30 June 2010

0 june: a revue



"i think i was meant for fancy sports."

"i wonder if it’s really the case that back then 'we didn't know ethan hawke could kind of be a dick'? given the trajectory of my life, this might be an important question."

"i completed a sex act yesterday."

"and why the hell would i need a frankentot?"

"i can't remember what you were doing this weekend, but whatever it was, what did you wear?"

"we are very '80 year old' cell phone users so we paraded into the verizon store and said we just use our phones to make calls and could someone direct us to the phones with the biggest buttons."

"hopefully this is no reflection on my love for alaska compared to my love for my son."

"...even when we acknowledge the horror that is mickey rooney in full asian-minstrel..."

“other people talk about being 'moony' don't they? or is this like the dutch people talking about putting bricks on your head?”

“i saw a picture of a strawberry cake similar to Our Strawberry Cake and contemplated sending it to you but then i figured that would be the food equivalent of sending you porn so i didn't.”

“do you have anything exciting coming up? and i say that realizing that you are Parents, which is probably excitement enough but still...”

"who knew shoes were so important to philosophy..."

"these flowers are ridiculously huge."
"i felt that's why had to take them. when would we ever have the opportunity to take such ridiculously huge flowers again?"

"so matthew comes home and see our clothes all over the living room floor. i feel for matthew sometimes."

"what is the opposite of comedy? oh yeah, DRAMA."

"they’ve been dating for six weeks. SIX WEEKS!! their love is the equivalent of a middle school grading period."

"we shall miss the Days of Hedonism. but just as glamorous, if not quite as sparkly, are the Days of Thriftiness."

"this is not going to be as 'uncomplicated' as you were hoping, i fear."

"that makes it sound like things are going to unfold at a pace far more rapid than an 8 hour car ride."

"floating in the mental sense, not in the 'that was our word for period while we were in college' sense."

"don’t you love my using my own child as a pawn in thriftiness?"

"sick days are really the only times i lament the lack of a television."

"single life wasn't so different. i just ate out a lot less and didn't have anyone to make out with."

"TAKE ME WITH YOU! and i mean that so much more than i meant it with charleston."

"i've never before been in a room with so many people who have wikipedia pages."

"so i guess we'll stop where toledo would've been if toledo were on this road."

"apparently everyone in cleveland is either black or a white hippie. that's just the nature of the town."

"you don’t look afraid. you look coy."

"the kind of love that makes a woman feel like nick nolte’s mug shot."

"sometimes i think i was born to be yiddish."

"gary brooks faulkner, like all people with three names, was on a mission to kill."

"you look very yesteryear."

"once i was in the right-sized bra i felt like my boobs had been touched by Jesus."

"you're going to lunch and it's not even 9 a.m.? i think that's a sign that you are officially aged."
"no. it's 9 a.m. and we have begun preparations to leave by 10:30. THAT is a sign that we are aged."

"if i were a black person, i'd totally get a white tattoo."

"is that an air conditioner or a new idol you guys are worshiping?"

"she commented on our family tradition of hats the other day."
"yes, it is a long and noble tradition, circa 2005."

"i know, i know, you said 'never' before the 'good idea' part. but still. we may have to Do This."

"1:30 a.m. = DEATH."

"but still... very WHOA."

"your situation is much more amusing to me because it does not involve me."

"yesterday, i took part in a group interview for best buy that included the following: three mr. potato head dolls assembled as a team, three children's animal puzzles assembled as a team, and an industrial pack of scented markers used to write our own name tags. i was confused because i thought i was going to have to identify electronics or something... not do kindergarten activities."

"dae woos are an extinct breed."

"it's kind of twee given that all you can do in south africa is take drugs and get raped."

"yeah, i don't know why he has a beard when he has a jaw like that."

"red bull... it tastes like the piss of an annoying cartoon character. like sponge-bob square pants."

"i think my head may explode- in part from the cold i've been living with since saturday and partly from the general unknown that is my life."

"thank God for alcohol otherwise my life would be EXACTLY unchanged from 1991."

