Neighborhood Watch



The Nancy Drews chasing me...
yes, in my usual outfit

 My neighbors thought I’d died. They banged on my door and loudly wondered why I wasn’t answering. Unfortunately there would be no dramatic story for the dust bunnies to tell at my funeral. In fact, I was very much alive and hiding under my second floor window, since I assumed they were burglars of the Golden Girls variety.

“Her car is still here,” I heard one say, like she was searching for survivors on the Titanic.

“Maybe she went to her parents’ house.”

“Look at all her shoes!”

These misbegotten Nancy Drews didn’t sound like robbers, so I finally opened the door. They smiled like I had been missing for years. I didn’t even know who they were.

Apparently, the daughter of my home’s previous owner had called to say that fire trucks were in the vicinity of “her mother’s” house. First, she didn’t even live in my city. Second, I’d lived in this house for two years. Her mother passed away a few years ago and her surviving children had sold me the house as part of the estate. Why was the daughter still watching my house?

“I saw that your security alarm was on,” the dust bunny said. “I saw it through your window so I thought you must be fine!”

How about my house was not engulfed in flames? Or that there was not a fire truck to be seen or heard? Cagney and Lacey meant well, but this wasn’t the only incident of me being blacklisted on Neighborhood Watch.

My 83-year-old neighbor said he looks through my window on his way to the mailbox. As if this is as natural as waving to someone you know at the food store. He even judged my home décor choices. However well-intentioned, and even though he may get a seniors discount, I am not a museum attraction. I am a 26-year-old living in the Smithsonian.

Some days I wish for that octogenarian bluntness. An anonymous AARP Gold Card member will tape hand-written citations on my recycle bin when I haven’t taken them in on time, even when others who do the same don’t get so much as a post-it on theirs. Someone told me my first day on the block, that, once I had changed from my romper into jeans and a shirt, I had “Finally put on some clothes.”

Neighborhood Watch is a slippery slope into profiling, as we are all too aware of today. On Feb. 26, George Zimmerman, a neighborhood watch volunteer, shot Trayvon Martin because he suspected wrongdoing. Martin was unarmed and not dangerous as he walked through the neighborhood wearing a hoodie and carrying a bag of Skittles. Zimmerman followed him even when 911 told him not to. Outraged Martin supporters, which include celebrities and politicians, are demanding Zimmerman’s long overdue arrest and a fair investigation.

Some even blame the fatal shooting on Martin’s appearance. Geraldo Rivera said the African-American teen’s hoodie contributed to his death. Photos of him wearing a wife beater, flashing his gold teeth, and sporting tattoos also circulated. Despite what Martin did or didn’t do in his life, it seems he didn’t harm Zimmerman.  New police footage shows that Zimmerman, who claimed Martin assaulted him, did not have any of the injuries. As far as we know now, Martin didn't “have it coming" as some want to believe.

Yes, I’m fifty years younger than most of my neighbors. I wear my husky boy's sized tank top and eat Cheddar Ruffles on power walks. That doesn’t mean I’m up to no good or should catch the ire of suspicion. While what the oldies are doing is wrong, I had to be the one to throw down an obstacle to their ogling. Now I have a lovely gold shade for that window. While I’m striving for privacy, I’m sure they’ll make something else up about me. Maybe playing a reclusive Grey Gardens-sque character wouldn’t be so bad. I’d finally be just like them.

Q: Do Your Neighbors Spy on You?

Don't Sweat It (Much)

Lights, camera, don’t sweat. Keeping cool was my mantra as I waited for the Access 21 studio to open. I was going to be a guest on “The Paul Brown Show,” my first TV interview (check it out here, parts one and two). I had prepared for this moment since, well, birth. I channeled the grace of my idol Diane Sawyer even as my face started to run into my pumps. Host Paul Brown agreed it was hot for March, dabbing his face. I loved sunny days, but today I would have killed for a breeze.

Plus, there was the matter of a one Blow-Dried Hair. My sister Eva, the Roy Helland to my Meryl Streep, styled my ‘do to perfection the night before. I had covered my hair with a silk wrap held with bobby pins. I slept awkwardly on my side to prevent my hair from tenting into a horrifying triangle. Now I felt like Cinderella and, without air-conditioning, midnight was about to strike and my head was going to turn into a pumpkin.

