“How long…

do you think it would take us to get a dozen?” We laughed as we went back to the car.

After our trip to Home Depot, we stopped by the local Krispy Kreme. I tried to explain to him the absolute reverence I had for Krispy Kreme, those delectable, melt-in-your mouth sugary sensations hailing, as do I, from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We watched the procession as we entered. The circles of dough, evenly spaced on the conveyer belt, going up and down, up and down, before being plopped into sizzling hot grease, fried to a delicious golden brown before wafting under the waterfall of pure sugar. Mmmmm!

We strolled up to the counter, I surveying the display case, he waiting. The guy behind the counter, obviously bored, without looking at us, thrust two freshly made, piping hot original glazed doughnuts towards us. “Sample?” We gladly accepted, then walked back to the assembly line, watching the doughnuts bobble in the hot grease. After finishing our free sample, we walked back to the display case. I was ready to order one of my all time favorite doughnuts, the chocolate covered, cream (not custard) filled, with a glass of milk. We stood there patiently. Again, right on cue, the counter boy, still not looking at us, thrust two more freshly made, piping hot original glazed doughnuts towards us. “Sample?” Again, we took the doughnuts.

It took a few minutes for me to get his attention. He started at me with another freshly made glazed doughnut in his hand. “No, I don’t want a sample. I’d like to get one of those to go.”

We laughed as we went back to the car. I bet if we had had a box we could have easily garnered a dozen.

My Morning Walk

When he called to tell me the meeting had been delayed, I was excited. I was already scheduled to spend the night in Monterey, and now I had a free morning. I set the alarm for the normal 6:30 am, but once my ears heard the shrill ring, I sprang out of bed rather than wallowing under the covers like I usually do. The beach was right across the street. And it wasn’t the crowded part of the beach; I had purposely booked a hotel 15 miles out of town.

I struggled to lift my feet, one at a time, sinking ever so slowly into the millions of fine grains of sand as I hiked up the enormous dune. I reached the top, blinded by the sunlight’s glare on the ocean. To the left, far in the distance, just before the fog met the horizon, were a smattering of fisherman. To the right, for as far as I could see, nothing but sunlight.

I scurried down the dune, sliding, losing my balance, my feet rolling out from under me. I reached the pressed portion of the beach, that sand packed by the endless cycle of tides going out, coming in, going out again. I turned to the right and began jogging, each foot leaving a deep impression in the sand as I made my way down the deserted beach. I ran, immediately feeling alone and tiny surrounded by the vast expanse of the sand, the ocean, and the sky. As I ran, I realized I wasn’t alone. That my presence wasn’t concerning the incredible amounts of life all around me.

The seagulls didn’t even move as I ran by. They stood, searching, solitary or in groups, searching for that elusive fish. Occasionally one would fly, soar, then return to its post. I ran by groups of five, groups of fifty gulls waiting on the beach.

The other thing in abundance on the beach was kelp. Two varieties had floated ashore, the huge, forest green snake like tubes and the tiny, fresh neon greens sprays. Surrounding each group, however, were tiny, ball-like organisms. At first, I thought the sand had come to life. Small balls of sand jumped as I ran by. The larger the bunch of kelp, the more the sand particles jumped. They must have been a small sea animal;I never found out.

I ran, trying to reach that elusive spot where the fog meets the horizon. As I ran, it surfaced farther and farther away. I finally gave up and turned around. An hour and a half later, in what seemed like minutes, I was back in my hotel room. What started out as my solitary expedition turned out to be one filled with millions of other life forms. Hopefully they’ll still be there when tomorrow’s, or the next day’s, fisherman, heads out.

Sign of the Times

I stumbled quite unsuspecting upon the den of madness. I arrived, after my manicure and pedicure, to meet friends for a drink at Blondie’s. Upon arrival, I was met by greeters sporting nametags and whistles “Hurry Date – 25 Dates in One Evening.” I showed the bouncer my i.d. and hesitantly asked, “I’m not with the program, can I still get a drink?” He smiled and said, “Thanks, Lori, come on in.”

Thankfully, right away I spotted my friends, sans nametags. I observed the scene around me. Every three minutes Jordan blew her whistle loudly, toot, toot, toot! The men moved counterclockwise one seat; the women remained where they were. With glazed looks each couple repeated the same conversation they had previously repeated five, six, seven, eight times.

