31 May 2010

1 may: a revue

"i don't think my cheeks have ever looked more pregnant."

"your boobs do tend to stand out more once anyone pulls out a camera. it's your chest's way of saying 'CHEESE!'"

"you can only go so far in life if you're worried about your hair all the time."

"since then, i have seriously contemplated the possibilities of dating a black man."

"always take a chance with someone who smells good."

"not enough people wanted to drive to a warehouse in the rain and get naked after 10 p.m."

"cute and poor is always the way to go."

"we all were tense and stress peed in the parking garage downstairs. even the girls."

"i still feel he is not very funny- but his kindness and height are winning attributes."

"and then they said 'just throw it in the dumpster' and i said 'but our children's children!!!' and they laughed at me."

"this will result in either abject failure or GLORY."

"today, for the first time in my life, i purchased a set of condoms."
"i love that you said 'set.' as though this were a table-setting of wedding china rather than the, equally important, gift of safe sex."

"it seems to have singlehandedly upped the frequency with which the words 'impish' and 'rascal' are applied to me."

"no, caroline... he has a tambourine."

"i'm obsessed with denmark. i want to be danish. i want a hot danish man in a loin cloth. i wish i weren't at work. i only want to do fun things."

"yeah, there were elderly coming in and i didn't know what to do with that."

"we have to find the happy median between a man who wears a women's jacket and a boy who camps too much."

"have i ever told you my dramatic story about chaps?"

"i think about you whenever i drink milk."

"you know you're old when your idea of a great birthday is eating pizza, watching lost, and falling asleep on the couch at 8:30."

"i also had some socks that i wore a lot this winter that reminded me of you."

"consider us your Safe Haven!"

"what is the proper response when someone emails you a 'my bad'?"

"that's the story of my life. i never know where i'm going and i wind up standing in the middle of the road screaming 'ha-ha! please don't hit me!'"

"it went in my mouth like a worm."

"he was the anti-sexy. if i had a boner, he made it go away."

"you know when you're, like, 21 and you just want to get drunk and take your clothes off?"

"i love granny panties. they make sense."

"boobs are great tools, right?"

"that is a weird group of girls. i feel like they all have sex together."

"you're a virgin? good for you. i'll bet God likes that."

"how avid of a facebooker is she?"

"don't. open. the. vault."

"can you check my broad?"

"i feel that i own this bar. this bar is MINE."

"it's like a body bag."
"or a santa sack... wow, that really sums up the differences in our thinking."

"this is totally sex and the city but do you wanna go get manicures?"

"this tuesday is feeling especially monday-ish."

"any sorrow you experience is like fine tea, artfully staining the stationery of your life."

"my goal for monday is to be one shade darker."

"let us dwell for a moment on the brilliance of 'photoalbumsoline.' and yes, i like it mostly because 'bumsoline' is really funny."

"there are some things you just owe to your unborn child. cake is one of them."

"in my 20 minutes in the sun a random man who had been sitting on a bench nearby- presumably for his entire adult life- came over to ask if i had any friends, specifically any 'man-friends.'"

"his torso intrigues me. is it made of wood?"

"it's like an oasis in an ocean of bullshit."

"never move into a house with a bunch of people you love and a person who wants to fuck you."

"she knows not of the penis."

30 May 2010

0 watered down

i come from an artsy family.
which maybe kind of explains why my mother
celebrated the occasion of my birth
by taking up watercolor.
kind of but not really.

29 May 2010

0 to do

1. copenhagen.
2. canada.
3. cupcakes (29).
4. the new yorker (12).
5. jackie in paris.
6. breakfast near tiffany's.

28 May 2010

2 oh, young oline, little did you know

because my penmanship was heinous even then
(presumably to thwart the historians),
i will translate:

29 May 2001 9.14 AM Tuesday
Am 20. Sad thing is [it's] just like
any other day so really am getting
old. Scary.

26 May 2010

39 powered up

it is hilarifying that my father referred me to this book...

it also raises the very important question:
is 10% of my mind power already automatically engaged in
the natural enlargement of my breasts?

(ps. "customers who bought this item also bought"
the big book of lesbian horse stories.
make of that what you will.)