"i think that mixed feelings are a woman's prerogative."

"i am very boring, so i don’t want your life. but i do want your food."

"i have very mixed feelings toward dave eggers. as opposed to my feelings towards guacamole, which are only ever all good."

"the desire to pack food in a cooler is true evidence of your southern womanhood."

28 June 2010

3 reporting tonight from franklin, tennessee... oline amanpour

[july 17, 1996, 10:37 p.m.]


translation: "There was a Boeing 747 that crashed this evening off of Long Island. It's terrible. They're not sure if it's terrorism or a mechanical problem. There were 212 passengers and 17 crew. The wreckage is in the Atlantic Ocean. Some bodies were recovered. The wreckage is still on fire. Because it happened so late, rescue efforts have been futile. I played badminton by myself for half an hour. It's good exercise and fun. I'm so incredibly tired."

25 June 2010

0 dear james franco, THIS is your art?


(ignoring the fact that it is vaguely reminiscent of an eighth grade science project
on the imagined consequences of a saturnine alien invasion
upon the longterm preservative effectiveness of formaldehyde in felines...)

découpage!
the signature of elvis?
a taxidermied cat!
wearing a leopard-print slap bracelet?

they don't love you like i love you.
i repeat:
james franco, i am The One.

24 June 2010

0 tall, dark and deadly


croftie has written a book. a phenomenally wonderful and amazing book. and when we gathered last weekend to review over mimosas and tots, i had one word of caution- that she needed to consider the book's message about women and violence. because in a dark, dark book, that seemed to me the darkest part.

i said that then and i'm not so sure now. because i was thinking, at the time, only of the parents and the press. never once did i worry about the kids. because i think kids should be allowed to read whatever they want. and i think writers have an obligation to their young readers to- for lack of a less melodramatic phrase- take them into darkness.

because this is where we learn our lessons. these books of our youth.

i began reading sweet valley high at the ripe old age of nine. when, after a 4th grade field trip to the atlanta zoo, andrea hatchatt handed me a copy of #7: dear sister.

knowing nothing of the motorcycle accident in #6: dangerous love that had put elizabeth wakefield into a coma and caused her amnesia and personality change in #7, my enthusiasm was largely motivated by a discrete notation in the front of each book announcing that it was intended for "age 12 and up." i had been secretly listening to madonna's true blue for months, but reading SVH three years before it's publishers had deemed suitable seemed spectacularly more rebellious.

spurred by the same nostalgia for the recent past that previously inspired me to re-watch the entirety of dr. quinn and weep violently at nearly every episode's astonishingly hokey yet unbearably heartwarming end, last summer i returned to sweet valley high.

and like a reunion pre-facebook, i was shocked to the core by how everyone had changed.

the emotions and dramas of youth seem so indulgent when one knows how seldom high school relationships pan out. but the wakefields, they do not know this. and so by page 49 of #1: double love, jessica is crying "tears of angry frustration" and 66 pages later, even perfectly pulled-together elizabeth is "filled with despair."

by the time #5: all night long- in which jessica stays out ALL NIGHT LONG with an older (read: 19) mustached man- rolled around, i realized my under-aged self had, to some extent, been oblivious to the dark side of sweet valley.

yeah, yeah, elizabeth is in an accident and tricia martin dies of leukemia, but what i absolutely did not remember was how terrible some of the boys were and how violent were their ends.

for instance, good old john pfeifer. in the awesomely titled #90: don't go home with john, lila goes home with john and is nearly raped. but then john dies...

enid's first boyfriend, ronnie edwards, is characterized on wikipedia as "a highly scheming and very selfish troublemaker." but then an earthquake hits sweet valley and he dies...

liz's friend luke lives in london and is- inexplicably- a werewolf. until he dies...

poor jessica's boyfriends fare the worst. sam woodruff is in a drunk driving accident. christian gorman is in a fight with kids from a neighboring school. inevitably, both die.