I watched with wonder. How could anyone possibly purport to know, and like, someone within three minutes? Collin summed it up nicely, “This is so Henry Ford’s approach to dating.” Get them in, move them out.

Pre-teen Angst

I often have to remind myself I’m a grown woman. Today was one of those days.

I’m a corporate trainer. Normally I love facilitating classes. It’s fun, I get to meet new people, I get to visit a different office, it’s an exhilarating day. Except for when it’s not. Like today.

The second thing I noticed when I entered the room was the dour look on everyone’s face, that look of “I really don’t want to be here but was told I must attend.” The first thing I noticed was that the room was 85 degrees and had no air conditioning or windows, only fans that slowly shoved the hot air from one side of the room to the other. I looked around, wondering what the third strike would be.

They weren’t a talkative bunch. To say the least. By the end of my introduction, I realized I was going to have to work arduously if I wanted those in the room to be appropriately labeled participants. Which was fine, I like a challenge. Usually.

As I was elaborating on one of my oh so intriguing Powerpoint slides, I sensed something towards the back of the room. In my peripheral vision I noticed the table of all women mouthing sarcastic comments to each other. I thought I saw a note being passed. I started walking the room, hoping my movement would trigger their attention. A couple of eye rolls followed. I asked a question, hoping a dynamic discussion would ensue. Instead, I was met by blank stares. I asked a more direct question and was met by shoulder shrugs. As I worked the room, whenever I turned towards them they would snicker then try to hide their laughs. I was no longer a corporate trainer for a multi-million dollar company. I was in the halls of my junior high, being shunned by the popular girls.

On paper you would have thought I was popular. I was a cheerleader. I played sports. But I never really understood what the hype was about. I didn’t watch tv. I didn’t follow the latest rock stars. I didn’t wear designer clothes. I preferred to read books or do my homework. But I tried so hard to fit in. Growing up in a small, conservative southern town, what I wanted more than anything else was normalcy. To be like everyone else. But I wasn’t.

And still am not. I continued the class, hoping their immature behavior would self-correct. It didn’t. Should I have said something? Maybe. Did I? No. Will I in future classes? Probably. What I realized, in hindsight, is that you can’t please everyone, so you might as well please yourself.

Lori Confusingly

The subject line of an email in my inbox. Sadly, I had to actually read it to determine it was spam. It quite aptly describes my state of mind these days.

Summerfest!

There’s nothing like a bit of polka music to lift your spirits. Truly. I’m not joking.

I didn’t want to go at first. We were happily basking in the unusually hot rays of the sun (it is July in San Francisco, after all). I was upon the verge of snoring, flanked on either side by a friend absorbed in her book. The roar of the ocean lulled me even deeper into my state of semi-consciousness. Emily finally poked me. “It’s almost 1. We should think about going.” Oh, but I’m so comfortable, I thought. Just 10 more minutes. Just a little more… and I felt the beach blanket being tugged out from under me.

We had planned an all day outing, first a picnic on the beach, a little girl bonding time, then a respectable nap before heading over to the Marin German Tourist Club, Friends of Nature, nestled deep into the woods on Mount Tamalpais. It’s the annual Summerfest.

I’d never been before, but had heard fabulous tales of the frolic and fun that was bound to occur at each of the 3 annual “fests” – May, Summer, and October. We parked the car along the tiny, windy road that transverses Mt. Tam. We descended down the narrow and steep switchback path leading to the Friends of Nature lodge, each step bringing us closer to the fabled Summerfest.

First barely audible, then with each step growing stronger, we heard the music. Happy notes, carrying through the branches, up the mountain, into the sky. As we rounded the last switchback, I stopped and gasped. We were standing in the shadow of a Swiss chalet. But we definitely weren’t at Disneyland. I looked around, expecting to see Hansel and Gretel at any moment. And in some respects, I did.

