I was on Skype the other day with the Brazilian Princess and I couldn’t help but feel jealous.
‘Julie, I can’t really talk right now,’ she whispered, stifling a giggle. ‘I just got back to the dorm room and everyone’s sleeping.’
‘Hey, keep it down!’ somebody grumbled. There was a lot of rustling and it sounded like she ran into a bunk bed before the line died.
‘Oops! Sorry, I lost you there. It’s 5 a.m. here… but I’m still a little tipsy from last night – tee hee! – and I don’t know how it happened, but I’m standing here with my bra in my hand…’
See, that’s the kind of life I’ve grown accustomed to. For twelve consecutive months, my bra mysteriously undid itself in exotic locales around the globe. It’s unsettling, but hardly unusual. And I miss it.
While BP is still on her world tour, playing strip poker and beer pong with diplomats in Mozambique, I have been back in the United States for two months.
Playing house in a McMansion.
With my brother.
And his three cats.
I hate those cats. Not only do they make me sneezy, wheezy and teary, but every morning when I step out of my Pepto Bismol room – painted saccharine pink by the former tenants whose taste in décor clearly modeled a My Little Pony advert – I have to scan for barf.
The Pepto Room is a CFZ (Cat-Free Zone), but B’s ‘little buddies’ periodically leave me presents outside my door in the form of coagulated fish kibble, fur balls and green-blue bile that smells exactly like the contents of one’s innards should: bad.
I know they want in - I suspect the Pepto color eases acid reflux. I can’t prove it, but I swear they’re burrowing tunnels into the CFZ at night, planning an all-out projectile vomit party designed to gross me out of their territory.
While I avoid the cats, B worships them. He is an old cat lady in golf shoes, driving a Beemer and refusing to drink tap water.
‘Then what would be the point of having bottled water?’
Sometimes, we see things differently.
When he comes home, he says something chatty to me like, ‘Hey.’
When he sees the cats, it goes something more like this:
‘Ohh, hey Sam! Hey little buddy! Were you a good boy today? Ohhh, I bet you were my cool little man! Oh, yes, you are such a good little kitty, yes mister, yes yes yes you are!’
My 38-year-old brother then proceeds to rub the cat’s belly on his head, nuzzling its neck with his nose, kissing its feet and generally freaking me out because I just watched that cat upchuck congealed tunafish behind the couch 20 minutes earlier.
The neighborhood is a ‘planned community’ – planned so that the trailer park is concealed at the bottom of the hill while Stepford enjoys its own elementary school, Starbucks, tanning salon and bus line, not that anyone here takes public transportation.
It’s a conservative area. Republicans drive.
The local grocery store has an entire section of its news aisle devoted to gun glossies. Next to that is personal defense, which is above exotic game hunting.
(In case you’re wondering, American Handgunner has the most comprehensive glock reviews this month, while I enjoyed Personal & Home DEFENSE’s exposé on 9mm vs. .223 entitled ‘Got Enough Gun?’ The answer is always no.)
Frankly, I for one am reassured to know my neighbors are well educated on violent weaponry should an albino zebra happen to walk through the gates and stomp up the ornamental fountain grass.
My favorite part of B’s neighborhood is the rock lights. See, there are these yard lamps very cleverly disguised as rocks. And these rocks sit in various parts of the garden in to theatrically light important things like wrought-iron deer.
It is so sneaky – you’re just on your run through the woodsy path of concrete, enjoying the natural sounds of the freeway below when BAM! Those soft-serve twist topiaries have never looked more tantalizing at twilight.
These little gems of American authenticity come courtesy of the City of Auburn, a suburb of Seattle, whose motto is More than you imagined.
Frankly, I don’t think the marketing team anticipated what kind of imagination people living in McMansions are forced to have.
For a city that used to be called 'Slaughter', I feel Auburn needs a qualifier.
You know, for people to really get what living in the USA is about.
‘More foreclosures than you imagined.’
‘More recreational monster trucks without mufflers than you imagined.’
‘More Sir Mix-A-Lot sightings than you imagined.’
(What up, Mix!)
For now, this is what my life is about, too.
Some days I embrace the preoccupation with pump action shotguns of my fellow Auburners.
Other times I retreat to the Pepto Room, wondering if the house painters knew suburban America causes an upset stomach for snarky travelers.
And cats.
