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…”

One
“He just broke into that car.”

“Run after him,” I said. And with that, he was off, across the intersection, then across it again. The thief was trying just a little too hard to appear nonchalant, stolen computer bag slung across his shoulder, jauntily strutting down the nearly deserted street in the Financial District.

“Hey,” he shouted. The thief turned around, saw he was being chased, and began to run. “Hey!” he shouted again. “Drop the bag!” At which point the thief did, and continued running.

I caught up to him and we gathered the scattered contents. Laptop, camera, work papers, passport, id badge… We found a business card and called the number. It being after hours, his voice mail answered. I felt like the thief. “Hey, we’ve got your stuff. Call me.”

We walked back to the violated car, alarm still blaring. Broken glass graced the sidewalk. Shattered pieces, smooth small rounds. A mosaic of brokenness.

Two
I had avoided unpacking the box for years. Not for any particular reason, just.

Shortly before I left my ex-husband my mother sent her punch bowl set to me, thinking I could use it for the many parties she knew we hosted. I left him; I left the box, still unpacked at our old house. He lived there for another four years; the box sat, unnoticed, unopened, in the basement. Until he sold the house. While packing, he noticed the unopened box addressed to me, from my mother. He gave it to a mutual friend. It sat in her basement for at least a year, until she remodeled her house. It then came to my apartment, my small apartment here in the city. And sat in a corner of my bedroom, serving as somewhat of a nightstand, for months.

Until this weekend. A friend suggested I have a punch bowl party, so I braved the box. I untaped it, and began unpacking the individually wrapped cups, each a different pattern. I unwrapped, I washed, I marveled. Such beautiful patterns. What parties had they seen? Cup after cup emerged from the box. I anticipated the parties I would have. And then. Then. The punch bowl. Shards of broken glass greeted me. The punch bowl was no more.

Three
We were walking to the bus stop after a leisurely dinner. “Why are you kicking rocks at me?” he teased. “Me? You’re kicking rocks at me….” and we laughed. A few steps later I heard the cascade of glass beads striking the sidewalk. I stood, paralyzed. It was one of the few tokens I have of my grandmother. Her pink glass, double strand, uber funky, super retro necklace. Half of which was now rolling down Divisadero Street. All I could muster was an “Oh, nooooo.” He was already on his knees, searching for the beads; I was clutching my neck where the strand once lay.

Come on out tonight, Cinco de Mayo, to show your highly Americanized Mexican holiday spirit in addition to supporting the Wellness Community, a non-profit, cancer fighting dynamo that will save the world.

Thursday, May 5th – The Tongue & Groove
Doors at 7PM, $5 donation before 9 PM, $8 donation after 9 PM.
Porkchop Express – 8:30 – 9:15
More Cowbell – 9:35 – 10:20
Dr. Masseuse – 10:45 – 12:15

1
Emily, still outside, mimicked me to the rest of the group, “According to California law, that’s illegal. Excuse me, I have to run, I have to break into the facility now…”

2
At the beer stand – choices, light or dark.
“What’s the light?” he asked.
“Bud,” the cashier replied.
“What’s the dark?”
“Don’ know. Kin check fer you.”

3
As we watched a van get pounded by a truck-crushing machine, entertainment during one of the intermissions, a nearby teenage girl whooped, “That ain’t crushed….”

When I received the invitation, I wasn’t sure if it was sincere or a joke. Come to a bbq followed by a Monster Truck Rally. None of us had ever been to a monster truck rally; we were all curious, so we packed the car and headed north.

We walked towards the fairgrounds. This sign greeted us:

Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore…