The petite, perky blond nudged her way up to the bar. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she nasaly whined. The bartender glanced her way. “Could we, like, you know, change this music?” The bartender disdainfully answered, “No,” and continued pouring drinks. As the petite blond poutedly left, the bartender turned to me. “How would she like it if I asked, ‘Could we, like, change the clientele?’”

Ring. Ring.

“How about dinner on Thursday?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got other plans.”
“A raincheck?” he continued.

The dilemma. Do I tell him I have other plans for every date he suggests and hope he gets tired of asking – the rather passive approach to ending a non-relationship, or do I directly tell him not to call anymore? I choose the latter.

I clear my throat. “Well. No. I don’t want to go out again. Thanks, though.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. The last time we went out I felt uncomfortable and I’d rather not go out again.”

Pause.

Now he clears his throat, “Okay. But let me list all the things that you’ve done (on the TWO dates we’ve gone out on – emphasis mine) that have made you unattractive to me. I didn’t like it when you…”

More curious than anything at this point, I listen. This has to be going somewhere.

After listing several things that I did that he didn’t like he ends with, “And in spite of all of these things, I am still willing to give you another chance.”

Now it is my turn to pause. I’ve dated a lot of men. I’ve broken up with many men. But I have never, ever had a man try to convince me to continue dating him by detailing all the things that he dislikes about me. Call me crazy, but I’m guessing the success rate, probably not so high.

We go there for its laid back atmosphere. It’s never crowded; we always sit at the sushi bar and banter with the chefs. After an evening at the museum, that was what we wanted – a place to unwind, to talk, to enjoy good food.

Why was every seat in the restaurant taken, along with every seat at the sushi bar? On a Thursday night? I had never seen this many people at this sleepy neighborhood joint in all my visits there. Combined. And there was music. Of sorts. An older woman with makeup caked on, a Glamour Shots shoot gone awry, crooned at one end of the room.

We looked around. It was an … artsy crowd. Lots of mismatched clothes. Juxtaposition of ghastly white skin and India ink black hair. Blood red lips and heavily kohled eyes.

We noticed a flyer. “The Queen of Jazz” cd release party, March 3, 7-10 pm. That explains it. The woman sitting at the sushi bar to our right was saying, “And what kind of mascara do you find best?” He replied, with a flourish, “Well, I use it all… You really aren’t going to make me choose, dear, are you???”

After perusing the room for a few moments we raised our eyebrows at each other.
“Do you…” I started.
“…think we stand out?” he finished.
“Yeah,” I replied, “But why?”
He paused then smirked, “Maybe that we’re the only normal ones in here?”

A larger than life Chairman Mao, resting peacefully, in his government issued pajamas, snuggled under his government issued blanket, surrounded by tens of thousands of tiny plastic dinosaurs, all made in China. Green, blue, red, orange, ochre, salmon, groups of brightly colored variations of dinosaurs – Tyrannosaurus Rex, Brachiosaurus, Stegosaurus, Ceratops, Albertosaurus, Allosaurus – all clumped in tightly packed groups, swirling in trippy patterns towards the Chairman, just beneath his platform bed, supporting his sleep of reason.

Awesome.

On my morning walk to BART I see the usual suspects. Professionals hurrying to work. Homeless curled in doorways. Panhandlers hustling for a quarter, a dollar, anything you got. He approached me in a wavering unanticipated movement. “Hey!” I kept my eyes lowered and kept walking. “Hey! You! In the green jacket.” Oh. That would be me. You would think 10 years in the city would render me impervious to such beckonings. You would think. I turned and raised my eyebrows to indicate, “Yes? What do you want?” “You! You’re as beautiful as a squash!”

On the 38 Geary, squished in the evening commute, attempting to avoid the jostles and jabs of my fellow passengers, I tower over the two minute Asian women in front of me, one older, one a student. A burly specimen towers behind me, constantly poking me as the bus jerks, starting and stopping abruptly. He rings the bell, indicating this is his stop. He tries to dart out of the door. The tiny student gently places her arm on his. “Excuse me,” she susurrates, “I believe you have my wallet.” Without looking he hands it back to her and bolts out the door.

While browsing here, I saw this and thought it to be the perfect gift for a friend, somewhat tongue in cheek. I placed my order on Amazon, requesting it to be delivered to my work address, since I’m never home. The day it was delivered I was not in the office. Unfortunately, it was delivered to my old department (I recently moved from Training to Human Resources). My former administrative assistant was expecting an order from Amazon, reference books for our corporate library. Not paying attention to the address label, she opened the box. And was shocked to find what lay inside. Needless to say, it wasn’t what she was expecting and she expressed her dismay at the contents. Did I mention I work for a fairly conservative company?

I returned to the office the next day after attending an employment law seminar about harassment in the workplace to an opened box and a explanatory note on my desk. Oh, the irony.

The headwinds were against us – the flight that usually seems to pass in an instant drug on. and on. and on.

The pilot finally announced our descent into Oakland; my popping ears verified his words. I peered out the window. I love to watch the lights of the city grow larger and larger as we near the ground. All was dark, except for what appeared to be the runway lights. Had we landed? Not possible. I hadn’t felt a thing.

A deep, silky, let-me-be-your-man voice came over the p.a. system. “Smoooooooooooooooooooooooooth.”

We so had landed.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

“We’ve got to get up! It’s the Chinese New Year parade today!” I couldn’t believe my luck. Not only did I get to experience The Gates while in New York City, I also was able to attend the Chinese New Year Parade. It doesn’t matter what the cause, if it’s a celebration, I’m happy. Gloriously, deliriously, drunkenly happy.

We pushed, shoved, fought our way through the throngs of people gathered to watch the parade. Floats with waving beauties passed before us. Elegant dancers gently waving fans glided past. Dragons of all colors, shapes and sizes slithered by. And then. The parade was over. The police, New York’s finest, hustled us out of the streets and back to the sidewalks.

I heard a loud “pop!” then was hypnotized by the enchanting confetti drifting from the sky. Blues, greens, magentas, yellows, twirling, swirling, spinning, twisting from the sky. Another “pop!” behind us. Another deluge of colors, landing on us, beside us, underneath us. For half an hour we made our way through the crowd, every so often stopping, mesmerized by the shower of colors around us. “Happy New Year,” an elderly Chinese woman spoke in broken English. I replied, in broken Chinese, “Gung Hay Fat Choy.” Smiles were exchanged, wishes conferred. A magical moment in New York City.