Designing Woman

We have a routine. We always go to North Lake Tahoe, stopping at our favorite mom and pop cafe for an egg bagel to fuel a day of boarding. Having been offered free lift tickets to South Lake Tahoe for the weekend, we accepted. About 2 hours into the trip, we were famished. McDonald’s and Burger King’s greeted us. Fast food snobs that we are, we pressed on.

We stopped at Caffeine Cuisine. It looked promising. Fresh baked goods greeted us in the display case. As I perused the menu, E asked the counter girl, “Do you have egg bagels?”

The young thing peered at us and in all seriousness replied, “Well, not now, but we’re in the process of designing one. We should have one designed by, you know, April or so.”

I suppressed a snicker. I’ve got a design for an egg bagel. Scramble an egg and throw it on a toasted bagel. Design fees payable to LoriLoo.

Unsolicited Support

Heavenly may be heaven for skiers, but for us snowboarders it was hell. Half the day was spent with our boards half-way or completely off, traversing across flat runs. Flat. No slope. No inertia. Struggling to make our way across an unwelcoming plane. In the chair lift, our jackets zipped to the top, breathing into our scarves to generate heat, we watched the skiers and snowboarders below us. One boarder had just reached a flat area, unnavigationally narrow, the mountain ascending on one side, the cliff descending on the other. He shuffled. He hopped. We felt his agony. We knew the torture of being stuck on a flat. He started, ever so slowly, to slide across the flat plane. We cheered, ecstatic he had succeeded. He had challenged the mountain and won. Hearing shouts, distracted, he looked up. We gave him thumbs up, as excited for his success as he. Our ecstasy turned to astonishment, then to appall, as we saw him lose his balance, tumble, his helmet disappear over the edge of the path, down, down, down…

Living It Up

After a tiring day of traversing, we returned to the hotel. As we entered the lobby, beat and bedraggled, I suggested we grab a bottle of wine from the bar to take up to our room to sip while getting ready for dinner. The bartender presented E with a lovely bottle of Merlot and 3 glasses; I carried our helmets and gear. Walking down the long corridor to our room, we passed a young man, perhaps our age, perhaps a tad younger. “Living the high life, are you?” he laughed. E smiled , tinkling the wine glasses. “We’re trying,” she answered demurely. He seemed startled and quickened his pace. I burst out laughing. “E, he was on his hands free, talking on the phone; he wasn’t talking to us…”

Rockin’ at the Hard Rock

To get to the Sports Book we had to pass through the Hard Rock Cafe. We entered, lights low, neon signs illuminating the edges of the establishment. Delicate sounds drifted our way. He stopped in his tracks, rolled his eyes, and exclaimed, “Great. Just what I want to hear when I come to the Hard Rock, a flute solo.”

Right-Handed Man

We sat down in the booth, our plates loaded with Sunday breakfast foods: bacon, eggs, pancakes, biscuits. Exactly what we needed to fuel a day on the slopes. As R finished his plate, our waitress, Kathy, came by, offering to refill our water glasses. As she poured Ignacio appeared along side her, silently removing our emptied plates. She laughed a maniacal laugh. “This here is Ignacio. He’s my right-handed man. He makes my job look easy.” Laugh, laugh, laugh. When she left, E leaned over. “Her job is easy – it’s a buffet.”

While at a baby shower the topic of the future bambino’s name invariably arises at some point during the evening. While discussing potential names, one guest said, “My parents didn’t name me until I was three.”

I looked at her in surprise. Surely I misheard. “Did you just say that your parents didn’t name you until you were three?”

“Yep.”

“So, what did they call you?”

“Many things: ‘hey you,’ ‘sweetie,’ ‘honey,’ but mostly just ‘baby girl.’ That’s what’s on my birth certificate.”

“Your parents called you ‘baby girl’ for three years?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah. They wanted my personality to emerge before they named me. Then one day when I was three Mom said, ‘Sunny!’ and I turned my head. It stuck. That’s what they called me from then on.”