[dear wikipedia, thank you for The Greatest Plot Summary Of All Time- "#122. A Kiss Before Dying The feud between Palisades and SVH reaches a deadly conclusion when Christian Gorman is accidentally killed, and Jessica wins the surfing contest."]

in the face of all this death and squandered youth, i- like carrie bradshaw- couldn't help but wonder... what does this mean? the fact that i loved a series of books in which- aside from todd wilkins- the recurring male characters who escaped violent death can be described as an "often drunk bad boy," "a handsome jerk who was disliked by almost everyone," and "a rich, handsome snob"?

ultimately, i'm pretty sure it means nothing and is useful only as an indicator of how uninterested i was in boys at the time and how much that has changed now.

because it was for different reasons that francine pascal's sweet valley high was the most significant literature of little girl oline's life. namely, #40.

#40.

on the edge.

wherein regina, the deaf girl who just moved to town and had surgery to restore her hearing, is dumped by her boyfriend, gets in with a bad crowd, overdoses on cocaine and dies.

i was a deaf girl.
i had just moved to town.
i'd had surgery to restore my hearing.

O.M.G.

i didn't know it then but this would be the penultimate reading experience of my life. the ribbonless typewriter in extremely loud and incredibly close and the last three pages of the knight of maison-rouge were almost as impactful but only almost. and, really, nowhere near.

because nothing is ever so fresh or scary or vivid as when you are young and don't yet have the words for it. when you are experiencing it for the very first time. the only first time. presumably that is why this silly book has stuck with me all these years.

before it, i had not known i could die.

22 June 2010

2 and now... the summer we will do everything we always say we will do

for five summers now, croftie and i have said THIS will be the summer that we do the things we always say we'll do.

we then commit these things to a reasonably brief, seemingly accomplishable list that we spend approximately a day and a half refining only to never consult it again. until the next summer when we look up and think, "how can it already be this summer when we have yet to do all the things we said we would do last summer?"

since, in the words of croftie, change may be upon us, we have decided THIS is the summer we will do everything we always say we will do. for reals.

and because i like both accountability and counting down, and because this seems the only way we might be guaranteed to actually accomplish anything on it, i give you the list. along with a vow that- even if we wind up picnicking on macy's cookies at promontory point in hyde park while watching a girlie movie dvd on a laptop and riding our bikes home along the beach- this is undoubtedly the summer we will do everything we always say we will do.

(maybe.)

21 June 2010

2 and what, pray tell, did young oline (liberal feminist) do with her friday nights?

13 September 1996, Friday/Saturday, 12:06 a.m.


{translation: [I watched] the Barbara Walters interview of Elizabeth and Bob Dole. Bob was very vague and Elizabeth sat there with the Nancy Reagan adoration look on her face, nodding meekly at everything. She looked like she was drugged. Or else she had no free will and enjoyed sitting there like a test rat. Dole is demanding that Clinton release his medical records. Like we want to know about every cold he's ever had. I think Dole is in desperate need of a new life and hopefully he'll get one after Clinton wins!}

20 June 2010

2 man man

when i was a kid, my father would admonish me to "BE A MAN!" this usually occurred in doctors offices in the presence of needles. and despite the promise that my display of manliness would be rewarded with a popsicle, more often than not, when my father told me to "BE A MAN!" i looked him in the eye and wailed, "but i'm a little giiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrl!"

when told of this, my mum would always smile in satisfaction. she was raising a southern lady. not a tomboy yankee brat. (us southerners, we like our gender norms.)

clearly, i will never be a man. and yet, there is one area of my life into which my father's counsel to BE A MAN may have trickled.

i hate to ask for help. of any kind.

this is nothing new. several years ago, when complaining to partner about how people failed to divine when i needed them, i remember her sighing and saying, "in their defense, it is tricky since you never ask."

during the latest la petite maison de oh'lighn drama, which the vieve and i like to refer to as Adventures In Plumbing As Relates To The Glorious Birthday Gift Of The Countertop Dishwasher Which Turned Out to Be Far More Of An Ordeal Than Anyone Ever Imagined, my refusal to solicit assistance has been most vividly on parade.