A large band of elderly men with drooping grey mustaches and snug lederhosen offered sprightly tunes. The tuba, the trombone, the spoons, an accordion, and others I couldn’t recognize. They took requests (at one time performing a tango/polka mix, not the best idea of the day). They played. And the people danced. People in traditional costumes. People in Birkenstocks. People in gold lame boots and flowing tunics. We nestled into a corner of the wooden deck, the bandstand as it were, trying to find a slice of shade to cool our overheated bodies. We watched, unspeaking, in awe. Everyone, at first glance, seemed to know what they were doing. The pairs of dancers moving in perfect unison, each pair spinning counterclockwise while also swirling and twirling in a larger counterclockwise formation around and around the deck.

I watched everyone, but certain characters caught my eye. The woman with snow white hair, a faded hot pink silk flower pinned to her girlish bob. What I first noticed, however, was the way she bounced, almost a jump, really, as her partner twirled her. Her dress, dark blue with a blood red apron tied over the skirt, sported layers and layers of red tulle peeping out from below. She wore a red version of the standard black dance shoe, a moderate heel that gave her spindly legs just enough lift to be shapely. With these shoes she wore dark blue anklets, encircled by light blue organza bows hugging her ankles tightly. It was such youthful packaging for such a mature product. Her eyes, though, her penetrating crystal clear blue eyes, oh! how they sparkled. When a new partner asked her for the dance. When she heard the music. When her partner spun her, or twirled her, or bowed to her at the end of a dance.

Then there was the younger gentlemen who looked as though he should be at the porn star convention instead of enjoying an afternoon of polka. Displaying Elvis sideburns, oversized gold sunglasses, and drooping trousers, he coolly surveyed the scene unfolding in front of him. It wasn’t until the band broke out into “The Chicken Dance” that excitement pulsed through his veins. He grabbed an unsuspecting partner (also porn star material), commandeered the center of the deck, and began the most unusual rendition of the chicken dance I’ve ever seen, culminating with a full-on breakdance exhibition extraordinaire.

And then. The old man, joy personified. Stooped, he shuffled the dance floor, asking woman after woman to share a dance with him. As he circled by his blue eyes stared straight ahead, never wavering, magnified by his Coke bottle eyeglasses. He was a cartoon animation come to life. I expected his bushy gray mustache to suddenly animate and run away. And he continued, steadfastly, around and around and around the circle with an enduring slight smile, obviously enjoying the moment at hand, oblivious to the commotion surrounding him and his partner.

It was one of the rare occasions when I chose to be an observer and not a participant. Only once was I approached to dance but I politely refused with a smile, not wanting to admit I don’t know how to execute the happy steps of a polka. But after watching the merriment of the afternoon, I think maybe it’s time I learned.

Tracks of My Tears

For some inexplicable reason, I’ve become unusually sensitive the last few days. Unfortunately, this results in me bursting into tears at the most inopportune moments.

It all began when I went to see Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde. Not what you would normally consider a tearjerker, but there I sat, tears streaming down my face during the movie in its entirety.

Then, as I was driving to Monterey for work, my radio station tuned into the only station that came across with any sense of clarity (which happened to be country), a song played. I had never heard it before, but it being a country ditty, the words were quite easy to make out. The chorus went something along these lines (my sincerest apologies to the songwriter for my butchering of the lyrics): God, the streets in heaven are already full of angels, so why do you have to take my daughter as well? That one resulted in me pulling off the road and blowing my nose with unprecedented force until I regained enough composure to carry on along Highway 1.

Returning from Monterey, I noticed, quite at the last moment, the gas tank was approaching empty with alarming speed. At that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a small, no-frills service station and swerved uncontrollably up to a pump. After filling the tank, I went in to pay. In my smart business suit and high heels I appeared distinctly out of place among the plaid shirted, torn jeans gentlemen who either worked in said establishment or merely befriended the employee. The gentleman behind the counter asked me if I was traveling to San Francisco for the weekend. I met his eyes and replied, no, I was returning home after a business meeting in Monterey. He then replied, “So how’d it go?” I thought for a moment, then offered, “It went well. Thanks for asking.” He returned with such a sincere smile, “That’s so great.” I thought for a moment, then answered him with, “It is great.” And then the tears began rolling. I think that sort of freaked him out. But maybe not. Because then he countered with, “Welcome to Gregario. Glad you stopped by.”

Theft!

My identity has been stolen. Well, not in all places. Only at Safeway.

