Off the Record

I remember the exact moment that winter came. My apartment was dark except for the small Chinese lamp that hung above my table where I was reading my New Yorker. A branch tapped the window and I started to wonder if it had come. I walked to the front window, the one facing south, and saw leaves passing in front of me. They blew with an intensity that I had never seem before--not stopping until the tempterature had dropped 20 degrees and the chill hit our bones over the course of five minutes. Large trash bins blew over and twigs flew off trees while car windows began to collect condensation and, later, ice. Now they're all stocking up on eggs and milk and the sleet is tapping at the windows, dying to get in and warm itself up. Meetings are cancelled, classes are stalled and no one really wants to do anything that isn't cooking some deer stew and sitting in a warm chair, reading the paper.

Thank you, Ms. Prostitute for not allowing me to walk down the street dressed in baggy jeans, a red peacoat and a scarf. Thank you for making scumbag men think that my strut is as slutty as yours. Thank you for making it acceptable to get asked "Need a lift?" from some man in a beat up truck. Apparently, walking fast, with my head down, hands in my pockets is not enough to avoid getting a man to honk and whistle twice. NOT ALL GIRLS WANT TO GET PAID FOR SEX, MEN! WE JUST ALL AREN'T LIKE THAT! WE'D RATHER WRITE STORIES AND SHELVE BOOKS AND SELL FOOD THAN HAVE YOUR DIRTY HANDS TOUCH EVEN A MERE PINKY ON OUR PRISTINE BODIES!

When there's nothing else to say, we talk about the weather. "Boy, I wonder how long this is going to last!" "Sure is nice out here today..." "They say it's supposed to get up into the '70s!" "What's up with this weather?" The more I think about these conversations I've had with neighbors, waiters, store employees and the gasman, the more I realize that I've only had these exchanges with those who I don't know at all. We have nothing else in common, thus we are reduced to speaking about rain, snow, humidity and heat. Sometimes snain and the occasional hail. You can't ask the hostess at Applebee's how her mom's doing because you don't know her mom. You can't strike up a conversation about your most recent visit to the gyno with the shelver at the library because that would just be strange. You can't tell the stove repairman that 200 Iraqis died today because he probably already knows that. You can't interest the customer service rep at Schnucks in speaking about the fried turkey you are going to make at Christmas because she really doesn't care. Why is it always the weather? Is that topic indicative of our impersonalness with strangers? Does it show that we're all just very shallow human beings? Or does it mean that we all do, in fact, care that deeply about the weather?

I found an old Noah's Arc music box in my room that used to put me to sleep as a kid. I turned the crank and let it roll, its slow tune reminding me of my crib with the bars and the walls of my room that used to be blue until my mom painted them pink. Maybe she was trying to make me more like a girl, but I remember arguing with her about the change. Half of my room (ceiling included) is textured flower wallpaper and the other half pink paint with the 1910's wooden window frames not fully scraped and stained. There used to be white curtains on the windows until I took them down, convinced at age 12 that the stark look was best. The fireplace chimney passes through my room to the roof so my closet is shaped strangely and is usually very warm. I painted (suns and moons and specks of four different colors) the back of my door one day when I was about 13, inspired by my sister's rampant sketches that covered her walls and wood trim. My mom made frames made of matte board to highlight the work on my sister's walls, which is actually pretty damn fabulous. A painted sunflower, a swarthy/smarmy-looking man smoking a cigarette, the Stinky Cheese Man, an armadillo, and a charcoal of the bottom of her foot are just a few. A poster of Pierce Brosnan as 007 hangs above my radiator. School portraits of everyone in my 2nd grade class fill a small box under my bed next to a container of over 50 hand-written notes collected during 7th and 8th grade. Back to the music box. Sounds are almost as memorable as smells. They say that smell is the most accurate sensory perception there is--even moreso than sight. I'd believe it. I'll never forget the smell of nursing homes, my sophomore Homecoming date, the fog machine from the theatre, banana Laffy-Taffy or my grandma's drinking glasses. Revisiting those odors keeps me grounded, in a way. It reminds me that memories aren't always made of experiences but of consistent apparitions as well.

