Day 19: Pretend to be a secret agent

"No one can know. This Book was a pretext to get in touch with you. Your government needs you. Don't look up now, they are watching. Meet at 1300 today outside work. Wave at the gray car. It will pick you up and take you to the secret rendezvous. Good luck. P.S. Tear this page out and swallow it."

I performed the ultimate in reconnaissance today: Operation Suburbia. My cover? Housesitting for Grandma at Carefreee senior apartments. My mission? Spy on unsuspecting stucco communities.

Before the assignment, I finished up the paper and proceeded to play with Grandma's kitty. He has a fetish for newspapers and New Years hats (especially the ones with feathers and glitter). Apparently, chasing the cat all over the apartment doesn't cut it in a senior community. The woman downstairs must keep her hearing aids cranked up because she began pounding on the ceiling with what might have been a broom handle, but sounded more like an untapped keg. Which begs the question, "Did she have to hobble onto a chair to reach the ceiling?" Intriguing...

So, I was a good samaritan (at least that was my cover) and left the apartment to "power walk" around the 'hood. The first stretch was nearly intolerable. Imagine walking along I-5 between here and the Grapevine: straight as a ruler, not a car-less body in sight, horn honks, and surprisingly smelly. Aparently they've been lacking on the duck-poop maintenance in those man-made lakes.

I got down to business. There appeared to be at least one car in front of every beige, tan, or cream-colored house, yet not a soul in sight. Not so much as a kooky welcome mat is allowed in these communities. With names like Willow Park and Hidden Glen, you're pretty much obliged to shrink into obscurity. Although the families do keep up with the modern world: I saw one house with FOUR satellite dishes, like whiteheads on a desperate-to-wear-a-rock-on-my-finger-eager-to-procreate-and-begin-nesting face.

All right, all right. I lost myself for a moment there. Granted, most everyone was probably still at work, hence the vacancy. I did get a few encouraging smiles from women jogging behind baby strollers! Probably more like, "Don't you look like an adorable teenager, in your college sweatshirt and glasses. Would you like to come with me for a makeover and a lobotomy?"

On the way home, I deliberately threw myself down a ravine, lined with grass, paved with gravel, just so I wouldn't launch myself in front of a U-Haul on the way home. I guess the "agency" won't be contacting me again, unless it's to implant a Stepford wife chip in my brain. Beware for a boob job and devastatingly handsome arm candy--who in turn will develop a beer belly and begin an affair in 10 years.