Off the Record

She didn't remember the drive home. The music had zoned her out, allowing her to fail at remembering everything else. The smell of the sno-cone man who usually smelled of Piña Colada or Wedding Cake or Wild Banana or Light Vanilla. He wore suspenders, one of the straps always hanging off his shoulder. The girl she saw walking down the street, counting on her fingers. Maybe she was keeping track of the men she'd slept with or the number of dollars she'd made at bagging groceries or the amount of time she'd refused to spend with her parents. The conversation she'd had at 3.30am with her friend about the way she felt. She didn't have the strength to cry, so she only thanked him and went to sleep, listening to the drone of the BBC on the radio. Upon arriving home to an empty house, she kicked off her shoes, craved a shower and wished there was someone to remember.

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There's a woman who stands on the corner of Alaska and Bates every morning and afternoon. She's dressed blandly, in jeans and a sweater with Reeboks, a hat and sunglasses. Over her clothes she dons an orange vest and carries a matching flag. I'm assuming she's a crossing guard, but I've never seen her actually stand in the street when kids are passing. Every time someone motors by, however, while idly standing on the corner, she waves a forceful wave at the driver, who sometimes waves back. At first I didn't return the favor, but, when I do, I find myself giggling and smiling the rest of the way home. It's amazing how someone so seemingly insignificant can make such a difference. 

The thing about getting your hair cut is that you have a style in mind, but you don't know if it would work on your own head. I think meg Ryan's hair is cute. Would it look good on my noggin? Maybe. But I'll never know until I try it. I think the girl who works at The Royale has fun cut. But I doubt I could ever pull it off. And it's black. I won't do black. I won't do blond. I'll do whatever grows outta my head. I apologize for the phase of red I had when I was 17 or so--it will NEVER happen again. And, yes, Mom, it WAS copper. But, with my new haircut, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with it. My locks are still INCREDIBLY thick, so when it air dries, it does that little flippy thing all over and poofs out a little. The bangs are great, really, I love them, but I almost want to cut the rest of my hair off, and look like a wee little boy for the summer. No more ponytails or behind the ear tucks or covering up of the neck. I would be completely exposed and ready for looks. No one has said that my hair looks awesome. Only a few people have said, Did you get your hair colored? COLORED? Err, maybe the blond got cut out because so much was hacked off, but, no, I did not get it colored. I got about 5 inches cut off. And I got bangs. Haven't had those in 17 years. I have yet to decide if I really, truly like it, however. Because I won't buy a blow dryer or apply product, I'm kind of left to deal with the fluffiness. So, when you see me next time, tell me HONESTLY what you think of my hair. If you don't like it, tell me (Mom). If you like it, tell me why. I got my first enthusiastic comment today, from a girl at work. She said, "Oh, nice hair! It makes you look sassy!" Hell yes, girl from work...hell yes. 

With a deadline looming, a new job at a sno cone syrup bottling plant and a head full of spackle, stain and sanitizer, I'm ready to be done for the year. I've acquired a couch, so relaxing has been the most obvious option, but I've refused, telling myself that everything but relaxing needs to be accomplished. But I DID head to the St. Louis Magazine party last night where the new editor was up for viewing. I gave him a pineapple. Only a couple people (not including the ed) understood what it meant. Anyone have any guesses? A cookie if you get it right. 

I don't like to say that I stand out, but, to Mrs. Morelli, I did. She was my freshman Honors English teacher who advised students and taught several classes and nurtured me, telling me I could write and I could read and I could comprehend literature just like my sister could. She was in her late 50's, with peppered hair, spider-looking eyelashes, blushed cheeks, dark red lipstick and heavy eyeliner. Full-blooded Italian, she had this slight accent that made her sound like a complete badass, although she was probably the sweetest woman in the world. She was smart and passionate about literature and she hardly put up with any shit--especially from kids who didn't love Dickens as much as her. Rose smoked a little too much, despite her doctor's advice, her worsening diabetes and an awful cough that often interrupted class. I still remember the smell of her hands, stained from the cigarettes and worn from too much grading. It wasn't only smoke she smelled like--it was a thickness of something that I can't even begin to describe. Each day before class we'd say the Prayer of St. Francis. She'd close her eyes, precariously lean against the podium, fold her hands into a tight grip and mumble the prayer, nodding at the appropriate times. Her son was in the Marines and she taught us to say, "Ooo-rah!"--the chant often coming immediatly after the prayer about humility and accepting the things we cannot change. She had no tolerance for tardiness or late homework. The private conversations I had with her struck me in a way that nothing had ever struck me. We made her laugh a lot. We loved her to death. We wouldn't have been the same without her. She passed through our lives at a time when the smartest 15-year-olds in the school needed her. I don't know why she's been on my mind as of late, but I wish she was still around so I could tell her what's it's like to have known her. Ooo-rah, Rose. Ooo-rah. 

Kunio wrote to me to tell me that he was IN HONGKONG NOW. I got an email from Pip L. Blevins because he wanted to inform me about caring. And jesus Smith (good 'ole Jesus), told me to be on guard for fake pills. 

Why do we drink? Because it looks cool to sip on a glass of $8 wine or stir up a whiskey or nibble on an olive stolen from a martini glass? Because it tastes good or feels good as it slowly drips down your throat and goes straight to your head? Because we're over 21? To me, drinking was never a novelty. I know that because I don't think it's "cool" to go out and get a drink; I think it's necessary. Yes, that's right. It's vital to my being that I get a drink with a friend or pour myself some Bailey's after I eat dinner or take a shot before going to a party where people are that I don't really care for. I am not an alcoholic by any means--I just know it's socially acceptable to drink alcohol if you are of age, and I feel I should take full advantage of that opportunity while my metabolism is still high and my tolerance is still fairly moderate. But seriously: what's the deal with booze? As I drove home the other night after a couple drinks and an exchange of honest revelations, I thought, "Does the drink make us tell the truth or does it make us more willing to accept what we say as the truth?" Why is it that, when I drink, I can speak French and Spanish more fluently and talk to people I detest a little more easily? Why am I able to engage flocks of followers and entertain gaggles of guys and gals? (Who taught me that alliteration was hip, anyway?) Does alcohol make us act in ways we have always wanted to act? Does our genuine personality shine through or is it merely an excuse for us to behave in ways that would not normally be acceptable? I recall many times when I have refused a drink because I do not want to end up feeling a certain way or saying a particular thing. That indicates that my inclinations are such that I am ashamed of later. Or does it indicate that I'm not honest when I'm sober? What are those feelings you feel after a few beers and a night cap of Amarula? Is that moment reality sets in or is it when the overly-realistic side of you begins to analyze every feeling, thought, emotion and conversation? Are the positive things in your life made better and the horrid ones made worse? "it was the alcohol talking," "I've had too many to make any sense," "What I told you was the truth," "I don't regret what happened," "Did I REALLY say/do that last night?" So many ways to say we're sorry, so many times it's happened. What kind of drinker are you? How many does it take before the good goes bad? Or is the good the reality and the bad simply your imagination?