"Oh, Oviler..."

When Oliver (or Oviler, as I like to call him) and I met we took one look at each other (me wishing he wasn't gay because gosh, he's cute. and look at those glasses! him tallying up how much my outfit didn't cost and admiring my great hair and crazy blue eyes) and became insta-friends complete with a secret handshake and our very own language. He was just stopping in to get his paycheck and I was just beginning my training. I schedule stalked him to find out when my new friend was working with me next. The merry day came and we exchanged hearts, phone numbers and politically incorrect jokes. He deemed me his "hag" which made him my "fag" and the world tilted a little more on its axis. (sorry world!) He also nicknamed me Glamazon, I nicknamed him Gaysian and our friendship was born. (Because duh, cool nicknames are the cornerstones of good friendships.)



I love all of my friends. They each have their own silly quirks which make me love them just that much more. Like one of my friends who has an affinity for all things Alice (as in Wonderland) or another who knows more than anyone should about the peculiar, albeit it fascinating and intelligent, writings of Shakespeare. And even another who lives in exotic places and after all of these (almost 12!) years has kept in touch. Yes, my friends are the chocolate chips in my cookie. But Oliver just adds a little something special to my batter.

He (as he will confirm) fulfills my EEO requirements all in one little human package of nuts. He's my homosexual, asian, redneck, fashion forward, silver-tongued "girl"friend/"guy"friend. And holy buckets, I love him. After over a year of friendship, he has become one of my closest. There are so many hilarious stories to share like the time I was having a bad day and we ate as many plates of Cici's Pizza as we could, complete with dessert buffet and then went on to Godiva and ate some more (author's note: you'll find many of our mis-adventures have something or another to do with food) or the time he laid out with me and turned his boxers into a thong speedo (aka the first time he met my neighbors) or the countless times "we" were on the rag and used our discount as a way to eat ourselves silly at work whilst supporting the business and not our diets. Or the time we tried on wedding dresses and other hideous things while Goodwill hunting and I took a picture with a Unicorn, even found matching outfits.



One of my favorites is my moving day. Mostly because it's the gift that keeps on giving. Shortly before I moved to Michigan, Oviler came over and assisted me with packing because a) I hadn't even begun and b) packing alone sucks. So he arrived with fellow guyfriend "Lady" and the tape started to rip. We finished the kitchen which had no less than 15 improperly packed boxes and went down stairs to my domain. Lady and Oviler were tasked with packing the closet and I was working on my bathroom. Fifteen minutes went by and the downstairs became eerily quiet. As with children, when gay boys become quiet in your closet, mischief has ensued.

I walked into my room and knew when I approached the previously open closed door that on the other side could be mind changing events. I slowly opened the door hoping that Oviler and his best friend were not doing sexy things in my closet. They screamed, I screamed and then I fell over red-faced and suffocating from pure breathless laughter almost crushing a large box of DVDs. Oviler and Lady were not doing sexy things. No, they were wearing my clothes. My dresses to be exact. My pink, flowery dresses. Complete with heels, scarves, hats, purses and yes, even my undergarments stuffed with more of my undergarments. Oviler and Lady were having a full out tea party in my closet, enjoying every minute of "packing" by trying on all of my clothes instead. They pranced around speaking in high octaves and succeeding at making me pee my pants and finally removed my now stretched-out heels from their ginormous man feet.

Two hours later, my closet was still in disarray and a total of two boxes had been packed. We (I) decided to hit up a local Steak & Shake because we (I) had a craving for their cheese fries. I ordered the cheese fries with a side of delicious patty melt, extra mayo, add bacon, and coleslaw. If my memory serves me, there was also a chocolate malt to wash it all down. Needless to say my food took up half of the table because Steak & Shake employees enjoy doing dishes so everything comes on its own plate. Lady and Oviler ordered their healthy, in comparison, double bacon burgers, salads and shakes. I looked like I fell out of Uncle Eddie's trailor complete with a dirty hat on my pretty little head while they were dressed in their brand name besties. Me: Curly Sue, Them: Rich fags helping a Hag out. After Eat Fest 2009 concluded with them forklifting me out of our booth and rolling me to the car all Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory style, we drove back to my house to finish packing.

They returned to the closet (mine, not the gay one) and put serious effort into packing everything in their paths. More giggling. Endless giggling. They asked for markers and I obliged, reminding them of my only rule in packing: Never lose the tape or the marker. They lost both. I finished the bathroom and food coma walked back into my room with boxes upon boxes of clothes in my hallway. (internal fist pumping Arsenio style) They were still giggling and I can always use a laugh so I inquired as to what could make them laugh for 30 minutes straight. Here are a few examples:

"shirts i will wear when i stop eating cheese fries"

"matronly sweaters"

"3 pillows stained with drool" (in the tiniest box you've ever seen)

"sweaters i wear when i cut myself while listening to alanis morisette"

"parachute materials" (i'm guessing these are exercise pants???)

"one down comforter with cigarette burns and smeared with regret"

I mean, these are my box labels. My 30 (yes, 30) boxes of clothes are "labeled" with un-identifiable markings. The additional 20 boxes are vague or just plain unlabeled. They didn't want me to read all of the boxes because I was to have a "surprise" when I arrived in Michigan. Yes, surprise! No wearable clothes in my suitcase. Surprise! No clothes for an interview. Surprise! No shoes but a mismatched pair of flip flops and my "lesbian shoes" as Oviler calls them. I like them and think they're cool. Then again, my fashion sense wears a t-shirt that screams "Bitch, you don't know me!" So, grain of salt. Surprise! Every time I go to find something, it's not there. Or there. Or there. Or there. And so I give up. And then I see another mis-labeled box and I laugh. And laugh and laugh.

It's so us. It's so Oviler. It makes me miss him every time I think of something else I need that is no doubt hidden in the pile of me, all the while hysterically laughing at a newly discovered box. Then I say aloud, as I often did when he pulled another antic, "Oh Oviler, I love you like air." And I hear him reply "Ayer! Ayer!" And suddenly, whatever it was that I needed has escaped me. The only thing I need is friends. And soon we will be eating and drinking it up in Chicago with our other friend Caroline, causing some sort of trouble I'm sure, laughing 'til we hurt, offending anyone within ear shot with one, many, or all of our stash of inappropriate-for-public jokes. We'll be the ones laughing loudly on the "L", the ones eating Julius Meinl out of house and home, the ones trying on clothes we can't afford, the ones toasting 2010 with our as-yet-unnamed pink sparkly travel mug filled with things of the alcoholic variety. More stories will be written, more food destroyed and our thighs, like our friendship, will grow.