There are some things that just make me happy. No matter how foul a mood I’m in.

Ice cream. Especially cookies and cream or peppermint.

Fresh flowers. The more unpretentious the better. Daisies. Poppies. Wildflowers.

And music.

Leaving work, frustrated by politics and what not, I rushed to BART. Porkchop Express never started on time; they were slated to begin at 7; I would arrive at 7:30; they would still be warming up.

Except they weren’t. A block away I heard the familiar strains of “Mother….”

I picked up my pace. Hurry, hurrry, hurrry. I arrived at the bar, still shouldering the day’s stresses. Ugh. How could they have started on time. How dare they?????

I entered the bar. Surprisingly, it wasn’t packed. What was wrong? Did San Francisco not notice what they were missing out on? Apparently not. Silly city.

Starving, I sat down at the first table, closest to the band. I waved, they responded in kind. I couldn’t leave. Even though food was merely a floor below, I couldn’t miss a precious Porkchop song.

Within moments, all the day’s stresses, the technical difficulties, the cancelled trip to Yosemite, had faded away.

Porkchop Express. Good stuff.

“Did you have a fun time tonight?” the taxi driver asked me.

“Yes, my girlfriends took me out for drinks and dinner. It’s my birthday today.”

“You know, when I saw you standing there on the corner in that shiny pink dress, I thought to myself, ‘Now that looks like someone celebrating her birthday.’ I did, that’s what I thought.”

I laughed.

“So how old are you today?” he queried.

“Thirty-six,” I answered proudly. For some inexplicable reason I have a profound affinity for numbers that are divisible by twelve. It’s going to be a good year. I feel very even.

“Thirty-six? You are so young, so beautiful, this will be a wonderful year for you,” he affirmed.

Again, I laughed. It already was.

I stopped into the beauty salon for a quick treatment. “How do you spell your last name?” the beautician asked. “M, C, L, E, E, S, E,” I answered, enunciating each letter carefully. For a name that seems so simple to me, most people tend to misspell it.

She searched through her file of cards, finding nothing. Exasperated, she asked me again. “Could you spell it one more time?” I began again, “M, C, L, E,…” She rifled cards. A few moments later, she spoke again. “It’s not here. I can’t find it. See,” and with this she pointed to a section of cards, “here are the end of the MCIs and the beginning of the MCKs. Your name isn’t in there.”

I looked at the cards she was indicating. As non-offensively as I could I suggested she look *after* the MCKs instead of before them. She stared at me blankly then realization struck. “Oh, my god. I really am in college. I do know how to spell.”

I watched her pull my card. I secretly hoped she was better at handling hot wax than at alphabetizing.

If you haven’t heard them, you should. They’re playing a special San Francisco engagement this Thursday, June 10 at 8:00 pm at Doc’s Clock on Mission Street at 22nd Street. It’ll be real.

We woke up before the sun. The first thing my bleary eyes noticed were the twinkling lights of Marin, the East Bay, and San Francisco. Then the blues. The blues enveloped me. So many shades: midnight, azure, beryl, cerulean, cobalt, indigo, navy, royal, sapphire, teal, turquoise, ultramarine. The dark forms of the mountains contrasting with the lighter forms of the water.

As I pulled on my running shoes, I made a mental note to go to the balcony before we headed back down the mountain, back to the Marina for Emmy to catch the ferry for the first leg of Escape from Alcatraz. By the time I had quickly dressed and brushed my teeth, the horizon was already light. I watched as within seconds the blues lightened then became recognizable greens, pinks, beiges, darkened by the shadow of morning.

As we began to scurry down the mountain, Emily turned to me and said, “I think the sunrises here are so much more beautiful than the sunsets. Maybe because I experience them so less frequently.”

I nodded my head in agreement. I want to remember the depth and the enchantment of the blues infinitely.

She enthusiastically stepped up to the counter. “I’d like to be measured, please,” she said with a perky, lilting voice.

Waiting for my items to be rung, I turned towards the melodious request. The unoccupied saleslady behind the counter offered flatly, “32AA.” My saleslady piped in, “No, 30AA,” barely glancing up from ringing my purchase.