25 May 2010

6 self-reliance in the city

i do not like to ask for help. as in, really, ever.

for the most part, this works out quite well, resulting in a handful of stories integral to the Oline Lore. (couch-killing!!!)

but i've come to realize that the longer one lives alone in the city, the more self-reliant one becomes. which, when one is perhaps already a wee bit too self-reliant, may not be such a very good thing.

because when i killed the couches, i had the sense to acknowledge that other alternatives did exist. there was a part of me that sensed the saw was neither the only nor the wisest path. the most fun, exciting, and adventuresome, yes. but obviously not the only way.

but the couches were awhile ago and i'm more deeply entrenched in my ways.

as part of the upcoming, unusually extravagant celebration of my birth, my parents got me a counter-top dishwasher, something i realized i very much needed after serving k.clen a glass of water that appeared to have been drawn from a bubble bath.

i'm pretty sure the counter-top dishwasher is going to be life-changing. that- much like that time i walked through the door with jeff daniels- nothing will ever be the same.

the counter-top dishwasher arrived while i was in nashville. it was a 90 lb box that, in my absence, obstructed the entryway to such an extent that upon my return i could only enter the building by pressing with all my might against the door, gathering my skirts, sucking in and sliding through. (presumably my neighbors- forced to endure a similarly squeezy entry all weekend long- loved me for this.)

so this is the scene i came home to: a 90 lb box and four flights of stairs.

and this is where we see how far i've come since the couch killings. this is where the seachange becomes quite clear.

because not only did it not occur to me to seek help in hauling a 90 lb box up the four flights to my apartment. and not only did it not occur to me that i might not be able to haul a 90 lb box up the four flights to my apartment. but it also did not occur to me to first go up the four flights to my apartment and discard my mail or, for that matter, my luggage.

and so, carrying a suitcase, my comed bill and the latest us weekly, i single-handedly propelled a 90 lb box up four flights of stairs.

an act characterized less by a fleeting sense of empowerment than by a lingering sensation of internal blood loss.

21 May 2010

2 nailed

jmills and i got our nails did the other day. thus creating the absolute perfect opportunity for my mum to remind me of the time i, a twelve-year-old in the midst of a social studies section on the french revolution, blasted my then-pregnant aunt for her- brace yourself- "bourgeois nail vanity."

20 May 2010

13 a brief word from reclusive, quiet, unassertive, secretive, working too hard at the expense of flexibility, efficiency, spontaneity and funOline

i missed bible study on tuesday night, which wasn't too big a spiritual setback as apparently all they did was giggle and take a personality test. a personality test that i have now taken and which raises the question: why on earth do you people hang out with me? for i do not sound like fun.

do yourself by going HERE.

19 May 2010

5 oh, mother dear, we're not the fortunate ones

it's jackie dead day so, as always, i ask that you humor my pretentions.
(and presumably you all know the original story:
7th grade oline.
white shortie shorts.
anderson cooper.
a million magazines.
blah, blah, blah.)
[if you don't, go HERE and you will.]

croftie is convinced this is the year we're going to get published.

she tells me this on our crepe date, over a glass of chapoutier. hearing the unflinching conviction in her voice, i have no doubt that this is the year she will.

but then croftie always has high, high hopes. croftie always gets things done. because croftie has a work ethic that would shame ben franklin and to which the rest of us layabouts can only ever hope to someday aspire.

odds are this is not the year i will get published. because i am somewhat less determined. i prefer to indolently anticipate disappointment and perhaps one day be pleasantly surprised. in the words of my father, i am an "optimistic fatalist," who is a master of the "artful lollygag." this is not a compliment.

and it's not due to laziness or lack of material or a great deficit of distinctly unsouthern belle Big Ambitions. i'm writing myself off as unpublishable because, at the moment, i have yet to ratchet up whatever it is that it's going to take to write what's next.

which makes it sound far more important that it really is. it's not the gospel. or an epic. or, heaven help me, Fiction. obviously, it's just biography and it's just jackie- a subject that is the biographical equivalent to the beauty pageant answer "world peace."

