I had planned to pack the weekend before. But then at the last minute went to Reno. Each night during the week I arrived home, intending to gather my things, intending to prepare for my upcoming trip to Argentina. And each night other activities took priority: work events, softball, going away parties. On Thursday morning I resolved to simply stay up all night to pack and do all the things I hadn’t had time to do during the week.

At 1 am I began. Snowboard boots, itinerary, cash, camera, batteries, hiking clothes, going out clothes, all in various piles on my living room floor. Passport. Can’t forget my passport. I went to my top right hand drawer of my desk – that drawer that houses a random assortment of items: stamps, return address labels, unclaimed lottery tickets, unused foreign currency, magic markers. And normally, my passport. But alas, no passport now.

I had a vague memory of the last time I used my passport and thinking to myself, “This is such a random spot for my passport; I really should keep it somewhere more logical.” I searched. It wasn’t in any of my desk drawers. Nor in my nightstand. Or in my lingerie drawer. Or in the kitchen. Or in any formerly used pieces of luggage. Where, oh where, would be a logical place for me to put it? I glanced at the clock. 3:30 am. I still had a few hours; I wasn’t getting picked up until 8:00 am. I repeated my search, looking in the exact same places – where else would I have put it? The second search revealed no more than the first. I began taking books off the bookshelves. Maybe I had hidden it in a travel book. Nope. Mild panic was setting in. No passport, no trip to Argentina. Had I filed it? My filing cabinet was just about the only place I had not searched. I furiously began pulling out files, flipping through each folder, splaying contents here and there. Halfway through my search, I found it. Filed under “I”, apparently for “ID.” I’m going to Argentina.

While interviewing for IT positions for my company:

Me: I see in your last position you were an IT Manager. I’m not familiar with that company; how large of a department did you manage?
Candidate: One.
Me: One?
C: Just me.
Me: Oh. Okay. Well, at the company before that, you also were an IT Manager. How many people did you manage there?
C: One.
Me: Yourself?
C: Yeah…

Tango lessons! That’s what we would do to prepare for our upcoming trip to Argentina. We’re both good dancers; somewhat cockily we planned on only a few lessons.

I signed our names as we checked into the dim former garage/current dance studio South of Market. The female instructor, Natasha, pointed to a corner. “Feel free to hang your coat (I wasn’t wearing one) and change your shoes over there.” Change my shoes? What was she talking about? I was wearing dancing shoes. I thought. I soon realized what she was talking about. The other participants arrived, placed their belongings in a safe place, and donned dance shoes. The kind you see in musicals. The kind dancers wear in Broadway productions. The kind they sell in Danskin stores.

I turned to the male instructor. “This is the beginning tango class, right?” He assured me it was.

I kept forgetting to cross, or maybe he kept forgetting to nudge. Toes were stepped on, balance was lost. Hilarious laughter ensued, but only between the two of us. The rest of the class looked on with disdain. Natasha appeared behind my partner. “Do you salsa?” He nodded, trying to embrace the elusive eight count we couldn’t quite master. “This is not salsa. No hips in tango!”

What a useful phrase.
“No hips in tango!” when someone steals your parking space.
“No hips in tango!” when the customer service rep asks if there is anything else she can do for you.
“No hips in tango!” when greeted by an old friend.
“No hips in tango!” when trying to endure an impossible dance class.
“NO HIPS IN TANGO!” It’s almost as good as OLE!

I know I should have been paying attention to her words, but her outfit captivated me. The interviewee sat across from me, chronicling her accomplishments in her current job, detailing what she could bring to the new job, and my eyes were fixated. She was wearing the most intensely blue, deep turquoise, chiffon-y blouse I’ve ever seen, with eye shadow to match. The blue was richer than any hue I’ve ever seen. Free associations, words, chased by images, danced through my head: peacocks, sapphires, Caribbean, azure, bubble gum ice cream, tiles in the mosque, county fair spun cotton candy, … I snapped out of my trance. She was smiling at me, obviously finished with what she had to offer.

“Great. I’ll see what I can blue. Do. I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for your time.”