To her, I simply smiled and nodded. In my head, I played out various scenarios. What if her mom had just dropped a hammer on her toe and in pain exclaimed, “Crap!” What if her husband had asked her what she wanted for breakfast and she yelled “Pancakes!” What if a friend had asked her what movie she wanted to see and she had enthusiastically answered, “Alien!” Sunny’s a lucky gal.

In front of me a young woman talks on her cell phone about this month’s water bill.

“Well, yeah, but I still don’t think I should pay as much. I mean, I don’t shower everyday. At most I take a shower 3 times a week. At most. And not a bath, but a shower. Not much water.”

pause

“Still. I only did laundry once last month. That didn’t use much water either.”

pause

“Could I at least get credit for the stamp I put on the envelope?”

He laid on the bed on the salesfloor, nursing his hangover, enjoying a respite from the overwhelmingness a trip to IKEA always brings.

I walked towards him, eager to rouse him and finish our trip. Enough of this dillydallying – let’s get out of here. Chop chop. No time to waste.

He looked up at me, smiling. “Hey, what’s it take to get room service around here?”

I nudged Stas. “What’s he eating?” I tilted my head to the right, to the giant white utility pick-up truck stopped beside us at the light.

He looked. Our top was down, as was his window. “Hey, what you got there?”

The elderly man smiled. “Ribs…” he drawled.

In his hand was a huge chunk of barbecued meat, glistening, smelling delicious.

“Where’d you get it?” I asked, eager to follow suit.

“Made it…” he drawled again, a trickle of sauce slowly making its way down his thumb.

This time it was Stas’ turn. “Got anymore?” he asked.

The old man smiled as he ripped off another bite. “Nope…” we heard as the light turned green and the man and his meat disappeared.

Emily handed me the tissue-wrapped package. I laughed because I already knew what it was; earlier in the day she had shown me the purses she had brought back from Argentina and asked me what color I wanted.

I feigned surprise. “I love it! It’s the perfect color!” We laughed and she instructed me to look inside. I opened the purse; I beheld my favorite brand of lip balm, which surprisingly you can only buy outside of the US, and a small black box, vaguely familiar.

I know it’s a Greek tradition to include money inside a new purse, is it an Argentinean one to include condoms? I looked at her somewhat perplexed.

“They’re not condoms – read the package!” she giggled.

GET IN! Lubricante Intimo

The best name for a product ever.

“Are you a member of our frequent buyer program?” he asked me as I purchased several birthday cards.

“No,” I said as I handed him cash.

“Would you like to be?”

I thought. One more card to keep up with. I join all these programs then lose the cards. “Sure.”

“You know, we have locations everywhere, not just in San Francisco. Even in the Midwest.”

I look like I’m from the Midwest? Oh, Lord.

… from New Year’s Day.

“I know where I think I was at midnight…”

The party invitation went out – bring out your best 80’s attire and re-experience the magic of prom, New Year’s Eve. Growing up in the south (in the 80’s) prom was a very belle-ish occasion. Big skirts (be careful of that hoop now, ya’ hear?), lots of ruffles, and single strands of pearls.

I thought back to my prom experiences. One year one girl had made everyone’s tongues wag because, horror of horrors… she wore a straight dress! Strapless, straight, and not pastel. In she sauntered on the arm of her college-aged boyfriend. Scandal.

As New Year’s Eve fastly approached, I dreaded shopping for a hoop skirt. Where would I even find a hoop skirt in San Francisco? And then it hit me. I would be her. I would be the one in the straight dress. And I just happened to have one in my closet, a one-shouldered, red snakeskin, slinky number I bought, but where else, in Las Vegas.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so glamorous. My hair teased up, my face sparkling, my red snakeskin hugging my curves with a fur stole tossed casually over my shoulders: Welcome, 2005!

The taxi driver’s accent sounded Arabic, but I wasn’t sure.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Guess. You will never know.”

“What is your first name?”

“Aziz.”

I thought for a moment. “Morocco.”

He spun around, eyes wide open. “How do you know? You have had Moroccan man before?”