He was resplendent. He was dressed from tiara to toe in white, accented by a platinum wig and silver sparkles. His floor length tulle skirt floated as he spun. His tight bodice bedecked with ribbons highlighted his slender torso. We oohed and aahed from afar. “He was here last year.” “What a beautiful fairy.” “No, he’s the Snow Queen.”

We were at The Dance-Along Nutcracker, a spectacular celebration where children and adults alike can don their best tutus and pirouette to Tschaikovsky’s familiar holiday tunes.

After two hours of dancing and leaping and twirling, I scurried across Yerba Buena Gardens to pick up a couple of quick holiday gifts. As I was leaving the Metreon, I found myself behind a white haired lady in a navy suit and matching pumps, her fat ankles opaqued by thick, supposedly nude hose. She was treating her six-year old granddaughter to a holiday excursion in the city.

“Look, dear, a bride,” she said in her frail, cracking voice. The little one swung her head this way and that, not seeing.

“Over there, dear, see? Aren’t weddings just wonderful? Look how pretty the bride is.”

I followed her gaze. There, in all his beauty, walked the Snow Queen with his tuxedoed King.

He picked me up just shy of 7:30 am. We had decided at the last minute to race in the Run To The Far Side. Well, he hadn’t. Decided last minute. I had. At about 11:30 last night I called him and said I’d do it.

On the way to the park I was getting myself organized. Money, id, and chapstick in my runner’s pocket in the center back of my shorts, velcroed shut snugly. Keys. Keys. What to do with the keys? I didn’t want to put them in my pocket. I’d tie them to my shoelaces. That would work.

I unlaced my shoelace and began to tie my keys to the lace. “Hmmm. But if I put them so far down I’ll have to unlace so much of my shoe just to get back into my building when I’m finished. That won’t be very convenient. But I don’t want them too close to the tie, because then they may inadvertently fall off. Maybe it’s better if they’re not laced at all. I’ll slip the ring through one of the loops on the shoe. That’s what I’ll do.”

He turned to me. “Lori!”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Did you just have an entire discourse about where to tie your keys?”

I thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“And you had it out loud?”

I thought again. “Yeah. I did. But don’t worry, everything’s taken care of now.”

I noticed the smell about a couple of weeks ago. I searched around the apartment, but couldn’t figure out what it was. It was familiar. Yes, it was. But what was it? Each day when I arrived home, nostrils untainted, I sniffed. And I sniffed. What was it? Cardboard? Mold? Wetness. That’s what is was. Wetness. But where?

I was determined to find the source of the smell. I cleaned. I scrubbed. I Cloroxed. I Lysoled. Where was it coming from? The kitchen, yes. But where? The recycling? No. The trash? No. Finally, I found it. The shelves. The knickknack shelves that daddy and I had created from the broom nook. The shelves were pushed out, the back wall buckled from moisture. That’s what the smell was, wet particle board. Yuck.

I called my landlady and she agreed, yes, it was not good. A couple of days later the plumber came. He tried to take out the affected wood and ended up knocking a hole through the wall in between my kitchen and my living room. The plaster just collapsed, weak from the moisture that had seeped through the walls.

She wasn’t comfortable with him. She wanted a second opinion. I returned home the next day to two holes in my ceiling and five messages on my answering machine. As I listened to the messages, all from my landlady, in each one the anxiety building, I laughed. This truly was comic.

Message 1: “Lori, I’m coming over in a few minutes with the new plumber. I just wanted to see if you were home.”

Message 2: “He can’t seem to find anything wrong. He sees the damage, but can’t find the source. We’re going to check the apartments above and below you.”

Message 3: “We’re on our way back to your apartment. There’s only minor damage in the apartments above and below you. Are you there?”

Message 4: “This doesn’t look good. He’s thinking he may need to take out more of the wall to get to the pipes. I’ll keep you updated.”

Message 5: “I don’t know if you’ll get this message first or see the holes in your ceiling first. We had to cut out portions of your ceiling. The plumber can’t fix anything until you physically see water dripping. Let me know if you see anything.”

Of course, I haven’t seen anything since the ceiling was decimated. The smell is still present; the wall (what remains) is still damp. But no water spouting forth from any of the exposed pipes. I wonder how long the waiting game will last?

I somewhat laugh about being kicked off the jury. Yes, I wanted it too badly. As one of my lawyer friends said, “You were totally Miss Goody Goody Juror Two Shoes.” Okay, maybe I was. But I found it quite disconcerting that everyone who had more than a college degree was dismissed from the jury. The doctor. The MBA. The several of us with Master’s degrees. One by one we were dismissed, all by the defense. What type of jurors were they looking for?