so in the large scheme of things like God and gawain and foer, it is relatively unimportant that there's this jackie book i'm meant to write. the jackie book i wanted to write even before i wrote the jackie book i ultimately did write.

and it's fairly inconsequential that this is THE jackie book and that i really really don't want to write it because it is an inferno of impossibles. and because biography done well is damn difficult and i'm not ready to damn myself just yet.

something i should have thought of before mentioning this jackie book to the world famous biographess when we were lunching in new york. before casually tossing it out over the humus plate in the simple hope of garnering that amorphous credibility that comes from the respect writers have for one another's as-yet-unacted-upon Great Ideas.

it is a great idea so i was stupid not to have foreseen the explosion of enthusiasm its revelation would trigger. i should've anticipated the overpowering gung-ho.

there are three reasons why this project, this jackie book- otherwise perfect- appalls me to no end:

1. it involves a language i do not speak.
2. it involves money i do not have.
3. it involves sources that do not exist.

never mind that the few sources that do exist appear to be systematically dying off as i approach them.

there's an elvis song entitled "it's impossible." the actual opening lyric is "it's impossible to tell the sun to leave the sky." my family, big fans of bastardy, bastardized this line into the distinctly different yet equally truthy observation that "it's impossible to stick a piano up your nose," the sentiment that perhaps most accurately captures my feelings towards this jackie book.

this jackie book? it is a piano up my nose.

i do not say any of this to the world famous biographess when, three months later during our endnote business, she digresses and returns to the subject of the dreaded jackie book. this evil book that couldn't care less that i'm not yet ready to write it and is apparently going to railroad it's way into my life and be an abominable inconvenience.

i do not tell her it's a piano up my nose. instead i nod and smile as she tells me jackie book's time has come (it hasn't). that it is a story that MUST be told (not really). NOW (noooooooooo).

it could be a documentary! a mini-series! a sophia coppola-directed feature film!

the world famous biographess tells me this and only then does she avert her gaze toward her falafel and drop the bomb for which i have been waiting all these months.

that it would be better were i an academic or an older, previously published white man (sadly, i am neither), because there is no funding for girls like us.

a sentence that, just hearing it spoken, i know is going to be hell on earth to repeat to my parents.

when i do, a full week and a half later, the response is predictable. my mum says- her voice fraught with the hope that her daughter is the reasonable, financially cautious young woman she was raised to be and an inkling that she probably isn't- well, cupcake, maybe someday you can really do it, but the timing's just all bad right now, right?

and i couldn't help but laugh. because though i'm a woman of few philosophies, the one i've held most dear is that one must imagine somewhat more boldly than may be socially acceptable and that when things are at their most inconvenient and impossible, that's when they'd really best be done.

which is essentially what the world famous biographess meant when she said, we're story-tellers and, really, nothing else matters when you've a story to tell.

so maybe croftie's right. maybe it is the year we get published. or, if not, maybe it's the year that- without french or funding and with sources dying right and left- i finally try to tell this story that all the older, previously published white men have inexplicably overlooked. and who knows. maybe there's a reason they missed it. maybe it was left for me.

15 May 2010

3 life is a mystery

meggie was the first person i met in franklin. i'd been in mrs. d'eramo's 6th grade math class a matter of minutes when she (hair short, red silk shirt, tapered leg jeans) came up to me (hair permed, XXL t-shirt, tapered leg jeans) and said hello.

during a certain lunch period at PMS, she (1) made fun of willie veech's new york accent and said the phrase "hold up five finggggguhs" in a way i have never been able to get out of my head and (2) told a story about how her uncle lost an arm working in a twinkie factory, an untruth debunked so many years later that i have never been able to accept it as anything less than pure fact.

based on the frequency with which it is brought up, her fondest memory of me is from we went shopping at upton's in the summer of 1998, when- scandalized by my first encounter with thongs- i ran about the underwear department brandishing a pair like a flag of surrender. it's the only time i remember her being embarrassed.

finggggguhs, twinkies and thongs. these are the things upon which deep friendships are based.

meggie has been my valentine for the past eight years. i was her maid of honor. for her and no one else, i wore flip-flops with a formal gown. she has taken me at my bitchiest. i have paddled a giant swan with her brother-in-law, the bitterest man we have ever known.