At 1:30, the studio mercifully opened. The show’s director Sonya, who had been with Access 21 for five years, was a fantastic whirligig. She paced the studio from end-to-end while giving orders into a headset. Then she turned her attention to me. “Keep talking,” she said as she duct taped the microphone cord to the back of my dress. I had a sophisticated conversation with myself: “I’m talking, you hear me talking, and I’m talking to you.”

Now cool and sufficiently amplified, I focused on final touches. Without a mirror, I had only one way to look at myself: The judgmental studio monitor, like my own “Toddlers and Tiaras” mom plying me with pixie sticks and correcting my posture. I kept a strategic hand on my lap, going for Kate Middleton modesty and avoiding Britney Spears danger.
 

Cue the energetic opening graphics and the lump in my throat. Think of Diane, I said to myself. Diane would speak slowly and say what she means. She doesn’t rush through ABC News like she has to catch the late bus home! Then a camera lit up red. Showtime. Paul introduced me and asked questions. I took two beats to think about my answer to be sure I didn’t fill the silence with a spastic joke. After fifteen minutes, I started to live in the moment. It’s like Paul and I were brunching on a Sunday afternoon, minus the two Darth Vader cameras and (regretfully) Mimosas.

 When we wrapped, Sonya shook my hand and said, “You are a good person.” Her validation meant a lot to me, since I could tell she had seen many a guest on that sofa. 

I toiled over my answers on the way home. Paul had asked what my ultimate life goal was. I could have said “to be famous” or “to live in a mansion where Diane and I are awesome next door neighbor friends.” Instead, I said to be happy and keep working. And maybe, most importantly, to not let them see you sweat.

The Fabulous Kakapo - Randy Overeaters!

   

I don’t usually play the “What kind of animal are you?” game. Taking a quiz to see whether I’m a ferocious lion or a mole with tiny eyes doesn’t add to my life. Then I read a scathing article in The Daily Mail (is there any other kind?). The article’s writer sounded like a stage mother claiming her daughter is too fat. That’s where I learned about my bird doppelganger, the Kakapo. The female Kakapo is an endangered, flightless bird in New Zealand that likes alone time, becomes randy from overeating, and only gets busy every two years. If someone wanted to interview me about my habits, I would say, “Read this Kakapo article and get back to me.”

    

Our 27th President
WilliamHoward Taft
wants in your pants.

The Kakapo wants to love you...
every two years, baby.

While the mossy green-feathered Kakapo (or “night parrot”) and I would be awesome roommates, Mail paints our fabulous qualities as flaws. The article title smacks of old school imperialism: “Do some animals DESERVE to go extinct? The parrot that can’t fly, mistakes predators for mates and only wants sex every two years.” Geez, why don’t you tell everyone that we don’t wash our hair every day too? Way to make an endangered species feel even more down on itself.

 First off, lady Kakapos don’t always need a roll in the, uh, leaves. Sure, the male Kakapo has urges and gets blocked up (see this video of one getting frisky with a conservationist’s neck), but we have standards. Do you know what a male kakapo looks like? That's right, our 27^th President William Howard Taft. Even the BBC reporter in that video describes a male Kakapo as “old-fashioned… with his big sideburns and his Victorian gentleman’s face.” Is that what you want, our 27^th president or an old Victorian dude amorously chasing you around? Maybe I’m going to the wrong nightclubs, but if I had a dime for every time this has happened to me…

Overeating, not bushy mustaches, get us in the mood. Mail says, “Conservationists discovered that the more females are fed, the more horny they will become.” Amen to that! But our aphrodiastic can’t be just any food. Kakapos, like me, have specific dietary needs. They eat fruits from the rimu tree, which comes into season once every four years. I’m like that with cherries. They’re a whopping $4.99 per pound during the winter and an affordable $2.99 in the summer. So for one season of the year, I enjoy bowls and bowls of cherries. After I’ve eaten too many, I am guaranteed to make a pass at you. I apologize in advance for spitting red juice on your neck.

Jujubee: Kakapo Pride!