The once perky voice responded, somewhat crestfallen, “Oh. But, they didn’t fit…”

“Petite Warcoal,” my saleslady offered, nodding her head towards a section of bras towards the back of the store. (I, not knowing bras came in petite sizes, followed her movement.)

The slight young girl followed the first saleslady. I stared at my saleslady, intent on ringing up my lingerie. “Um, how did you know her size just by looking?”

She finally looked up from the pile of intimate apparel at her hands. She gazed at me with a vacuous look. “Lady, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all. We just know.”

I’m one of the team leaders for our company’s AIDS Walk team this year. One of my duties is to procure boxed lunches for the 1000 team members who will participate in the walk. I’ve called various catering companies in the city, comparing lunches, comparing prices, getting a feel for who has the best customer service.

I asked one woman in catering sales to email me the details of what she could offer: price for 1000 lunches, contents of lunch, key dates for orders, etc.

She replied:

“I hope XXX company can work with you. Box lunches will be $10 each. This includes a sandwich, salad, dessert, fork, knife, spoon, condiments, and a high quality disposable white napkin.”

?????

I kind of assumed the box lunch would contain those individual items. But I had hoped for more detail on the edible items and not so much on the inedible.

Note to self: If I ever run a catering business…

She was headed out of the locker room, then suddenly turned around and made a beeline for me. “See, I dropped my earring. My diamond, you see?!? I didn’t even know it had fallen out of my ear til I felt the back just drop. And I searched and searched and searched. I looked all up and down this floor. Every single tile. Til I finally found it. And now I’m all late for work but I was not leaving this locker room til I found my earring. Okay, see you later.”

The entire time this woman spoke to me, I wondered, “What is the lesson to be learned here? I don’t know this woman. Am I missing an earring? Should I start looking tile by tile? Is she accusing me of taking her earring? We were wearing similar styles.” But no, she just wanted to talk. To someone. To me.

My gym buddy, R, turned to me as the woman exited. “Do you know her?”

“No,” I replied. “Never seen her before in my life. Random people always come up to me and talk, though. Don’t know why.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she began.

Uh oh. “Okay – go ahead.”

“Well, what muppet do you think you most resemble?”

Hmm. Never really given that much thought. When I didn’t answer she continued. “I think you’re most like Big Bird.”

I burst out laughing. “I’m not offended, but I’m curious. Why? Because I have a big nose?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “No. Because you’re so friendly. People always want to talk to you. Just like Big Bird.”

We leisurely walked to the beach, enjoying the warmth of the sun on our bare arms as we caught up on the daily happenings of months gone by. My life in the city, hers in suburbia, my dating escapades, her second pregnancy. He strolled ahead with the baby, letting us absorb all the trivialities that forge a friendship. We watched surfers ride waves. “You should come down after I have the baby and we’ll surf…” she began. Just then a voice to the left of us caught my attention.

“Yeah, pura vida, man. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Pu-ra vee-da! Was down in Costa Rica for the winter. Pura vida. Like it’s Costa Rican for Aloha…” the voice trailed off as the silver haired lanky individual pulled down his wet suit and toweled off.

Her husband couldn’t restrain himself. As we were out of earshot he mimicked, “Pura vida, man…”

We continued, nearing the boardwalk. She pointed out the specialties of each of the coffee shops we passed. To our right a young lad strummed on his guitar. He gazed into the blue sky, crooning lyrics about a first love. Out of the blue, he slammed his guitar with his fist, “Look for my love at the…. PAWN SHOP!” Strum, strum, strum. As we walked away another melodic verse began, then, as we were almost too far away to hear, came, “PAWN SHOP!”

We sat sipping our mocha whipped icy cold creamy frothy delights, watching the beachgoers frolic on the sand. “This is awesome. I can’t believe how relaxed I am. Thanks for having me this weekend.”

“Anytime. It’s just a typical day in San Diego.”

“No, no, no, it’s like this, ya’ll. Walking, walking, POSE!” she instructed the two lithe teenage girls following her. With that, she swung her slight hips to the left, then as far to the right, then stopped, body contorted, hand pressed to her forehead. Her friends passed her with rolled eyes; she ignored the slight, continuing her sassy stroll down the streets of Hayward.