in the last three weeks, i have journeyed to home depot four times, returning home with myriad fittings and converters and male and female parts that all connect to each other gladly enough but have been of absolutely no use in connecting the kitchen faucet to the countertop dishwasher. which was kind of the whole point in the first place.

finally, somewhat humbled by repeated lectures from my parents (several of which climaxed in my haughtily declaring, "i never want to talk about this again") and annoyed by the numerous ceremonial "these are the last dishes i shall ever wash by hand" dish-washings i had done that were, ultimately, not the last dishes i ever washed by hand, i resolved that i would not be a man. i would ask for help.

i put on a lacy dress and leopard-print shoes and i marched to home depot. and with three quick twists of the wrench and the removal of the aerator, i had a working dishwasher.

when i called my parents early the next morning to revel in my triumph, my father asked what i'd done. upon hearing that i had requested help, he said, "there's a very great lesson to be learned here, beeb. you probably won't learn it because you're as hard-headed as me, but it's there nonetheless."

and because my parents treat their phone like a trolley and hop on and off throughout our conversations as they please, my mother was around for all of this. out of the silence, she emerged to say, sage-like with the tiniest hint of sass, "yeah, cupcake, the great lesson is you shouldn't BE A MAN."

19 June 2010

1 dear james franco, visionary of Our Time.


you have an art show opening this month. and of course it has a crazily pretentious title that makes no sense. of course it consists of upwards of five different artistic mediums. and of course it explores sexual confusion and a romantic encounter between spock and james t. kirk. really, james franco, we would expect no less.

18 June 2010

8 southern living

my mother grew up everywhere. in denmark. on the farm in mississippi. in memphis. in michigan.

due to this nomadicness, her earliest memories- as she relates them- always have a trippy, gothic, grimm's feel. it is unbearably hot or unspeakably cold. she's wearing twenty-five layers or none. she's in a one room apartment with her parents or abandoned on a farm. they are either impoverished or rolling in dough. it is almost always the end of the world. but then it never is.

one of my mum's biggest memories is of being a child on the farm in mississippi during tupelo's worst tornado. she vividly remembers the smell of the storm cellar. the other kids. the adults watching the funnel from the ramparts. the chattering. the wind. the thought that she would be orphaned. the very great fear.

all of which is very interesting because it took place seventeen years before my mother was born. something she pieced together recently, at which point this tornado- the worst in tupelo's history- began cropping up everywhere we look.

and of all the times i've heard this story- a story that wound its way up to memphis to be repeated as a cautionary tale during every storm in little girl oline's elementary years and a story that thoroughly undermined my faith in the science book that i nonetheless gripped ever tighter to my head as it was my only means of protection while i sat crouched on my knees, face pressed against the cafeteria's concrete walls, waiting out the wind- this storm has never sounded as scary as it does here, at the hand of good old elaine dundy:


and clearly, clearly a 100-page textbook is going to be of tremendous protective value in an event where the wind forces are such that cows are dehorned.

17 June 2010

4 are you there, God? it's me. oline.

(things you need to know before reading this:

in the fifth grade, before graduating to middle school, on a blue piece of construction paper cut into the shape of a star and laminated, we had to write in permanent marker what we wanted to be when we grew up.

an overly earnest child with a propensity for misapplying sunday school concepts to elementary school life and who, even at the age of nine, all too easily committed to things for forever, i mistakenly believed this to be a covenant. and that to fail at the mission outlined on my blue star would be to let down God.

never mind that i hated science and math and took no concrete steps in the direction of becoming a veterinarian beyond having pets and performing poorly in the science and math courses i took. because i wrote in permanent marker on my blue laminated star that i would be a veterinarian, that is what i would be.

nearly everything that has happened to me in the last twenty years can be traced back to that blue star.

because i cling to the things that make the least sense, the dream of being a vet lasted entirely longer than it ever should have, leading me to take a seminar on veterinary medicine at cornell, where i also took a russian class, which led me to mississippi state, where they had both a vet school and a russian department. a russian department that was abolished the semester after i arrived. when freshman chemistry kicked my ass, i happened to be taking an advanced comp class from a horrid professor who advised me to switch majors, which put me in the class of a university of chicago graduate, who recommended me for MAPH, which i got into, which is why i flew up to chicago for that weekend where i met jen even though i knew i'd never go for real, only i did. upon moving back to memphis after, i applied for a random sales job at a random magazine, where the publisher was a cornell graduate and, upon seeing i'd gone there, he gave me the job, and because i had that job, i was able to get out of memphis and move back to chicago and because i was back in chicago... well, you get the idea.

blue star. big deal.

i say all of that so you will appreciate the exhaustion and the fear here as well as the astonishing smallness of the fact that sean cut his hair...)



[translation: 26 September 1996, Thursday, 9:18- Braves lost (7-1). I came to the horrific realization today that at the time I graduate there may be an overbundance of vets. What will I do? I've never planned for anything else. This has always been my dream but apparently I have shared it with many others. I fell down the stairs and hurt my foot. I'm so scared about my future. What will become of me? I got an 84% on the bio. test. Did well on Latin and Algebra. Kim is driving me insane. I'll discuss that another day. I'm exhausted. Sean cut his hair.]

16 June 2010

7 dear world,

rompers have never looked good on anyone.
ever.
ever.
in the history of human life.
love,
o.

15 June 2010

4 cleveland, i'm yours

canadian geese? check.
egyptian food? check.
the united nations of gardens? check.
concern for the safety of maimed children? check.


13 June 2010

5 burgered


the odds are very high that this weekend i will have a mcdonald's hamburger. an event that would be quite minor were it not for the fact that i've been craving this burger in earnest since approximately april 1.

which makes it a pretty big huge deal.

there are few opportunities to have mcdonald's in the city. that's actually a lie because there are numerous opportunities but i do not seize them. because walking into a mcdonald's seems decidedly foreign in the absence of hours spent on the road and a tremendously great need to pee.

you can't just WALK into mcdonald's.

and so there was a time that whenever my parents would drive up from memphis, i would make them swing by mcdonald's- because i've had a life-long love affair with beef and, in my life without a car, i had a new-found appreciation for the joys of driving through.

in college we drove everywhere. since burger king was across the street from mcdonalds and the lost boys loved the combo of burger king burgers with mcdonald's fries- a predilection contrary to mine that nonetheless worked in my favor- i tasted the small heaven that is mcdonald's burgers with burger king fries with far greater frequency than i ever deserved. an experience so poetic and lovely that, i now realize, it probably spoiled me for life.

because the world of today is so harsh. i have no car. mcdonald's and burger king are not adjacent. hamburgers can lead to death.

but maybe that just makes you appreciate all the more those moments when you've spent hours on the road and you really have to pee and mcdonald's looms ahead and you know deep down in your heart that there is absolutely nothing in the whole wide world that tastes better than their burgers.

12 June 2010

1 the spoils of victory

thanks to the blackhawks stanley cup win and the subsequent paradery, i have now seen a grown person lying on the sidewalk of state street in his piss and puke in the middle of a friday afternoon.

11 June 2010

2 oh, diana, can't you see?

six months ago, i bought a diana camera. four weeks ago, i worked up the nerve to put film in it. since that time, i've taken a grand whopping total of 24 pictures with such care and deliberation that one might imagine the roll with which i am shooting is encrusted with gold.

you might think that until you see the end results, which (with the possible exception of these) are, to put it mildly, not golden...

(ps. the number one question the diana has met with is
"does anybody still develop 35mm film?"
the answer to that would be yes. walgreen's does.
and sometimes, when your roll turns out so goshawful it is clear
you do not know how to use 35mm film,
walgreen's will give you the resulting prints for free.)