Since only 127 Kakapos exist in the world, there’s more pressure to make babies. Mail says “the chubby, land-bound parrot is so uninterested – and hopeless – at mating.” Maybe that’s because you keep calling them fat. Plus, wouldn’t you be lacking in the bedroom if humans were destroying your house to build a Super Wal-Mart? Kakapos are the original anti-corporation hipsters. They lay their eggs in rotten trees and don’t eat food unless it’s locally-grown. Bohemian-chic seekers pay good money to make their homes resemble the dankness of a forest.


I decided Mail (gasp) was a hater and perhaps (second gasp) not entirely factual. So I did some research. To my delight, “The Fabulous Kakapo” webpage is aptly named with solid, albeit slightly outdated, information. The best of the best, New Zealand’s Department of Conservation website, calls us “an eccentric parrot which can live for decades” and a “unique treasure.” That’s what I’m talking about. We are as beloved as Madonna, Cher, or that fierce drag queen who should have won “RuPaul’s Drag Race” (we will never forget, JuJubee).

It’s not easy being green, especially with Mail ruffling our feathers (my last cheap bird joke). Although 11 bird babies were born in 2011, Kakapos are still critically endangered. We’re not rolling mad deep, but we do have a rotten tree clubhouse stocked with rare fruits. When someone asks, “What kind of animal are you?” you proudly say, “I’m a flightless, endangered bird who will go to town on you after too many nachos!”

Lady Parties and the Women Who Don't Eat at Them

There is nothing more terrifying than women getting together for a party.

Yes, I'm blonde when I entertain.

Like most things, lady parties start out with good intentions. There’s a blessed occasion, a church function, or a book club. Women wear noisy bangles, talk about giving birth in graphic detail, and smile to your face even when they disapprove of you. At the end of the event, an insane woman will say “Let’s do this again!” even when it’s a total flop. This week, I am going to two baby showers. Like a drag queen sewing sequins on an evening gown, I will spend hours squinting at baby outfits in Target.

There are many women’s parties: Baby showers, bridal showers, and potlucks for holidays or because we allegedly don’t see each other enough (even though, as they say, it is such a hassle to get everyone together). Then there are women who want to have a party, think they should have a party, or claim to throw the best party. I’m the first or second. Whether at work or with friends, I’m usually the gal holding a dirty spoon and wearing an apron smudged with tomato sauce. The third does not apply to me. The burning brie incident of 2011 almost set my kitchen ablaze.

Here’s how it happens: You decide to a throw party. You invite all guests via social media or, if it’s a life milestone, call or send paper invitations. Then there’s the two-week honeymoon where you're excited. You drafts menus or keep a spreadsheet to be sure there are no potluck dish repeats.  It’s all fun and games at this point.  

It’s the week of your party. The RSVP list is filled with comments like “So excited!” or “Wish I could make it. Next time!” You cringe at the last one, thinking they’re won’t be a next time if no one comes the first time. None of this makes you feel better about cleaning your house. When you decorate the table, you go for Martha Stewart but end up with kindergartener on crack. The crazy multi-colored craypaper and dusty fake flowers are not shabby chic at all!

No matter how poorly or beautifully decorated, the buffet table will be a war zone. At potlucks, women will crowd into your kitchen like it’s the last lifeboat leaving the Titanic. They will spill ranch dressing on your countertop. Worst of all, Amber will bring a platter piled high with ham pinwheels and hunks of cheddar while Marcie enters carrying the same appetizer. Amber will put her heavy dish on the paper tablecloth, practically lifting her leg and peeing on the table to mark her territory. Marcie tearfully makes room for her plate in the fridge, since there is no sense in having two of the same item when no one has arrived yet. A jilted Marcie says, “I thought you signed up for the fruit cocktail.” Amber just smiles at her.

The real reason for these parties is the food. By that I mean it's a public opportunity for women to pretend they don’t eat. They pick at tomatoes and carrot sticks like anorexic supermodels at a salad bar. They claim to “have a little of each” so as not to offend any of the potluck cooks. Secretly, they want to take a sweaty mound of chili and be done with it, but that wouldn’t be “polite.” Everyone munches on chicken wings daintily and says how “rich” the food is. Towards the end of the meal, someone will contradict herself by saying, “I can’t eat another bite,” as she inhales an enormous forkful of quiche. Then a brave soul gets seconds, plating the chili she wanted in the first place.

