Business Travel…

gives me the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop. I eat dinner alone and while waiting for the food to arrive, I pretend to read a book or a newspaper, all the while indulging in my secret vice.

Overheard in Reno, NV:

he: I’ve traveled to 47 of the 48 states.

she: The 48 continental states?

he: No, the 48 United States.

she: Dude, we have 51 states in the USA….

Was one added while I was out of the country?

Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder

Overheard at a party:

“You know, ugly people really have it better. I mean, they’ve been ugly all their lives, so when they get older, it’s not such a shock….”

All the News Fit to Print

The NY Times ran the article. As well as msn, the splash page even. I figured it must be true. “One of the best flea markets in America is at Treasure Island, just moments away from downtown San Francisco, Sundays only. 6 am – 4 pm. But arrive early, as many vendors leave by 2 pm.”

I dreamed of the gems I would find. It was the “Sunday activity” for my parents’ visit. We’d explore together, amazed at the treasures we’d unearth. We aimed to leave the city by 7 am – eager not to miss any bargains. Heavy fog enshrouded the island, giving it a mystical feel. We drove to the address. Not a soul stirred. No flea market, no cars, no people, no sign of life whatsoever. We continued around the small island. It was practically deserted. After circling the island twice, I had a deja vu of searching for the woodworking village while in Korea. Here I have the advantage of speaking the language, which didn’t really help, as I left the island just as befuddled as ever. No flea market, no activity, no riches to be discovered.

Jim Dandy

Ever so carefully he swept the sidewalk, dressed in a threadbare suit, his feet covered by socks and rubber flip flops. He had the look of a well-kept bum, a 2-day shadow gracing his face. His sunken eyes watched the movement of his broom, back and forth, back and forth. Slowly the pendulum motion of the broom slowed. He bent down, fingered an object caught in his broom, then ever so gently picked a bird’s feather from the refuse, examined it, then gingerly placed it in his left breast pocket before continuing, swish, whoosh, swish, whoosh…

It Just Struck Me As Strange…

The gate agent, in a sacchariney sweet voice, announced, “You guys have been great. You haven’t asked a lot of questions or shot us any dirty looks. We’ll get you on your flight as soon as possible.”

So if we *had* shot her dirty looks we’d be waiting even longer?

Bruce, Baby, Bruce

“Do you even know any Bruce Springsteen songs?” she asked me.

“Well, sure, I mean, I’m sure I’d recognize them. You know, once they’re played. Like Little Pink Houses. I’m sure I’d recognize that one.”

She laughed. “Wrong singer. That’s John Cougar Mellencamp. Try again.”

I thought for a moment. “The one about dancing. If I had a chance, I’d ask the world to dance, dancing with myself, when…”

“Nope. That would be Billy Idol. Getting closer, though. Springsteen does sing Dancing In the Dark.”

“Well, even though I’m obviously not the biggest Springsteen fan, I’m looking forward to the concert.”

The concert was at Pac Bell Park, our local baseball stadium, situated right on the bay. Before going to the concert, we visited one of the multitudes of sailboats docked right outside the stadium. I sipped margaritas from plastic stemware and watched the sun slowly setting in the sky. The conversation around me was all Bruce, all the time.

And the concert was awesome. Springsteen is a spirited performer. He engages the crowd. He’s enthusiastic. He has fun. Even though I didn’t recognize a single song until the third encore, I’m still glad I went.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I felt his presence behind me as I began to open my front door. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed him stumbling up the front steps, obviously drunk, a fairly large guy. He made no effort to reach for keys. I waited, he stumbled. It was late enough that no one else was on the street. Wary of someone I didn’t know entering the building behind me, I boldly turned around and confronted him. “Excuse me, do you live here?” The words left my mouth with much more sass than I intended. He laughed, stumbled again, and with a snort replied, “Yes. 405.” Oh, great. My upstairs neighbor. My key still in the lock, I slowly turned it, then entered. He quickly weaved in front of me. Halfway down the hall he came to a dead stop. He spun around and stared. I stopped and faced him. He slowly opened his mouth and, in the exact same tone I had used with him, slurred the words, “Wait a minute. Do *you* live here?” I simply laughed and nodded yes.

The Swedes

When Emily returned from Europe a few weeks ago, she brought with her some biber kuchen that she had been given as a gift. It looks like a large gingerbread cookie with a picture of frosted happy Swedish people frolicking in front of windmills on it.

We first took it to a barbecue. We cut a few bite sized pieces and placed them on a platter. People were curious to try this gingerbread concoction. After a few moments of chewing, each person would politely smile, keep chewing, then utter something to the effect of “That’s nice.” It wasn’t the culinary sensation Emily had hoped it would be. The general consensus was that it would be tasty on a long hike if you didn’t have anything else to eat.

At the end of the barbecue we Saran Wrapped the remainder. Linda took it, saying she would bring it on our next hike. It went on a hike, it attended another barbecue. None was eaten. At the end of the barbecue, Linda turned to me and said, “Okay, it’s your turn to take the Swedes home. Make sure to bring them to the next party.”

So Soon

While talking to my dad recently I informed him I had just purchased a car. Not any car, but a 1983 Volkswagen Rabbit convertible. A friend of a friend was selling it cheap and I just couldn’t resist.

“Good for you, Lori. Ever since you got your license you’ve wanted one of those. Can’t wait to take a spin in it when we’re out there in September.”

The words hit me full force as I hung up the receiver. Oh, my god. It’s already happening. My mid-life crisis has officially begun. I just bought the car I wanted when I was 16.

Another Reason to Think Before You Speak

Before thinking, I had already said Hi. The damage was done.

It was the guy formerly known as my hairdresser. I like him well enough. Several friends had referred me to him. I had never left an appointment distraught. But I also had never left his chair exuberant about my new do.

My last two haircuts weren’t with him. Another friend had a fabulous haircut, raved about her hairdresser, so I tried her. And loved her. Twice now I’ve left the salon with a “Look at me – I’m sassy – oh yeah!” kind of cut.

He knew I’d been unfaithful. He eyed my hair with suspicion, but didn’t comment. I introduced him to the others I was with, “This is Paul. He’s my…” I wasn’t sure what to call him. Hairstylist? Not anymore. Ex-hairstylist? Too dramatic. Some guy I used to pay to play with my hair? No. “He’s… uh…. he cuts hair.” Even as I said the words, I felt as though I had been caught, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. Could have been worse. Can’t think of how at the moment, but I’m sure it could have been.