she, the world's second biggest gossip, was the last person to find out the worst kept secret to ever hit franklin, tennessee.

in high school, she was the only one we knew who knew petey- the boy for whom partner and i clutched our hearts in the hallway whenever he walked by.

thanks to my mother's rule that i could not ride with teenage drivers so everyone had to ride with me, much of my memories of meggie (whose birthday is today and whose card did not get mailed soon enough to make it so these words will have to do) are from high school, when we would go shopping at the cool springs galleria, after which we would pile into weezer- my beloved white ford escort gt that inexplicably always smelled like waffles- roll down the windows, turn the radio volume as high as it would go, and blast madonna's "like a prayer," singing along at the top of our lungs.

something we haven't done in ten years. something we need to do ASAP.

14 May 2010

3 lady di

way back in january, i bought a diana. because, in my continuing half-assed dabblings in various arts, this seemed like the most half-assed, madcap way to go.

the diana is a toy camera. meaning it's cheaply made, yields photographs of unreliable quality, and is shamefully overpriced for what it is. and it's pretty.

i should point out that, for a variety of reasons, the diana is also scary as hell.

it shoots 35mm. as in actual real live film, which i haven't dealt with since 2004. AND it's entirely manual, offering a level of control i've feared since the day in october 1998, when S and i went traipsing about the franklin square and, fumbling through a film jam, i dropped my father's leica on the concrete, shattering the lens.

additionally- because when i do things, i do them whole-hog- my diana is a mini and, thus, it is freakishly small. for reference, the HUGE flash in the photo above is a mere 3". she's perfectly proportioned for a fumbling date with concrete.

and so, in the moment of half-assed madcappery in january when i bought the diana, i also defied my father, the photographer- a purist who deemed my diana little more than "a piece of crap." this was in january, mind you.

last night, may 13th, i finally opened the box.

at which time, i read the instruction manual (twice), loaded the film properly (we hope), took one picture and put the diana away.

because though, through a weekend of photographing every random stupid thing, i will master her- today the diana is scary as hell.

scaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaary. like birds.

0 FRIDAY. at last.


13 May 2010

12 københavn... ja?

the best ideas begin with the phrase "so i was looking at flights." at least that is usually the case with my mother.

in contrast to the hours i've dedicated to the exploration of airlift for fantastical adventures that amount to nothing, when my mum says she's been looking at flights, travels really do come true.

this is, after all, how the fall 2009 parisian extravaganza that would end with the funeral of claude pascal first began- with a flurry of emails subjected "PAR" and the revelation that my mum had been clandestinely stalking french airfares at four a.m.

based upon her recent observations regarding scandinavian ticket selection and the subsequent proliferation of emails subjected "CPH," i would hazard a guess my mother is about to (probably not but, God-willing, maybe) make my danish dreams come true.

it took five years of themed gift-giving, begging and bargain-hunting to sell my mum on paris. it has taken precisely one trip to paris, "the family forward," and just under five months to convince my mum we will die if we do not go to copenhagen ASAP.

this raises the interesting question of what it is going to take to convince her next time. to make her see that we will meet with equally dire ends if we don't also go to dubrovnik... and st. petersburg... and istanbul... and berlin...

12 May 2010

0 all night long

due to above average planning and time management skills, i have only once pulled an all-nighter. way back in december 2002, when i needed to write what i knew would be a groundbreaking piece of scholarship on- you guessed it- the socioeconomic significance of hats, scarves and shoes in post-menopausal courtship rituals in anita brookner's hotel du lac.