I remember when I was little I used to think that I could be a writer. I recall one Thanksgiving specifically where I tried to construct a story about a family that wasn't mine. I described extremely colorful characters and gave them habits not possessed by anyone I know. Convinced the story would sell, I got about two pages through and stopped. I guess nothing has changed in terms of my motivation to complete a project. Except today I got some ideas when I visited my grandfather who carried a roll of silverware in his front shirt pocket. He leaned to the side the entire time we were talking to him as if the utensils were weighing him down. A woman in the nursing home napped in her wheelchair while tightly gripping a tattered panda bear. Grandpa practically approached the idea of my mom getting a tattoo by saying, "Well, I just hope you like it." Karen drew lots of pictures of various personalitied turkeys which she posted around the house. My favorite: a blank sheet of paper titled, "The Invisible Turkey." (See more @ http://www.flickr.com/photos/45317614@N00/.) My sister, dad and I were the only three that partook in the seasonal enchiladas cooked by daddio (they're excellent; leftovers are for sale, contact me for prices and special editions). I somehow got wrapped up in a conversation that consisted of trying to think of words and names that contained the letter "G." Compliant with the challenge, I said, "G strap. No, wait. That's G-Spot....or, err, jock strap." Each family members held their arms in an "X," indicating that I had been denied, excommunicated and strucken out. Karen fell asleep by the fire, her snores resonating throughout the living room while we watched that guy who goes, "Git'er done" and listened to mom and Barbie while they made their army of wooden dolls. The people across the street parked their cars on the street when they have a huge parking lot of a drive way next to their house. I listened to Fiona Apple and wondered when I would get time to drink more Turkish coffee, watch A Prairie Home Companion and sift through the attic for goodie boxes I plan to send to a select few. Again, it's my favorite holiday, this gobble gobble day. When people tell me a Happy Thanksgiving, I'm often tempted to say, "I'm Jewish." But that wouldn't make any sense. I wish it did, though. Five more weeks. Then it will make sense.

It’s different now that we’re all out doing our own thing, the only piece left in common being the school we went to and the people we knew. It’s almost as if I met these people on the street and felt a connection so we decided right there and then to have a past, a present and no future. You feel close, but far enough away that it doesn’t crowd you or make you grow tired. We each feel ten years older now, more grown-up, more aware of what's happening and attune to what people keep warning us about. It's as though I made friends who I knew would have the same futures as me, the same troubles and the same qualifications. Buster is getting by doing what he loves in a city all my himself. Janelle is getting by doing things she's good at in a city she loves with someone she loves. Crystal is moving to a city she loves hoping for a job she loves. Jill is hopefully moving to a place she loves to get away from too many things she knows how to do. The people I don't keep in touch with are the ones who already have full-time jobs doing things they know how to do but don't necessarily love. Who created this band of rebels who is in search of the perfect opportunity? We've been school-less for only six months now, but it seems like eternity. I can't say I'm at my wit's end yet...meaning, it's not likely that I'll start working at Target anytime soon. I have a lot of time on my hands, yes, but I fill it writing and reading and working on the house. I'm definitely NOT discouraged. How can I be when I have all the time in the world to write and bounce ideas off the empty walls of the apartment?

“…I thought, it’s a shame that we have to live, but it’s a tragedy that we get to live only one life, because if I’d had two lives, I would have spent one of them with her.”--Jonathan Safran Foer, "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close"

"Even if you lose here at the table tonight, if you get to go home with her, you're still a winner," said the BlackJack dealer to my friend. "Where are you from?" "Alton," I responded. The dealer turned to my friend again, "You don't see girls looking like that coming out of Alton. That's a fact." It was like the Alton Expo but with more alcohol and less rides. It was one floor of gaudy lights, mostly unskilled people and lots of money, both lost and won. Gamblers stared blankly at the slot machine wheels, wishing and hoping that luck would come their way. Men at the tables smoked, drank and played two or three hands at once, wishing and hoping that more free money would come therir way by one simple gesture and the draw of the dealer. My friend and I were the only two white people under the age of 37. We bought Heinekens and I held his umbrella while he played and I stood behind him, trying to figure out when to push, pull or hold. I had no idea a casino would look like a big amusement park, but, again, minus the funnel cakes and with more grown-ups. They were giving away frozen pies, though. Which was strange. I was uncomfortably content until I saw that. Then I wanted to leave.

Looks like I'm going back to Sundance Film Festival in January. Not a virgin anymore, so they're pretty much forced to rehire me. And I'm on the GOOD team this year, with my buds who embrace life fuller than anyone else I've ever met. Maybe I'll get housing this year and not have to drive up the mountain every day. But then I'd miss the simple life with the cousins down in the valley where it's 20 degrees warmer and always more mormonier. Speaking of Mormons, I'm wearing a skirt today with black socks and white Chucks. It's that warm outside. And there's a car sitting outside my apartment that's been there for a week. You know who you are. Come move it, dammit. I need to read up on election issues, but if there's anyone who can give me a private tutorial (unbiased), I'd much appreciate that. Thanks. And I think my lesbian friend has left me for a girlfriend. We were on a roll of at least two hang-outs a week, and now nothing. :( I cleaned the yard of my apartment today and a lady from next door came out to say hello and that I "scared the hell" out of her and that a girl in my building had hair "sticking out from every which way" and that she really had no room to talk since she is "going bald, I know." See, it's not the black people that scare me, it's the bald ones.

Today is a good day. A new day. A refreshing day. I took an envelope (rescued from the recycling bin) to the library and received my first St. Louis City library card. It says, "St. Louis Public Library: Your Guide to Know Better." I guess that's cool. Then my name is on the back, printed by the lady and then signed by me, the owner of the card. You know what's so awesome? I can take it to any St. Louis Public Library! ANY OF THEM AT ALL! Sure we're dangerous, but we got libraries, yo. Reading is good.