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…”

We’ve been going through a lot of changes at my company lately. Outsourcing some services, bringing others in house. One of the services we’ve decided to bring in house is the mail room. For years now Pitney Bowes has provided service, now it seems we can save money by running it ourselves. All of the current Pitney Bowes employees have applied for the newly created jobs. It’s been my job to interview them, somewhat of a formality, but necessary nonetheless. A strange phenomenon has emerged.

One of the questions I ask is “Tell me about a time when you had to work closely with someone you didn’t get along with. What was the situation and how did you handle it?” Basically, as long as they don’t answer, “He looked at me wrong and I took an axe to him,” they’re in. I ask this question to the first candidate. He looks at me with a blank stare then says, “I don’t understand. I get along with everyone.” I look back, somewhat incredulous. “You mean to tell me, in 15 years of dealing with customers, you’ve never not gotten along with someone?” He shrugs. “People get upset, it’s okay. I listen, I fix the problem. It’s all good.”

I ask the question to the second candidate. She says, “Oh, no, we all get along. No problems. We are one big happy family in the mail room. No problems.” I press further. That’s her story and she’s sticking to it.

The third, the fourth, the fifth candidates all answer similarly. Each time I get to that question in the interview, I start to smile, wondering if this candidate, too, will extol the virtues of working in the mailroom. They all do.

I’m in one of the last interviews. I ask the question, waiting for the answer, smiling to myself. “Oh, there is no not getting along. We all work together, we help each other out. Please, please, I ask you. Please do not hire only some of us. Don’t separate us. I really hope you can hire us all.”

After the interview I address my manager. “I’m officially entering my name as a candidate for the mailroom. I don’t know what they’re doing down there, but I want a piece of it.”

…was the name of the woodworker the couple next to me was discussing.

“I just wish he would get some teeth,” he said.
“He does good work; it shouldn’t matter what he looks like,” she countered. “Besides, dental work can be expensive. Maybe he can’t afford it.”
“Hell, if George Washington could carve dentures out of wood then surely Toothless Dean can. He is a woodworker after all…”