Off the Record

The moment I stepped into the crowded airport Thursday evening, I had that feeling that something would go wrong. Five minutes later, the friend who had just dropped me off called, saying that my car, which she was driving, had just broken down in the middle of the road. Not even allowed the opportunity to clear the airport grounds, she said it had simply stopped running after changing the CD. After speaking with AAA, 911 and the airport police, I got the matter resolved, with 35 minutes left to spare before takeoff. I waited drearily in the terminal and watched the handsome businessmen walk by, talking on their cell phones and giving me side-glances to make sure I was watching them. A woman with two children sat down a few rows away from me. As they laughed loudly and stomped around on the chairs, I began to wonder what it would be like to have to deal with children on a plane, much less breastfeed them, entertain them and help them use the bathroom. Minutes later, a man walked up, also with two children in tow, and joined the woman, who I assumed was his wife. The parents didn’t look stressed, but rather exhausted from being stressed. So accustomed to hearing the screams and whines that they just didn’t mind it anymore. But those around them did. The surrounding travelers started to get antsy and irritated, like it was their house these children had intruded upon. They stuck their noses deeper into their books, talked lounder on their cell phones and typed faster on their laptops. The tolerant façade of the father soon faded as he scolded a woman near him. “That is the rudest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do,” he said, crouching down to her seated level, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Good heavens!” He took one step away then turned back “Good HEAVENS!” he screamed again. The people around the guilty woman (who was still intensely reading her magazine) began to shake their heads and click their thick tongues in either disgust for children or pure envy that they weren’t the accused party. “I have an autistic ten-month-old and three other children,” he continued, “how can you be so rude?” The air thinned as the family boarded, only to be thickened again when the kindergartener locked himself in the plane’s restroom.

It's beautiful from the bridge, but not so much inside. Spotted with projects and crackhouses (which the IL State Senator, whose kids I used to babysit for, is taking action on closing down) and seedy bars with nothing but women in daisy dukes, bleached hair and mist tans, the town is steadily declining as if there's a plague. Wonderully crafted houses are going up for sale and no one's buying. Pools become filled with rainwater and beer cans. Independent restaurants close down within weeks of opening and the corporate chains keep popping up on empty stretches of land. Home Depot sits right next to Lowe's and Walgreen's is always caddy corner from CVS. Doctors have left because of insurance hikes and lawyers here get arrested for child molestation. And some Swiss biker just got clipped by a rowdy driver. You can't find a falafel anywhere in town and soy is unheard of to most baristas. I wish I could take my father's Frank Lloyd Wright-esque house and put it in the middle of Waterman or Arundel or Flora. Or just to a place where the crackhouses are far and few between.

They both sat upright, legs closed and feet awkwardly placed. Their conversation touched on food and skiiing and engineering and water molecules and lists of things they want to do in life. They seemed like very intelligent people, but not good on First Dates. His gaze still held her eyes as she rolled them backward when trying to remember a date or time. He would remain intensely interested in her, even if hers in him waned. The uncertainty of where to put ones arms often becomes an issue on First Dates, as it did here. Folded in your lap, crossed across your waist, uncomfortably placed on the table, or in between your knees? His left hand played with a napkin as his right sat on his knee. She occasionally fixed her hair after a wind, then placed it gently back to her lap with the other one. During a shift, he accidentally kicked her foot. She tried not to notice, but after he apologized, she offhandedly said, "That's OK." They guarded their inflections carefully, trying not to sound overly excited or bored. He dominated the conversation primarily, mostly out of nervousness, I'm sure, and was cute in the face, with a nice, athletic build wearing a very smart apricot-colored shirt. She was cute in the face, fit, with a little less style than he, dressed in capri jeans, brown leather sandals and a green shirt from American Eagle. Because this was the First Date, he placed his credit card in the book without a protest from her. As their time together came to a close, he began thinking of walking her to her car, the stiff hug she would initiate and then giving himself the "proper" amount of time before calling her again. She began thinking about the walk to her car, the warm embrace he would initiate, and then calling him later that day to see if he wanted to come over.

The cats are pissing. On my clothes. They're also knocking over large objects like glass top tables and lamps and phones. Dont' forget the hairballs in high traffic areas. And the *knocking at my door at night. And the incessant meowing. Have I fed them something bad? Arsenic maybe? Perhaps some cocaine? Are they taking large doses of catnip while I'm asleep? They're eyes have been bloodshot...AND they keep scratching their noses. I also found a large bag of cat toys in the backyard--they must have stolen them from the pet store. I think I need to call a hotline of some sort. Intervention is the key.

I tend to wake up in a bad mood every morning, especially following awful events of the previous night, but this morning I felt happier than I had in a long time. That's because Steve Martin called while I was sleeping and asked me if I wanted to go to a movie next week. He was timid and a bit shy, but I could tell he liked me and didn't care that I was a good 30 years younger than he. Before answering his question about the movie, I stopped to consider his most recent cinemagraphic endeavors. There was Cheaper by the Dozen, Bringin' Down Da House and the Pink Panther. But there was also Shopgirl, the Mark Twain Comedy Awards and his most recent novel, The Pleasure of My Company. He is intelligent, cultured, savvy, funny, incredibly good looking and versatile. He's also very rich. But he did date Anne Heche (the lesbian, although a fickle one at that) for nine years and was married to many of his costars. But not to Lily Tomlin--cause she's a lesbian too. All that aside, I figured he was nice enough to go to a film with, so I accepted his invitation, which my imagination let me believe still stood a good three hours after I awoke.

