized that even if it wasn't exactly "professional," it most certainly wasn't "unprofessional."

of course it wasn't until i was actually in the building that i realized my lovely springy skirt sported a back slit that made my ass look like a refugee from a sir mix a lot music video.