Cindy Crawford: SuperModel, SuperMom. (Part I)

In all surreality, we suddenly found ourselves standing on the beaches of Florida, Bro and I. Jaws in the sand, dazed, wondering why the Bozo Bus dropped us off, here. HFH Nikita was similarly uncomprehending [but in a much worse mood]. Oh, well! Our tickets had been punched in stranger places. We had Important Things to do, but they were things which could be done anywhere. And we had neither reason nor need to be somewhere in particular. Earth is Earth. Wherever you go, there you are! Might as well add another pin to the map.

Because one of the most important of the Important Things was to create a “living portfolio” for Bro [the bastard child of McGyver and daVinci], we moved into a potentially charming but then dilapidated home in a neighborhood which had recently been declared “historic” and labeled “transitional,” though it was still [in Spring of 1998] more renowned for its crack houses than for its house-flipping yuppies.

Built in 1928, the place was nestled between two streets, in a secluded alley. It had seen far better days, and didn’t even have windows. But that was a huge part of its charm! Bro would begin by making hand-crafted replicas of the original sash windows, with antique copper screens to match. There were thirty one windows, and that would be only the start. This time, we’d take pictures. This time, things would be different. We could feel it. Maybe God dumped us here so there wouldn’t be any more distractions. Let us pray…

The owner thought we were nuts when we approached him with our offer. We’d pay a modest rent, he’d pay for all materials, and, over time, his empty hovel would be made a glorious home. He tried to talk us into a more obviously habitable property, but we were adamant. We also had great references, perfect credit, and convinced him he had nothing to lose. Were Bro not the master craftsman claimed, it would be obvious, soon enough, and he could throw us out, keeping our deposit for any damage we may have caused. However! Though we lacked photographic evidence, we had written testimonials, and, were Bro in truth his hype, this was the owner’s luckiest of days, no?

We were quickly ensconced in a makeshift though secured area of the “residence.” Keeter [HFH Nikita] began studying parrots, Bro started doing his thing, and I moved between his thing [and his workshop (another huge part of the "charm" of this place)] and my thing [at the computer]. One day within the first week or so, Bro walked into the house for some cold water and said, nonchalantly, “I just saw Cindy Crawford walking through the alley.” And then he went back to his workshop.

Whoa. We’d had more than a few brushes with celebrity, over the years, but none so “out of place.” Had he seen Cindy Crawford on Palm Beach, or in South Beach, I wouldn’t have blinked an eye. Cindy Crawford walking through an alley in an area still sometimes referred to as “Cracktown” was another matter, entirely. Wow. This neighborhood must be transitionaler than we thought!

The next afternoon, Bro makes one of his many treks through the front door and to the refrigerator, and, as he opens yet another bottle of cold water, he says, “you just missed Cindy Crawford. She walked through the alley, again.”

“Are you sure it’s Cindy Crawford who’s walking through our alley?” Bro has the eaglest of eyes, and his visual acuity and acumen are [annoyingly] unparalleled. But I had to ask.

“Positive. No question. For sure. Not a doubt in my mind.”

“She must have a friend who lives around here. That’s two days in a row, and you’d have to really know this neighborhood to know about the alley. I seriously doubt she lives in this area,” I laughed. “Maybe she walks from Palm Beach to visit her hairdresser and his boyfriend, who are renovating one of the really fabulous homes. That would make sense.”

“Maybe she comes here for drugs,” he shrugged.

“No way,” I shook my head. “Not Cindy Crawford. She seems totally normal. And I’m pretty sure I heard she’s either pregnant or just had a baby…something like that. Believe me. A hairdresser, his boyfriend, and their renovations is going to be much closer to the reality than that Cindy Crawford is trolling Grandview Heights looking for drugs. Or else it’s a woman who could pass for Cindy Crawford who’s trolling Grandview Heights looking for drugs.” And with a rolling of mine eyes, I was finished.

“You never know,” he said. Then he headed back out to the workshop…

The very next evening he walks into the house, beckons me toward the doorway, and, signing but not using his voice [his version of whispering], he tells me, “come fast! Right now, if you don’t believe me — quick! Cindy Crawford is out here in the alley.”

“No, that’s okay, I believe you. She’s probably got friends who live around here, or maybe a personal trainer who has her walk from home to her sessions. It would make sense that she’s got a place on Palm Beach, and I could see her coming to a private gym in one of these buildings. Something like that. Whatever the reason, I believe you…”

“No, come out here and see for yourself. It’s her, and she’s in the alley, right now.”

“Well, she must be gone by now…we’ve been talking for almost a minute. I don’t need to see her. Honest. I believe you…”

Bro stepped out of the house, then back through the doorway. “She’s not gone. She’s right out here in the alley. Come see.”

“What. You’re telling me that Cindy Crawford is now just — loitering in the alley, right outside our house? Oh! Is she watching you make the windows? Maybe her hairdresser and his boyfriend need custom-made windows for their house. Does it seem as though she’s watching you work? Is that why she’s standing in the alley? Maybe she tried to talk to you when you weren’t looking.”

“She’s not standing. She’s rolling around on the ground.”

“Oh, my God! Are you telling me she’s hurt, or sick?!? Why didn’t you say so?!” I jumped up from the desk, ran through the doorway and onto the porch — and there was Cindy Crawford. Rolling around on the ground, in the alley, right next to our house…

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