  

If your guests haven’t bludgeoned each other to death with salad tongs yet, it is time for the main event. At the bridal shower, the wife-to-be will insist that cooking pot roast for her fiancé every Sunday is better than a week lounging in Saint Tropez. If it’s a baby shower, someone will tell a disturbing birth story (“She was in labor for 90 hours and the baby’s head ripped right through her!”).

If the party isn’t about impending procreation or successful procreation, it’s about how to get in the mood for procreation. At Pure Romance parties, I’ve sampled phallic red-velvet cake and passed a dildo between my legs in a raunchy yet giggled-filled version of Hot Potato. You sit with other women and lick or blow hot oil on the tops of your hands to feel its heating properties. Women especially pretend not to eat at these parties.

The best part of the whole debacle is when people leave, and not just because you’re glad to see a ceasefire to the Marcie/Amber beef. If you’re the host, comments from guests like “Thank you!” and “You did a great job!” gloss over all sins. You forget the long lines at Disney World and only remember eating breakfast with Cinderella in her castle. You swell with pride at all you did and don’t remember that your kitchen looks like a crime scene.

I will go to those baby showers and always RSVP to women’s parties. Why? The only thing worse than getting invited is not being invited at all.

Appropriate Valentine Behavior (and Xtina melting into a drag queen)

Some people call it the most romantic day of the year. For others it’s Singles Awareness Day, when you can eat a very unromantic yet satisfying burrito at Taco Bell. I for one don’t believe in either. Valentine’s Day is a time for me to gorge on heart-shaped Dove chocolates. I look forward to it every February 14. Unfortunately, I bought two bags too many to prove my fortunes wrong.

Actual Photo of Christina Aguilera, "The Voice"

What used to be the best part of Dove chocolates was a happily prophetic message inside each wrapper. I’m always a fan of finding out what’s going to happen to me without asking someone who actually knows me. Now the tide has turned, and I’m no longer simply told to “Remember my first crush.” This is Chinese fortune cookie realness. One morning (yes, that’s right) I opened one to reveal this command: “Watch the sun come up,” and then a second to “Share a sunset.” This had to have cosmic meaning in my life, but I didn’t know what.

I turned to the one person who could succinctly sort this out. My bus friend, we’ll call him Jeff, always has a solution. Since he had taken his car to work, I emailed him my problem, imploring, “Is the universe trying to tell me something?” I waited impatiently for an answer like he was a shaken Magic Eight Ball that hadn’t settled yet. Then the blue triangle finally flipped. “LISTEN,” he wrote, “they are in the wrong order. It should be, ‘share a sunset’ then ‘watch the sun come up.’” Lastly, with his (and now my) juvenile penchant for adding “in bed” to the end of fortunes, I got the message. I was not a very romantic person.

I’ve never watched a sunrise. And romance? Last Valentine’s Day my bestie and I loudly read from “The Vagina Monologues” and baked a giant sugar cookie replica of Christina Aguilera that melted (our goal was to make a drag queen clutching a shank and a baby, so close enough). I never begrudged not having a Valentine because when I did, it was the worst. Such a commitment meant you couldn’t phone it in. You had to wear diaphanous polyester tops to look “soft and feminine” and say “I love hydrangeas” even though you are so Madonna about them.

Since childhood, I have practiced Appropriate Valentine Behavior. Hands to yourself, candy in those hands. In second grade, Timothy Ducey unceremoniously broke my rule of Appropriate Valentine Behavior. He was my first man friend (non-dad category) that I babbled to about my life over lunch. One day at recess, I fell on the basketball court and Timothy used the opportunity to clumsily kiss me. I was not happy.

Source of My "Misfortune"

That Valentine’s Day, I made an effort, thanks to my mom trying to make me less brazen towards non-people. I baked Timothy a sumptuous heart-shaped cookie smothered in fresh frosting. I picked a card that said, “Like You Lots,” with Barbie giving vapid bedroom eyes. If that was not suggestive, I didn’t know what was. What sexually-charged Valentine did Timothy give me in return? A baseball card that said, “You knock it out of the park” or some other lame sports double entendre. I palpitated with liquid hot rage. Here I had poured my feelings out and he replied with a handshake. Going back to being lunch besties was not an option.