As I await the arrival of a massive check for simply giving my opinion, I can't help but wonder if my entire life will be this simple, relaxed and carefree. Growing up, I never wanted a full-time office job with set hours, a water cooler or cubicles filled with punctual people who socialize every morning around the water cooler. I wanted the flexibility to be creative on my own time and to only deal with people through email or over the phone (preferably through email). Now I sit down at the computer after doing a little interviewing or research and type away, struggling only when I get distracted by an instant message or a nibbling at my toes from the cat. Or when I have to go to the bathroom or get hungry. Or when I feel the urge to take a walk or ride my bike or have a beer and take a nap or watch HBO. Or write in my blog. While I haven't quite gotten the hang of sructuring my time so as to be consistently productive, I find my method has yet to fail. But, as the enemies of my Post article said, "You have a lot to learn, youngster." Very true. But then again, I am only 22 and am already able to say, "I'm a freelance writer."

I wonder if that girl on the balcony across from me has the perfect life. Maybe she graduated with a degree that assured her a really good job out of college. I'm sure she was smart, talented and popular all the years of her school life. She still keeps in touch with most of them, getting together every Labor Day for a reunion and sharing pictures of Alaskan cruises, Peace Corps work in Maputo, and fundraisers for the local arts commission. She probably looks good in every color, can wear either silver OR gold and fits into every shoe perfectly, never experiencing any discomfort. She has a wonderful boyfriend who makes her one of his many priorities and does special things like goes out to eat every once in a while, goes running with her every morning, thinks of her while he's in meetings, sits at her favorite spot to watch the sun set, and holds her hand when they walk through the art musuem. She drives a nice Volvo but tries to walk everywhere she can, even if it's two miles away. She knows the right people to get concert tickets for free and has drinks bought for her at bars. Even when she's with her boyfriend who does special things for her.

I have come to the conclusion that mowing a lawn is like shaving my legs; only more fun and less time consuming. However, mowing is equally as challenging, dangerous (body parts could get cut open) and detrimental to my social life if I don't do it. Row after row you complete, making sure not to miss a spot, and, if you do, you're sure to experience the wrath of your boyfriend...or the man whose house your taking care of while he's on vacation. Society rarely excepts missed spots or shotty work. "The blade was dull!" you say in defense. But it doesn't work like that. No one cares if you were in a hurry or if the surface was uneven or if the moisturizer was out. You either do it right or not at all.

There are some gated communities in St. Louis that I enjoy walking through more than I enjoy doing anything else. They’re hidden and secluded and are passed through only by those who live there, the police who monitor the area and aghast tourists like me. All the houses are large and beautiful, the lawns kept and the walkways swept. Cars are neatly parked on the street or in the driveways, and most houses have a small backyard and a one-car garage. Not a single fence encloses a front yard, making each property as welcoming as the next. While these neighborhoods seem like they would be the most neighborly with moms exchanging banana bread recipes through the kitchen window and fathers putting golf balls in the front yard, the only souls daring enough to venture outside are a couple kids playing catch in the street. Mild summer nights aren’t even enough to bring the tenants away from TV’s, computers or coupon-cutting rituals. The only evidence of occupancy in some of these houses are the open doors through which the dinner calls could be heard from a block away. Lights in the windows also indicate inhabitants, illuminating the grand pianos, Picasso reprints and pistachio-colored wallpaper. An occasional TV can be seen flickering through the window and occasional laughs are heard from screened-in patios. Some mansions, however, look completely vacant. They appear untouched; with the exception of the lawns, which are consistently manicured by the hired service that gets a personal check every month from a bank in the south of France. Furniture is piled up to the ceiling, collecting dust as it anxiously awaits the return of its owners. The little man in the box senses the dusk approaching and turns on a lamp in the house, diverting the suspicion of any thieves looking for a victim.

While enjoying a beautiful view of the Grand Basin in Forest Park yesterday afternoon, I was approached by two men in a golf cart overflowing with chips and a cooler. "Want some chips?" they asked. "No. You got any beer?" I responded. They reached in their cooler and handed me a beer then invited me to join them while they rode around heckling the players in the golf tournament they were hosting. For a solid three hours we drove around, throwing chips at people, teasing them, offering them beers and telling them they played golf like women. The players were not surprised that these two men had picked up a woman, as it's an annual challenge for my hosts, the two Scotts (or Scott Squared, as I named them), to find an unsuspecting runner, biker or blader to cart arond for the entire day. What I didn't realize is that I was expected to show a little something to the crowd, just like the girl had done last year. The big difference this year was that I was a biker--not a jogger--like last year's victim had been. Upon delivering this news to each contestant, they were mighty upset and bitter about not receiving any this year. After a few bags of chips and an equal number of beers, I asked that they drop me off where they had retrieved me--at the Art Museum. They complied, we bid our farewells and called it a day. I told them I'd meet them in the same place next year for another round. Oh, on another note, one of the Scott's was the head of the street department for the county. That meant that he's responsible for that damned light on Laclede Station and Big bend that only allows 5 cars to pass heading East/Westbound on Big Bend. I told him how it needs to change. He agreed. Let's see if that happens...