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.

“It’s the thought that counts,” I thought as I first laid eyes on LoriLoo, almost two years ago. Bryan created the blog as a way for me to keep in touch with friends, a way to relate my adventures, as I lived my new life in Korea. The site really was ugly. You can still see the first iteration here. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. It was a gift, after all, and a very thoughtful one at that. How long had he spent choosing the colors, creating the fonts, making everything just so? I couldn’t change it. Over time I grew fond of the abominable orange, the way the corners didn’t meet just so. I grew to love LoriLoo.

It was only quite recently, over quite a few cocktails, that he asked me, “Why the hell haven’t you changed that ugly template I set up for your blog?”

I was stunned.

“I, well, I… well, I thought it was ugly too, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I thought you spent a lot of time creating it.”

He burst into laughter. “It was the first template I saw. I figured you’d have a lot of free time in Korea and you’d create something really cool.”

Finally having the creator’s blessing, I meant to create a really cool design. I really did. But just never got around to it. Until he sent me this email… “I’m ready.”

Ready to change the ugly template. Of which I had surprisingly grown so fond.

We spent a while reviewing the options, talking about what could be altered and what couldn’t. I like the new look. It’s calming. It’s simple. The only problem was that it didn’t have orange. The color which I’ve come to associate with LoriLoo.

He gave me a crash course on web colors. I saw it. #FF9900. LoriLoo Orange. “The titles have to be this color. Just for old time’s sake.”

I’ve moved over to www.loriloo.com

Come visit me!

“Hey, do you want a ride back to your side of town?”

We looked at the 2000 person deep line for Express Muni tickets. We imagined the crowded conditions on said buses. We glanced at each other and smiled. Jackpot!

His friend, Pam, picked us up only a few blocks away from the park. He sat in the front seat, the four other women smushed in the back. We were studying the lilac flyers detailing live concerts in the area we had received walking out of the park. After discussing the shows we truly did want to see, we began ridiculing the ones we didn’t. “Poison – now there’s a band I’ve been wanting to see.” “No, I know you really want to see REO Speedwagon. Go on, admit it.” “Hey, Al Green, August 2, let’s go!” he exclaimed. We weren’t sure if he was serious or not. The name sounded familiar.

“Seriously. He’s awesome. Who wants to go?”

He turned around from his front seat position to face us. We returned his enthusiastic gaze with blank stares. Someone else broke the silence. “Who’s Al Green?”

“You don’t know who Al Green is? C’mon!”

The five women exchanged glances. “What does he sing?” I asked. He continued to expound on Al Green’s greatness, not naming any songs. “Details, I need details. Sing one of his songs,” I beseeched him.

“I can’t sing.”

“Hum it,” Amber demanded.

“C’mon… You’ve got to know Al Green.”

Needing more info, I challenged, “Just say the words to one of his songs. You don’t even have to sing them.”

“I don’t know. He sings, well, everything. I bet if we turned the radio on to any, ANY, Motown station right now one of his songs would be playing.”

The women all laughed. Pam, the driver, turned to him, “It’s all yours. Knock yourself out.”

He turned the radio on and Amber shouted “98.1” from the back seat. He fiddled until the notes came across strong and clear. “Good or bad, happy or sad…”

“It’s him! It’s Al Green! This is him!” He jumped in his seat, proffered a classic white man’s overbite, and began singing along. As did we all. “Why, why some people break up

Then turn around and make up… Ooooooooo….”

There were many costumes that were spinoffs of “Weapons of Mass Destruction” during this year’s run, but my favorite was the music-thumping, camouflage-wearing, beer-imbibing hooligans, pulling a colossal alcohol filled missile – “Weapons of Mass Debauchery.” Yeah.

A close second, however, were the 30 or so Jeannies, from the beloved sitcom “I Dream of Jeannie.” Led by a fearless Major Nelson.

A moment after the pink mass of gauze and tulle passed us, so did five Wonder Woman(s) (Women?), exclaiming, “Hey, I heard there were I Dream of Jeannies ahead… Have you seen them?” From one beloved 70’s icon to another…

…she appeared to be talking on her cell phone. Which I thought was a little unusual, her graying hair pulled into a knot atop her head, her black gloves, with just a little hole in the left ring finger speaking from another era. But, good on her, keeping up with technology.

Except she wasn’t. She was talking to someone, but that someone wasn’t there for anyone else to see. During the 30 minute ride she changed seats three times. She discussed a pamphlet from the church, she berated this person for a decision he or she had made, she talked about the changes made on the BART line.

I tried not to stare. It was difficult. At one point she sat directly in front of me. I watched her dark eyes dance with fury. I followed her gaze, focused on someone not there. Or were they? Not there, that is. In her eyes, was that person there? Or was she reliving a conversation from a previous time? Was the person answering? It certainly seemed so, as she reacted much more vehemently to some silences than to others.

I thought about my conversations with people. And how at some point during the conversation I usually touch them. A brush on the hand, a pat on the shoulder. Maybe it’s my own way of making sure they aren’t merely a figment of my imagination, that I’m not the crazy lady on the BART train arguing with herself.

Exasperated, he turned to his little sister. “You only have to look for leaves with purple polka dots. THOSE are the ones that are poison ivy.”