I wanted it so badly. So, so, so, so badly. I finally had been called for jury duty.

I arrived at the courthouse, questionnaire completed, eager to serve. I was one of the first called, beckoned to room 303. Luck of all luck, fate of all fates, I was the original juror number 9. I sat in the chair, so excited. Finally, at 36 years of age, I was honored, I was privileged, to serve on a jury. Having lived in countries where the justice system is perceived to be less than fair, I looked forward to participating in our system, flawed as it may be.

The case was one where a young man solicited an undercover policewoman for sexual favors. Bad choice, dude.

Each of us, all 18, stated our name, our neighborhood, how long we’ve resided in San Francisco, our profession, whether we’ve ever served on a jury before. The people’s lawyer began the questioning. “How do you feel about prostitution?” Not surprisingly, many jurors stated they felt it should be legal. This is San Francisco after all.

The defense began. “What are your thoughts about police officers working undercover?” Juror after juror responded. Finally, she called on me.

“Well. It really doesn’t matter my thoughts about police officers working undercover. What matters is, were they working within the limits of the law? If so, I support their actions. If the police officers were merely providing an environment in which a crime *could* take place, and the individual in question *chose* to solicit for prostitution, which we have established is currently illegal, then the individual should take responsibility for his actions, no matter what the environmental circumstances were. Having said that, however, I absolutely understand that our justice system is based on the premise that an individual is presumed innocent until proven guilty and I can absolutely be a fair and impartial juror in this case. Thank you.”

The defense looked at each other, then turned to the judge.

“We’d like the court to thank and dismiss juror #9.”

Nooooooooo…..

He surprised me with tickets to the opera. Tickets to La Grande Macabre. I had never heard of it, but I was excited nonetheless. A night at the opera! Dressing up! Going out! Good music! Good story! Good times!

He arrived earlier than expected. I was still cleaning the apartment. “Just let me finish vacuuming, then I’ll stop and hang out with you,” I offered.

“No need to stop. Go ahead and finish what you need to. That way, you really will feel like Cinderella later tonight when you dress up for the ball.”

Inexplicably, it was one of the sweetest things he’s ever said…

My head was about to burst. Must. . . have. . . Advil. . . now. . .

I found a travel packet of Advil. Four tablets. Perfect.

The clerk, trying to be helpful, explained that the Advil came with a cup. Huh? Never mind. Advil. Now. I can drink from my hand in the women’s bathroom.

I opened the package. Sure enough, there behind the two packets of dual Advil, was a paper cup. No, really an envelope. Printed with these words, “DRINKING CUP. ANOTHER INNOVATIVE IDEAS FOR THE “PEOPLE ON THE GO” Mechanical Servants, Inc. Melrose Park, IL 60160″

Please. An envelope disguised as a drinking cup is NOT an innovative idea. It’s an envelope, for God’s sake…

He asked her about the photographs on her refrigerator. The friends photos, the family photos, then the question, “Have you ever been married?”

“No. But I was engaged once.”

“Really? What happened?”

“Well, we dated for a long time. First in California, then when I moved to New York. Long distance for several years. He was a musician in California; I had a great sales job in New York City. We continued like that for several years. I finally moved back to California. We moved in together in Mill Valley, but then things didn’t work out. We split up shortly thereafter. Now I’m in San Francisco, and I’m not sure where he is.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “Wow. That’s a long story.”

Pause.

“Who is this family?”

“Well, that’s our family friends. We used to live next to each other in Pittsburgh, but then my dad got a job in Wisconsin and we moved away. They eventually moved to New York, but we still kept in touch. That was at Christmas last year. They flew out here and we all met up at my parent’s house.”

He again paused for a moment, then said, “Wow. That’s a long story.”

Weeks went by, neither one contacting the other.

He sent her an email. “Hey, what’s going on? Haven’t heard from you in awhile. Want to get together?”

She pondered. Did he really want to get together? Or was he playing the “I’ll write you but you’ll have to not write me back so that I have a clear conscience” game…

She wrote him back. “Things are great. I’d tell you why I haven’t written, but it’s a long story….”

I really thought Kerry would win. Is it because I live in a liberal state? Is it because I surround myself with liberal friends and acquaintances? Is it because I’m an eternal optimist? Doesn’t matter. I’m very sad.

“That’s what’s so beautiful about our friendship. We both get our wallets stolen – I file an insurance claim and you go to Vegas. And we’re both happy with the outcome.”