(for the record, there are SO MANY things in that sentence that i wish were lies. sadly, they are not.)

given the monumentality of such subject matter, i- understandably- did not know where to begin.

a loss of direction in no way helped by a librarical shortage in the fashions/textiles/post-menopausal relationships arena- a shortage i, at the very peak of my black bras under white shirts feminist revolution, inevitably attributed to deep-seated sexism in the mississippi state university library book buying department.

thus, i was left to my own devices, a dangerous and sad state of affairs for someone so young and stupid and ill-equipped for weighty post-menopausal matters.

in the end, i ate an enormous piece of cake, stayed up all night and, as every english major does at one time or another, bullshitted my way through. because if it sounds good enough, it doesn't matter what you say.

last night, for the world famous biographess and the booths, i pulled an all-nighter. well, a most-of-the-nighter, which at our advanced age, might as well be the whole freaking night.

at 1 a.m. this morning, as i inched closer to a mental freefall presumably not unlike the one that had prompted the woman one table over to face-plant on her mac while reading her facebook feed, the world famous biographess rubbed her eyes and looked at me and said gently, defeatedly, no one ever looks at endnotes so i guess what we're doing here doesn't really matter, so long as it looks good.

she said that and i briefly gained the philosophical clarity that can only come from the potent combo of a 20 oz cappuccino, a 20 oz latte, a 12 oz black coffee, 8 months of sleep deprivation and 14 hours hunched over a heap of books in a maddening quiet.

and so, near delirium, in that maddening quiet i opened my mouth and said all too loudly to the world famous biographess, but, biographess, this is biography! not bullshit!

her eyes got wide as saucers and her laugh took over the room.

10 May 2010

10 elle portait de citron

i have these yellow shoes. you know them. they've come up before.

these yellow shoes were bought a break-up and a half ago when, during an ill-advised/croftie-condoned trip to nine west in the midst of a particularly ruinous sale, i engaged in a lamentative retail spree.

i vividly remember holding them up for croftie's inspection- the spark in her eye, the crinkling of the tissue paper, the nod of her head and my own vast ignorance of sartorial sociology at that time.

we were so young then. little did we know...

there should be more scholarship on the shoes women purchase in times of emotional duress. i would argue it speaks volumes.

every shoe i've bought in the last year has sported a 3"+ heel. (what better way to rise from something so flattening?)

similarly, the yellow shoes are short-heeled, pointed, flashy and fantastically constricting. much like the dead relationship that birthed them.

and yet, unlike that relationship- which, when cast in the schematic of all my relationships, probably matters the least- the yellow shoes are terribly, terribly important. because the yellow shoes are the most abusive relationship i've ever had.

i have never been a girl who puts up with pain for fashion. indignities and indecencies, yes. undergarment malfunctions? always. but pain, never.

except for the yellow shoes.

the yellow shoes break all my rules.

because the yellow shoes are terribly, terribly important. and the yellow shoes are terribly, terribly gorgeous. and the yellow shoes hurt like the kind of hurt that could only ever exist deep deep in the deepest depths of some as yet to be imagined hell beyond hell.

if de sade dabbled in women's footwear, these were the fruits of his labor.

the yellow shoes make sadism look preferable.

but how to explain the exquisite pain?

were i to set my feet on fire, tightly encase them in gasoline soaked linens, light them again, douse them with nail polish remover, dip them in a vat of sequins, light them one last time and slowly remove each melted shard of glitter from my wounds with a butter knife before submerging my feet entirely in a tub of salted lava this would perhaps approximate 1/11th of the pain created when sitting down in the yellow shoes.

please note: sitting down.

i repeat: SITTING. DOWN.

God forbid you move.

the yellow shoes and i have been together for four years. in three years, we will have a common-law marriage, an alarming level of commitment for something i have repeatedly tried to be rid of.

alas, no. for the yellow shoes are a clingy bitch.

my futile attempts at desertion have led to nothing but a series of spectacular fails. most notably, a charity donation attempt wherein i returned home from a long work day, naively blasting girl power songs and imagining myself literally footloose and fancy-free, only to find my donation gone and the yellow shoes waiting patiently on my stoop like a defiant, disappointed lover.

even the white elephant thrift store workers had discerned that they were of the devil.

my feet quaked in their comfy boots.

please do remember, i am the girl who's killed couches. with a saw. i am not easily intimidated by imposing things. so what the hell? shoes should not be so difficult.

but the yellow shoes and i, we are apparently meant to be and to this i am trying to reconcile myself.

so every spring along comes a morning, a cinematically gorgeous spring morning, when- presumably drunk on pollen- i think the yellow shoes the best idea in the world.

