I was in Seattle for the day, attending a Project Management class. I sat at a table of Expedia attendees and they were as entertaining as the presenter. Neil, who sat beside me, introduced himself as the CEO, though I knew it wasn’t true. He exhibited dry wit and sarcasm throughout the day, which made the class quite entertaining.

At one of the breaks, his co-worker, Jane, started rifling through his bag. She found a pack of Marlboro Menthols. “What is this? What is this? You smoke? What is this?”

Neil played it off. “For emergencies. I’m not a smoker. I simply have them just in case. Just in case I have an urge.” He looked to me for support.

“Neil, I’ve had your back all day, but on this one, I’m with Jane. If you have a pack of cigarettes in your bag, you’re a smoker. Quit denying it.”

“It’s not like that. Okay. It’s like this. You’re a woman.”

“Yes. I am.” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

“So, you might carry around… you know… just in case….”

“Dude. You are NOT suggesting that carrying around a tampon is the equivalent to toting a pack of cigarettes. First of all, my period is inevitable. I know it’s going to happen. At least once a month. So therefore, if I choose to carry a tampon, I’m being prepared. It’s not about choice. Smoking is a choice. It’s not inevitable that you will HAVE to have a cigarette.”

He offered a smirk, knowing his analogy was not accurate.

“Let’s break it down, Neil. Let’s say, for instance, I carried around a flask of gin, just in case I happened to want a drink. Now, when I’m toting my flask, would you call me a drinker?”

He tore a piece of paper off his notepad then waved it back and forth.

“White flag. I surrender. You’ve made your point. I’m a smoker…”

“So, I have a question for you. When we’re getting ready in the morning, do you wonder…” I began.

“Oh, my god. If we’re thinking the same thing…”

“Do you wonder what other people do for a living? Do you watch them get ready and wonder what job they’re heading off to?”

“Actually, I do. But what I thought you were going to say is ‘what names do they have for us’?”

See, we have nicknames for a lot of people at the gym. There’s “Nice Lady.” She’s the one who shares the one single electrical outlet in the women’s locker room, always with a smile. She practices good locker room etiquette, making just enough small talk, but not too much, and never when we’re naked.

There’s “Miss 24-Hour Fitness.” She’s the one who is hard core workout queen and who knows everyone at the gym, spending as much time socializing as working out. She makes her rounds, chatting with just about everyone, both in English and Spanish, the young hipsters and the more mature morning senior crowd.

There’s “Crazy Gym Lady.” She’s friends with “Miss 24-Hour Fitness” and truly is crazy. She gets on the treadmill, increases the incline to maximum, runs hard for three minutes, then whoops and screams, “Oh, yeah! I did it! Look at me!” as she tugs on the waistband of her cut-off, rolled sweats to prevent her lacy thong from peeping out, then prances to another machine.

There’s “The Grunter.” He’s the one who neither one of us can workout nearby; he grunts and screams and just makes us laugh. He can’t seem to stand still; he’s always bouncing from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together, saying, “Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! That’s it, baby! Harder! Give it to me!” While pumping iron.

There’s “Stinky Woman,” the one who never showers after an intense workout. She spends enough time lathering herself with smelly body products that she could shower. But she never does. We wonder if her co-workers notice.

We have names for just about everyone.

“So what do you think they would call us, if they did call us?” I asked.

“Well, I think you would be ‘Tall Gym Girl’.”

“Tall Gym Girl?” I inquired. “Why? I’m only 5’8″.”

“But you carry yourself much taller. You’re now known as ‘Tall Gym Girl.’” I shrugged my shoulders. Okay. I guess there are much worse things I could be known as.

“How about you?”

“I think I’m known as ‘Mean Gym Girl.’ I never speak to anyone. I never make eye contact. I’m ‘Mean Gym Girl.’”

“But you’re not mean. You’re friendly to people you know.”

“But if I’m ‘Mean Gym Girl’ then I don’t have to talk to all the crazy people we have names for. See, you make the mistake of making eye contact. I, on the other hand, have a peaceful workout.”