Share a sunset? Watch the sun come up? I was still stuck in second grade. Luckily, my "misfortune" had inspired me to school myself on finding romance my way. Which might involve first making a heart-shaped or drag queen cookie. Or both.

By the way, Jeff unfortunately knows all about my Timothy Ducey issue, which just shows how you bring baggage into a new man friendship. Thankfully he gives me sound advice or makes me laugh. I’ll need it. The last two times I went out for Chinese, I got these fortunes: “A chance meeting with a stranger will probably change your life” and “Watch for a stranger to soon become a friend."

Jason Wu, My Superbowl

My Lombardi Trophy

There was a reason I couldn't fall back asleep this morning at 7:53am. I was about to doze right through a momentous event. No, it was not getting ready for the Super Bowl, like any red-blooded American today. As I checked my Twitter, someone's tweet tipped me off: The new Jason Wu line at Target was finally here.


Target had opened its doors at 8am. It was only 8:15, so I still had time. I was tired and congested, swathed in a hot pink sweatshirt and black sweat shortpants. I had two choices: Try to go back to bed, knowing I was missing out on fashion normally worth up to $5,000 a piece, or suck it up and get Wu (60 items under $60 in the entire collection!). I owed it to myself as a super shopper, runny nose or not. I put on my proverbial helmet and mouth guard and sprinted to the nearest Target.


I was a pro, the Tom Brady and Eli Manning of sales and clearance racks. I knew what was fabulous and what wasn't. I'd seen the inside of a dressing room a time or two in my life. I was not afraid to grab an armful of clothes and buzz-saw past ladies who still didn't know if they looked better in turquoise or red. Amateurs. The rabid 8am crowd beat me to the accessories, but I was not about to leave empty-handed.


I whipped outfits on and off like a supermodel backstage between runway walks. I heard a banal woman whining to her friends, "I don't know if I like the color." Lady, if you don't know what you look good in by now, you best leave. This was not a social hour. This was war. I almost even lost a dress when I picked the wrong size. Luckily, a Target dressing room employee, my own personal quarterback, ran out and made the play for the right one. My Lombardi Trophy was a white silky dress with fine pearls along the neckline.


As I slid into the end zone (checkout), I felt like wildly gyrating or smacking a teammate's rear (which is frowned upon for shopping trips, by the way). Even my lovely older man cashier admired the pearls. Now when people ask me where they can get my dress, I can say, "Sorry, but you had to be in the game."


For my MVP speech, I'd like to thank God for making my runny nose wake me up this morning.

The Power Lunch

Steve Kerrigan

Last week, I went out for a sandwich and came back with local star sightings. One particular lunch spot in Charlotte is the hub for bankers, celebrities, and very important businesspeople (VIBs) to order $7 sandwiches. While in line, Steve Kerrigan, CEO of the 2012 Democratic National Convention in Charlotte, strode past me, flanked by two angular VIBs. Kerrigan and I had met after his luncheon speech a couple of weeks ago. When I said, "Hello Steve," his eyes flickered. He replied, "Hello," either because he was stunned at the random greeting or remembered me. I just hoped he took my concerns to heart that day. His plan for including local businesses in DNC festivities is vital to our community.

John Boyer

After inhaling my chicken pump, I went to a drug store for a typical after sandwich activity: Buying new lipsticks. As I settled on Apricot Fantasy and Champagne on Ice (buy one get the second 50% off!), another powerful executive was paying at the register: John Boyer, President and CEO of the Bechtler Museum of Modern Art, looking elegant with his coiffed gray hair and neat suit. We chatted at an event last fall and he complimented my dress. Today, unfortunately, he left before we could discuss what we bought. I'm sure he would have loved my excellent lipwear choices. The man obviously has great taste.


It's easy to have a power lunch in Charlotte. Everyone can agree on a good sandwich. There's something for everyone at the drug store. You just need to know who you're looking for.