because they really are very pretty. and yellow. and yellow is my favorite. and when you look at them from afar it's almost possible- when you squint really really hard without glasses and focus on the heel rather than the torture device that is the pointy toe- it is possible to think that they're worth it.

worth the pain. the agony. the sensation that some prickled beast is being exorcised from within the arches of one's feet.

so on these certain mornings- these sweeping, epically sunny spring mornings- i give in to the power of the yellow shoes. and in the midst of hurting the kind of hurt that could only ever exist in the deepest depths of a hell beyond hell, i could almost swear the world sparkles a bit harder. that these incandescently sweet, bright blue mornings show up for the yellow shoes.

because the yellow shoes are terribly, terribly important. (and did i mention they're terribly, terribly pretty?) and, though i hate them and though they hurt me, i will set my feet on fire again and again and the yellow shoes and i, we will walk miles and miles for days such as these.

because there are terribly, terribly important things that are non-negotiable for girls in the city. there are baked goods and there are bright mornings and, perhaps most importantly, there are shoes. be they yellow or otherwise, there are always, always shoes.

09 May 2010

0 this is why e and i are friends

and to answer the question:
what kind of crowd goes to stars on ice?
three words:
sarah palin rally.

08 May 2010

3 icecapades! grinning yellows! spinning reds!

e and i are going out to indian and the icecapades tonight, which raises a question of significant import: what does one wear to watch stars on ice?

the indian i can do. curry doesn't demand special dress. but in my mind, the crowd dynamic of which we will be a part this evening is akin to the demographic one would find at a celine dion show. as someone who has never been to the icecapades or seen celine dion, i say this from a place of utter ignorance, but i do imagine it will be a mass of older, decidedly paunchy people wearing pastel tees.

that is a profile we do not fit. e is the only person i know who carries her train shoes in a silk bag and buys anthropologie first-run. i, of course, am a pastiche of consignment shop sequins and skirts and high high heels. i expect we will not blend in.

a reality that has not prevented me from proclaiming to one and all that WE ARE GOING TO THE ICECAPADES. because something at once so unbelievably fabulous and monumentally uncool demands such heraldry.

an unforeseen, unfortunate effect of my heraldry being that in the last two days, no less than five people to whom i am related by blood have recanted at length the short tale of the one time my mum went to the icecapades in copenhagen and was pulled out on the rink to become a part of the show.

i will tell you the story...

my mum went to the icecapades in copenhagen and she was pulled out on the rink to become a part of the show.

there. you have now heard the story of how my mum went to the icecapades in copenhagen and was pulled out on the rink to become a part of the show in it's entirety (thrice) save for the tone of incredulous, plodding wonder in which it is always recited aloud.

i do not like this story. perhaps because i have icecapade envy. and because i have not been to copenhagen. and because it is a teeny tiny slip of a story that is always told in the stretched out manner of a sweeping historical epic.

but more likely, it is because in the family forward danish tales my mother is referred to as "little debbie," and i do not like this. because it is as though she were an entirely different person. someone who went to ice shows and wore bonnets and gingham. someone who could only ever be appreciated for her diminutive stature and delicious snack cakes.

07 May 2010

7 take two

last night, KC and i went to MORTIFIED. in keeping with the theme of the evening, we awkwarded up like it was 1997 all over again.

which reminded me that i had a plan last fall to revisit the journals of my youth. a plan that totally never came to be. so here we go again. the great journal project of 2009... version 2010.

(sidenote: croftie does does a far superior job on the angst front at the far superior laraehrlich.com, so go check it. now.)

and with no further ado, i give you 7 april 1989. the day i learned to write in cursive. alas, i did not know how to spell.

06 May 2010

7 the viscountess

this morning- because i awoke insanely early and because last night, for the first time in a long time, i had absolutely nothing to do- i rode my bike.

a few key plot points:

my bike is named the viscount. it was born in 1995.

i have neither ridden the viscount nor engaged in viscount maintenance of any kind since 6 september 2009.

my physical activities since 6 september 2009 have been confined to two massages, a single 110-block walk, and the consumption of copious baked goods.

i am presently sleeping approximately 4 hours a night and am fueled by two liters of diet mountain dew a day.

the obvious response to this state of general physical deterioration being to rise early and ride a bike. because, well, yeah.

and so ride a bike i did. up orchard, down diversy, up clark to belmont, down clybourn, over on division, back up halsted, and over to north lincoln.

and i can honestly say i have never felt closer to death, God and my thigh muscles than i did at 5:49 this morning, as the sun peeked over the dome of st. clement's, and the viscount and i wound our weary way home.