09 June 2010

2 the dog days are over


mr darcy died sunday night.

it's a misnomer really because, in reality, he was far more a mr wickham. an attention whore and mama's boy who would trot after my mum whenever she left the room, his toenails clacking on the hardwood as though he were a queen tarted up in 6" heels.

mimi is bereft and has yowled for days.

my parents are doing much better. they've donated all the bones and beds and leashes and toys. they swear there will be no more dogs. they are clearing house for whatever lies ahead. they have always, always loved the unknown.

08 June 2010

12 ma-kə-ˈrōn


a friend once likened me to a macaron: "tough on the outside with awesome innards." which is at once revolting and rather nice, because if one must be a dessert, i'm quite certain (assuming life as The Strawberry Cake Of Our Lives is not an option) one couldn't do much better than to be a macaron.

in the first 28 years of my life, i consumed a grand total of 13 macarons:

2 from alliance.
3 from delightful.
8 from france.

the 8 from france being so memorable that as many months later, i can still list their flavor and provenance:

framboise from le boulanger de saint-louis, versailles.

3 chocolat from pâtisserie rue du départ.

framboise, chaux, citron, and fraise from ladurée.

huge big happy SIGH.

the more mathematically inclined among you may be interested to note that a consumption of this rate equates to roughly 1 macaron per 26 months of life.

it is, therefore, both significant and highly awesome that in the last 8 days, with great pleasure, i have become queen of a kingdom, population 40 macarons.

06 June 2010

1 summer magic


this weekend i'm retreating in wisconsin. which has absolutely nothing to do with my family but, because this is likely the only weekend out of the year where i will sit outdoors in a plastic chair doing nothing but savoring the feel of grass between my toes and the wind against my face, it inevitably reminds me of them nonetheless.

my family spent the entirety of the 1980s outdoors in plastic chairs and it is something i do so rarely now that i can't help but be nostalgic.

the memphis summer was so hot that the icing on my birthday cake melted on more than one occasion.

my mum let me go to the grocery store wearing nothing but a pink swimsuit with such frequency that the woman at the register took to calling me "piglet."

my father began work on a model of the titanic. i sat two chairs down from him at the dining room table while he dabbed oil paint onto the windows of each of the 840 staterooms and my mother periodically shouted threats against his life should he spill anything on the good lace table cloth, which- despite the fact that this exact routine was replayed nearly every night for nearly ten years- no one ever thought to remove.

(he paid $20 for the kit in 1982. completed, it sold on ebay in 1999 for $16.95).

grandma ruth came to town. broken arm! blue pants! marlboro's! it was more glamor than my little girl imagination could bear.

i promptly took to carrying a box of round-up sugar sticks in the front pocket of my pinafores and would whip them out at random to puff like nobody's business. a five-year-old in a smocked dress faux-smoking sugar sticks. my parents were appropriately appalled.

on summer saturday evenings, my grandfather would buy a watermelon from the cart on cleveland and we would devour it. given strict instructions not to be "a priss," i let the juice drip down my dress, the seeds stuck to my knees. my gran sat on the porchswing swatting mosquitoes and sewing. she would rock back and forth, back and forth until dusk, when- because she was always furthest from the citronella candle, the scent of which made her eyes water- the fireflies would descend around her, their lights hitting the red in her hair and the red of the bricks in such a way that, for years after, i would take it for granted that she had magical powers and that those evenings were enchanted.

we all lived in memphis then, my parents and grandparents and aunt and i. we shared saturday afternoons and sunday suppers and summer vacations. it was a togetherness i'm quite sure we'll never experience again.

my mum booked our denmark trip. my gran remarked upon this the other night. she told me about their life in copenhagen and randers. about the loaves of bread "little debbie" would bring home, shells of crust with the warm insides eaten out. and the woman next door who didn't speak a word of english but always loved to trim her bangs. and then she wound her way back to the farm and the new pony and the very deafening quiet of their life there, a quiet that has begun to annoy her to no end.

which i do not want to hear because it breaks my heart, so i say, gran, do you remember our vacations? the ones with the van...