I often forget my Safeway Club card, entitling me to special discounts only available to Safeway Club card members. In lieu of the actual card, I key in my telephone number and have the discount automatically register. On my receipt, it gives me the amount saved, the percentage saved, and a personalized thank you. When the cashier tears the receipt from the register, he or she always glances at the data, then says, “Thank you, Ms. … McLeese. Have a great day.” They usually hesitate slightly before uttering “McLeese,” something I’ve gotten used to.

Then one day last week I went to a different Safeway. I keyed in my phone number, received my discount, and prepared to leave. “Thank you, Ms. … Ms. … Viravan. Have a nice day.”

I looked at the cashier somewhat perplexed, but took the receipt with a smile. Sure enough, my Safeway Club card number was there, with Chalisa Viravan’s name right next to it.

Chalisa Viravan? Do I look like a Chalisa Viravan? Heavens no. Chalisa Viravan conjures up images of Zsa Zsa Gabor. Or Charo. It’s a glamorous name.

Now when shopping at Safeway, I feel a little bit more sexy, a little bit more bewitching. They don’t look at me and see Lori, they see Chalisa.

UGHHH!

At work, I use a certain version (7) of a certain software to create e-learning for all of the happy employees at my company (really).

On the box, in the manual, and on the website, this software claims to have “one-step publishing for the web.” Except that it doesn’t. Publish to the web. In one step or many. Following is my exchange with said company.

Conversation #1

Me: I’m having a problem with the “publish to the web” feature. It just doesn’t work. Is there someone in technical support that could help me?

Him: Well, I’m looking at your file here, and see that you’re still using Version 7. Version 8 is available.

Me: I really don’t want Version 8. I want some help with what Version 7 claims to do.

Him: Well, in order for technical support to even consider your question, you’ll have to upgrade to Version 8 ($299) and buy a one year service maintenance agreement ($450).

Me: (incredulous) You’re saying that no one will even *listen* to my question until I pay you $749?

Him: Correct.

Me: Let me think about this.

Conversation #2

Me: Okay, it says right here in my Version 7 manual that every software purchase comes with a period of free technical support for 60 days. So, theoretically, if I upgrade to Version 8, I should get 60 days of free technical support. Right?

Him: Well, no. You see, that’s an old policy. We recently merged with another company, and that policy is no longer valid. In order for someone to address your question, you’ll have to upgrade to Version 8 and buy the one year service maintenance agreement.

Me: But this isn’t service maintenance. This is your product won’t do what it says it will do.

Him: I have no idea what else you’ve installed on your computer. Maybe you’ve done something to make it not work.

Me: Whatever.

Conversation #3

Me: So the *only* way I can get someone to listen to my question is to upgrade to Version 8 *and* purchase the one-year service maintenance agreement?

Him: Yes.

Me: There aren’t any support groups, or 1-800 numbers, or anything.

Him: No.

Me: That’s just wrong. I can go out and buy a bag of potato chips and there’s a 1-800 number on the back that I can call if the product doesn’t provide what’s promised.

Conversation #4

Me: Okay. I don’t like this, but I’ll buy the stupid upgrade and service agreement. BUT, if Version 8 doesn’t publish to the web (as it advertises it will), I want my money back.

Him: Of course. Our software comes with the standard 30 day net return policy.

Me: I want that in writing.

Him: (silence)

Me: Is there a problem?

Him: Well, I, uh, I don’t know if I can put that in writing. I mean, that would require the Vice President’s approval.

Me: Fine, get it.

Him: I can’t. He’s left the building.

So now I get to deal with this again *tomorrow* at work.

Tour de Marin

I love my best friend Emily. I really do. But sometimes she scares me.

Last night she returned from a two week trip to Europe. Today we were discussing our weekend plans by email. She mentioned wanting to rest up (as jet lag would probably kick in), but also wanting to go for a quick bike ride on Sunday since the weather was supposed to be nice. Thinking this would be a good way for us to spend some quality time together, I mentioned I would like to join her.

I received the following message:

“I thought we could bike out to my brother’s house in San Anselmo, hang out there for a little, then bike back to the city. It’s a beautiful ride, and it’s only 25 miles each way.”

I was so stunned I couldn’t even reply. I mean, I know she’s a super athlete, constantly competing in triathlons and adventure races. But, really, how can a 50 mile bike ride be considered quick?