05 May 2010

5 ah, paris

the closet situation at my house is vastly out of control. and not in a redeemably cutsie, self-aware way like how when people come to visit and i say the apartment is a dump when really i know it's pristine save the sequins of nuit blanche and i'm only saying that because, despite a fairly well-developed sense of pride, i'm cursed with an inability to graciously accept compliments of any kind.

no, i am aware that the situation we have here is neither redeemable nor cutsie. it is the closet equivalent of charlie sheen's sex life- a seedy, violent melange.

case in point: this morning, when i forced open the door i had forced closed last night, it prompted an avalanche comprised of two years of bank statements, the christmas tree, a lone brown boot and winnie the pooh.

had i forced open the door with any greater strength it is possible i might have been concussed by the lone brown boot and been found days from now, dead on the floor, alone in the city. the lead sentence in my obituary: "woman who all too often had only $12 in checking account killed by closet."

because that is not the way i want to go, this weekend the whole closet situation is going to be brought to heel. and so again i turn to paris hilton's sole societal contribution. and again i sigh in awe and wonder.

04 May 2010

2 today in frivolities

FINALLY, someone
(and, really, who else but pete wentz?)
is bringing knickerbockers back.
bravo, boy. bravo.

8 the vacuum

my parents were in town for five days. thursday to monday. true to their word, they stuffed me with food at every turn, stocked the fridge with milk and filled the cupboards with random parent food of the whole grain/whole fiber/whole fat variety that will likely remain in my cupboard until they come again.

my mum did all the mending. my father fixed all the wobbly furniture. new towels were purchased. and the vacuum cleaner bag was never mentioned.

it was never mentioned in that way that you know it is always, constantly, on everyone's mind.

i am partly to blame for this. i left the vacuum in full view. an unconscious unkindness for which there was no remedy once they had arrived, save for making a big scene of the "i am now moving the vacuum cleaner out of view so that we are not forced to have The Conversation we always have about how i am inevitably going to burn to death because i do not accept responsibilities as they pertain to the protection of my person" variety. a conversation i was, obviously, unprepared to have.

and so the vacuum cleaner remained where it was. visible. taunting us all.

in the quiet of the afternoon, as we discussed portrayals of marriage and strong women in early 60s cinema, my mum kept glancing in its direction with all the hatred one would direct at an instrument one is convinced will lead to the charring of one's only child.

when she employed the outlet nearest the vaccum to recharge her blackberry, i was 97% certain this was a strategic choice so she could inspect the dreaded appliance during the night.

later, my father, during a comically elaborate perusal of the baking supplies, would check the integrity of the nozzle under the unlikely pretext of having "dropped a morsel."

we eatons are ill-schooled in the vagaries of deceit.

ultimately, they made it four days.

at 10:30, on the night before their departure, as my mum studiously focused her attention on filing her nails, she nonchalantly- her voice a mixture of wistfulness and pride- asked, "liney, did you notice i didn't ask about the vacuum cleaner bag? not even once?"

thus, the embargo was lifted and my father, who must have his say in every conversation, came rushing into the room to exclaim, "didn't we do good, bearoline? four days! four days!"

there was a fleeting moment of hushed reverence for their unprecedented restraint before my mum, giddy like a girl on christmas and turning the full force of her blue eyes upon me, put her hand in my hand and said, "now, please, cupcake? please, can i check it now?"

ever the dutiful daughter, i nodded and said, "yes, please."

03 May 2010

6 reprise

walking home from jmills' dirty thirty brunch, in the daylight under threat of rain, i saw the slovenian.

he caught my eye, looked me up and down, and smiled in that way men smile at girls they've never met and are imagining naked.

i glared indignantly and walked on home, thanking God for small favors and scotch whiskey.