because my parents had matching skyhawks into which no more than 3 people could fit, when we went on family vacations, we'd pile into my grandfather's van. a van that, curiously, had no back seats so- in a move that was the single most hicktastic thing my family has ever done- we would pitch lawn chairs where the seats should be and go on our merry way.

remember how we would put you up on a pile of phone books and go on a great adventure? my grandmother asks. and i have to say no because i do not remember the phone books.

what i remember is the pair of us sitting in the very back of the van, my white plastic lawn chair with the white and green woven plastic seat pushed as close to hers as it would go so i could lay my head in her lap and sleep while her pencil scratched against the page of her word search puzzles and my mother sat reading with her feet in my father's lap and my grandfather, alone in the front seat, ate peanuts and hummed along to whatever classical music was playing on npr.

that is what i remember. and it was magical.

04 June 2010

0 the graduate

as a high school senior- in a process that appears curiously amateur when cast alongside the stealthy graduate operation i would mount a mere four years later- i applied to roughly ten schools.

they were a haphazard bunch and if you asked me today to name them all, i could not. cornell, mississippi state, emory, um...

so i applied and i waited. and i waited and i waited.

and then one spring day a letter of acceptance arrived. i, faitholine eaton, had been accepted to the foley bellsaw locksmithing school.

in my family, which loooooooooooooooves jokes, this promptly became the joke of the year.

me! a locksmith! hilarious!

by the time everyone else's acceptances came rolling in, we had perfected our routine.

a friend would say his/her son/daughter was going to harvard and i would smile knowingly. my father would put his arm over my shoulders and hug me close and say, beaming with pride, "our caroline has been accepted to foley bellsaw." my mum, completing the triptych of familial exaltation, would nod sagely and pronounce my new "field" the next "big thing."

my acceptance into foley bellsaw was my single greatest accomplishment that year. never mind that i played rachmaninoff, learned to waltz, had perfect attendance and won the world history award. foley bellsaw garnered more parental pride than those feats combined.

ultimately, obviously, i did not become a locksmith. and, aside from a few moments of regret during undergrad when i realized i should have taken locksmithing more seriously as a source of added income given the frequency with which people at mississippi state were locked out of their cars, i forgot all about foley bellsaw.

that is until my father, annoyed by the complications of the countertop dishwasher as well as my continuing inability to properly identify male and female fittings, sighed and said, sometimes i just wish you'd gone to foley bellsaw. you could've majored in locksmithing and minored in plumbing and then i wouldn't have to keep telling my daughter what to do with her female parts.

and i have to agree because he makes a valid point.

03 June 2010

3 this may Or may nOt be the first phOtO Of me and dOugO


what carO loves:

dOugO's shOrtie shOrts.
my many greens.
hill's sOcks.
red shOes.
green shOes.
r.c. cOla.
the flared jeans Of my life.
the unintentiOnal artful decapitatiOn.
j.shad, whO nearly fell intO lake michigan.
and how visibly yOung we were.
(frOm the neck dOwn.)

02 June 2010

5 blunt

i smoked two cigars this weekend.

one was expensive and smooth and glorious. it tasted of vanilla beans and fillet mignon.

the other cost $1.75. it came from behind a locked wall of plexiglass in walgreen's and left me hacking like don draper on the morning after he won that big award that led to his picture being printed in the paper, which resulted in his long-lost brother showing up at sterling-coo to make don confront The Past He'd Left Behind, at which point we realized All Was Not As It Seemed.

enough said.

because i take sick pleasure in that little intake of breath that signifies the unspoken maternal nightmare of how could THIS be my daughter? i told my mother all of this.

my mother who has never had a beer in her life.

my mother who cannot stand when i am wild like my father.

my mother who is convinced that from the six cigars i have smoked in the last nine months, i am damned to a life of coughing and an early death from mouth cancer.

i told her all of this.

and she did not pause a moment before saying, caroline, men don't want women who smoke cigars.

and i did not pause a moment before saying, in a tone far more wicked than was warranted, oh mother, yes they do.