We decided to enjoy a Sunday afternoon at Stern Grove. I had always heard about the free concerts, but had never ventured there. Our friends said they would arrive at noon. We aimed to be there at noon as well, even though the concert didn’t start until 2:00 pm. The best laid plans…

We arrived at 1:10 pm. We saw our friends and began navigating the maze of blankets in between us and them, their blanket beckoning us to relax and picnic upon it. We walked along the stone path. We stopped in front of the others that had also been there for a while, enjoying the fresh air and crispness of a San Francisco summer day. No one noticed us. Except. Except for the old lady. Except, upon closer inspection, she wasn’t really that old. But the bitterness that pulsed through her veins aged her. She was obviously upset that we were blocking her view, blocking her view of nothing to see. She finally poked me, the last in the line of several, waiting to rearrange, waiting to take our place on the blanket our friends had spread out earlier, “So. So, I guess it doesn’t pay to come late, now, does it, missy?” I looked at her, shocked. Here very question defied logic. How could we be late? The show didn’t start for at least another hour. Surely she wasn’t complaining? I started to say something when she cut in, “Why don’t you all go to the west meadow?” The west meadow. Where you could hear the music, but not see the stage. I ignored her.

We squeezed in, a dozen of us on a small blanket, laughing, talking, sharing mate. She wasn’t pleased. Her attention, however, had shifted from us to a young family several feet in front of us. The mother and father sat in low lawn chairs, but not low enough for her. She tripped over the blankets spread between us and them, angrily tapped the mother on the shoulder, and insisted they put the chairs away. Evidently they were above Stern Grove regulation height. The young parents looked dumbfounded; their toddler drew closer to them. The old lady continued to point and shake her finger, radiating negativity. The show still had not started. The young couple reluctantly folded their chairs, sat on the blanket, and cradled their little girl.

The music began. The chatter turned to cheers and whoops and undulations. And everyone stood. Stood and moved and danced and enjoyed that feeling of hearing good music, seeing blue skies, and feeling joy. Everyone except the old lady. She remained in her regulation height lawn chair, bitter.

Inflatable Love
Love someone who will love you back
Buy a doll
Ditch your date

It was a surprise. We arrived at the Magic Theatre, I having no idea of what we were to see. I read the back of the brochure hurriedly thrust into my hands:

“Repressed desires and buried secrets resonate in apartment 3F, where Alfred and Myrna’s marriage of 34 years has become an exercise in protecting the status quo. Their world is turned upside down when two outlandish young men move in upstairs and a Hawaiian love goddess starts appearing naked across the street.”

The play had twists and surprises. Occasionally I laughed. It didn’t make me cry; it didn’t resonate as the best play ever. But it did make me think. About love.

After the play was over we discovered it was “discussion night.” The actors and actresses came back after the encore to discuss the play with the audience. There was a character in the play that was beautiful. Kahula was her name. She gave a speech, several in fact, about joining a community of love, for only $5000, after passing a test that required answers to such questions as “When you say the word love, where does it come from?” and “What does love taste like?” Most of the theater goers referred to Kahula as a con-artist. I turned to my companion. “She made people believe love exists. She gave them hope. She’s an angel sent to earth.”

While getting ready for the Black and White Ball I googled “tiara hairstyles.” Because I was just tired of wearing the same updo everytime I wore my tiara. And I found this nugget of wisdom, “Every girl or woman wishes to wear a tiara once in her life, this is because the tiara signifies more hope, magic, glamour, wealth, and sophistication than most women experience in a lifetime.” Amen, sister.

My birthday is this weekend and I’m giddy with anticipation. When asked how I wanted to celebrate, I told my friends, “It doesn’t matter. Just as long as the four of us are there. Surprise me.”

I had forgotten how much I love surprises. Love. Love. Love. Surprises. Knowing that there’s something planned, completely unknown, thrills me. They’ve given me clues throughout the week, but I still have no idea what we’ll be doing. Wear jeans. Bring tennis shoes. Bring a jacket. We might be outside. Wear cute going out clothes, just in case. Be ready to leave work at 4.

Without knowing it, they’ve already given me such a great gift – the anticipation that precedes something wonderful.

One of the perks of National Car Rental’s frequent renter program, the Emerald Club, is that at participating airports there is Emerald Aisle, rows of cars to choose from, no waiting in line, no looking for your assigned car. Choice. Convenience. Comfort. It’s all right there.

Recently, I followed the signs to Emerald Aisle. I looked around, perplexed, thinking I must be in the wrong place. One solitary car was parked there in the National parking lot. I caught the attention of the attendant. “Excuse me, excuse me, where is Emerald Aisle?”

She gave me the look. “Lady, you’re looking at it. Right there.”

“There? That’s one car. That’s not Emerald Aisle, that’s Emerald Island…”