She’s got a point…

It was the morning for my monthly massage. That one hour that does as much for me mentally as well as physically. Seka, my Czechoslovakian angel, always imparts words of wisdom during our 60 minutes together.

I arrived; she kissed me with her greeting. “Bella, how are you? You look so good, so good. Any pains? Any injuries?”

I smiled, immediately at ease. “No, just the shoulder. Too much computer work. But nothing else.”

“And how is the boy?”

I paused, took a deep breath, then sighed, “The boy is no more. We’re not seeing each other.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two months.”

“Lori, bella, you are so lucky. You had two months of love. Of butterflies. I am 57 years old. Do you know how many of my friends have never felt that? I talk to them about the butterflies and they say, ‘Butterflies? What are these butterflies of which you speak?’ You are always telling me about the butterflies. You are very, very lucky.”

I thought for a moment. We did have two very fun months together. The nights on his boat. The picnic on the beach. Sharing roast beef sandwiches and Merlot in 15 knot winds. Not caring that the sand cut our faces. The nights at Tommy’s, sipping Herradura anejo and sharing stories. A weekend in Vegas. Dancing until sunrise. Tender kisses. Simply being with each other, my head in his lap, as we watched movies, lazily talking about whatever entered our minds. And the laughter. So much laughter.

But there were problems. Problems that eclipsed the laughter, problems that crept into the lazy moments, casting doubt on the reality we experienced.

But for now, I choose not to remember those. As she kneads at me, as she eases all tension from my stiff muscles, I choose only to remember the love.

In the past week, I’ve had two men tell me, “I can’t give you what you want.” How can this be? I don’t even know what I want. How can they? Can you clue me in? Please.

He called. “Hey, want to come to the A’s game? I have luxury box tickets.”

Hmm. I was working late. Deadlines. I wasn’t going to finish tonight. I was going to have to come in tomorrow, on Saturday, anyway. Work late? Go to the ballgame? Work late? Hmmm.

“Sure. When should I meet you there?”

A mere hour later, we were at the park. We were trying to find Loge seats, booth 58. There it is. We entered. I was shocked. We are in a tiny room with a couple of rows of auditorium style seats. We introduced ourselves to the others in the room, media big wigs from neighboring cities. After helping ourselves to the refreshments provided, we settled in to watch the game. After a couple of at bats, I turned to him. “You know, I feel like I should really appreciate these seats, but …”

“What?” he asked.

“This just ain’t right. We’re at a ballgame. I need to be down there (pointing to field seats). I need to be with the people.”

I’m just not a luxury type of gal.

I walked towards my gate. I was early. Go to the gate? Read? Get something to eat? Grab a beer? I saw a group of six men sitting at one of the tables in the bar near my gate. As I approached they busted out into the chorus of “My Girl.” I glanced up; they were staring. I laughed a slight laugh and walked to a table in the bar. The bartender was very attentive; he brought me a beer right away.

I sat, typing away, occasionally noticing the boisterous group across the way from me. Older men, several wearing baseball caps. Polo shirts, Bermuda shorts, sandals, some with socks, some sans. Tanned, sunglasses on head, mid-life men out for a vacation. I guessed they were golfers. They had that golfer look.

I continued typing. One glanced over at me as he was finishing his chicken satay. He put the stick up to his mouth, cigar style, and performed a quite impressive impression of Groucho Marx. I laughed again, this time more whole heartedly, then continued my typing.

A few minutes later two of them approached the bar. As they waited for their gin and tonics they struck up a conversation. “So, where are you heading to?” they intoned with a slight nasal accent.

“San Francisco,” I replied.

“Oh, you’re so lucky. Beautiful city.”

“Thank you. Going home. How about you?”

“Vancouver. Been here to golf.” I knew it. They so looked like golfers.

“Special occasion?”

“It’s his 39th birthday. At one time,” the one with crystal clear blue eyes responded with a laugh.

We chatted about Canada, Whistler, San Francisco, Marin, travel, golf, then the one with the blue eyes said, “What’s up with your ring?”

“This? It’s just a ring.”

“What is it? Amethyst?”

I was impressed he even knew what amethyst was. “No. Not amethyst. Amethyst is purple. This is, this is…” How to explain it? It was my impulsive purchase. My JLo pink diamondique obnoxious sparkly, I-love-to-shine ring.

“It’s just a ring. Just…”

“It matches your skirt,” he said.

“Exactly. It matches my skirt. That’s why I’m wearing it. It’s my bling bling.”

They laughed. We talked a little more, then they returned to their group of golfers.

A few minutes later the final boarding call for Vancouver was announced. They picked up their bags, headed towards the gate, turned around, and belted out a final serenade, “My girl… Talking about my girl…”

I’m fickle. I know that. I now have a new favorite hotel for business travel.

We were due to teach a class in Albany, Oregon, the day after teaching a class in Vancouver, Washington, the day after teaching a class in Portland, Oregon. I suggested that we finish our class in Vancouver, drive to Albany, spend the night there, then be right there in town, ready to teach the next day. Maximum efficiency. She agreed.

In Monday’s class they asked us where we were staying. We told them The Phoenix Inn in Tigard, but that we would be driving to Albany after Tuesday’s class and staying there. Raised eyebrows greeted us, followed by incredulous comments, “You’re staying in Albany? Are you sure? Where?”

“The Comfort Inn.”

“Oh. You don’t want to stay there. That’s in between an adult book store and a truck stop. Plus, it smells.”

I glanced at my colleague. She shrugged. Neither of us had ever been to Albany.

“Don’t stay at The Comfort Inn. There’s a cute bed and breakfast downtown. The Trainhouse. If you must stay in Albany, at least stay there.”

I conferred with my colleague. The cancellation policy for The Comfort Inn was by 4pm day of arrival. We decided to try the bed and breakfast.

She called information for the Trainhouse. No such listing in the directory. “That can’t be,” I said. “I’ll find it.” Monday night I googled the Trainhouse. And found a rudimentary, but somewhat over informative website. How long the owners had been married. Where they went to school. The names and decor of the rooms. What to do in downtown Albany. Quaint. Very quaint. Three rooms total. But it could be interesting. I wrote down the phone number, figuring that Sheila could make reservations at the Trainhouse and cancel reservations at The Comfort Inn during as I drove to Vancouver the next day.

First, the phone call to make reservations. Don’t cancel before you have a sure thing.

“Hi, do you have two rooms available for tonight?” she asked. She waited. A few pleasantries exchanged.

She related later that the woman on the phone suddenly switched her tone and demanded, “Who is this????”

Sheila explained who she was and that she wanted two rooms for the evening.

“Oh, I thought you were my sister, making a prank call.” Whatever.

One reservation for the Trainhouse Inn, one cancellation for The Comfort Inn.

After Tuesday’s class, the participants wanted to know where we were staying. “Albany – at a bed and breakfast.”

Again, incredulous looks. “Don’t stay there. Oh. So don’t stay there. Stay in Portland. Drive down there tomorrow morning.”

We again exchanged glances.

“It smells. Seriously. It smells in Albany. You simply must stay in Portland. Then drive to Albany in the morning. Here, I’ll have my admin make the arrangements for you.”

Moments later we had reservations at the Westin in Portland and had left a message for the Trainhouse saying we weren’t coming.

We drove to Portland, valeted the car, and checked into our rooms. The first thing I noticed was that the bed, meticulously made, had pressed sateen sheets and multiple pillows, one of which said, “Oui.” What could you not like about a bed that beckoned you with the word “yes” in a foreign language?

I prepared for bed. I finished email, pressed my clothes for the next day, took a long hot bath (in the bathroom with marble floors and a separate shower and bath), then slid into bed. Into bed? Or into clouds, merely masquerading as a bed? I sank down. My head rested comfortably in the down pillows. Within moments, I was sound asleep.

“Good morning, Miss McLeese. This is your 5:50 wake up call. Would you like another?”

Ohhhhhhh…. morning. But, the chance to sleep longer. “Yes…. 10 more minutes, please.”

I drifted back to sleep. Ahhhhh, comfort. Softness all around. The weight of the comforter against my bare skin. Bliss.

Ring. Ring. “Good morning, Miss McLeese. This is your 6:00 wake up call. Would you like another?”

“No. No. I’m up. Thank you,” I replied groggily.

“Today’s weather will be 94 degrees. Have a great day.”

I couldn’t believe they had actual people dialing the wake up calls. Not an automated service, real people. That talked to you then told you the weather. That’s service.

When I found out we were teaching a class in Portland, I emailed my colleague:

“Let’s stay at the Phoenix Inn. They have awesome fresh baked cookies when you check in.”

She emailed back:

“But how are the rooms?”

This is by far my favorite hotel to stay in when traveling for business. It’s not particularly fancy, but it does have free wi-fi (a recent addition they’re very proud of), homemade cookies every afternoon (today’s were oatmeal raisin, my favorite), a 24 hour pool, free “expanded” breakfast (which includes eggs, yogurt, fresh fruit, waffles, and oatmeal), and feather pillows. And an adorable front desk staff.

The last time I stayed here, I was alone. After a long day of teaching, I decided to venture into downtown Portland. I asked the front desk staff for recommendations. The two young girls conferred, then told me about a restaurant on the river with the comment, “It’s so romantic. It’s where we went for prom! You’ll love it!” Not exactly what I was looking for as a single business traveler, but their enthusiasm touched me. I thanked them then found a brew pub on my own.

There is something very comforting about a non-pretentious front desk staff. And a pool that’s yours for the swimming any time of the night or day. You’ve got my business, Phoenix Inn.

that this banana is $1.46. Do you still want it?”

I looked at her quizzically. When someone begins a sentence with the words, “I’m required to tell you…” I expect time sensitive or potentially life altering information to follow. In my world, the price of bananas is neither.

I nodded. “Yes, I still want it.” This was my dinner, along with a quart of water, on my way to Portland. Terminal one has slim pickings as far as eateries are concerned.

She smiled as she rung up my purchase. “Just think, one day you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you paid $1.46 for a banana!”

Again, I looked at her quizzically. First of all, that’s a huge assumption that I’ll even have grandchildren. Secondly, an even larger assumption that I’ll be telling them about the price of bananas. “Thanks,” I muttered as she handed me my change.

The businessman in the pressed suit behind me also had a banana. “I’m required to tell you…” she began.

He interrupted, “I still want it. I know it costs $1.46.”

She rang him up. I turned to face him and in all seriousness said, “You, too, will be able to tell your grandchildren you paid $1.46 for a banana.”

He burst out laughing. Happy times at SFO.

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in our society. Lying has become acceptable. Even encouraged. Witness.

In this week’s New York Times top stories:

“A Race to Be First to Break Someone’s Heart, but It’s Only a Game” – an article about the newest reality tv show, in which

“a model is given a chance to break the hearts of ladies’ men before they break hers, appears to be devoted exclusively to savoring the glories of the words “player” and “game.”

Dawn, the club-hopping model, sets the tone: “If I get one of these players to fall for me, I’m the player. If I fall for them, I could get played.” She dilates: “I’m a player, and when you’re a player you have game. And I’m good at the game.”…

… Her explanation of the show, in fact, is something of a reality masterpiece:

“A player is someone who really isn’t looking to settle down with anybody, but he’s so charismatic and charming that you don’t even care that they’re with other people. You just want to be with them, and have fun. The tricky part is that sometimes someone’s game can get so good that you actually fall for them, and you’ll end up getting your heart broken, and you’ll end up getting played. And that’s what this game is all about.” New York Times, By VIRGINIA HEFFERNAN, Published: August 3, 2004

So the rallying cry “play or be played” is simply “lie or be lied to.”

The concept of this show bothered me, but then I read this article, summarized here:

Escape A Date – “If you’re going out on a date, you can arrange to have your cellphone ring at a specified time. The call guides you through a script that makes it sound, to the gullible party across the table, as if you’ve got to rush off. Think of it as a wake-up call with benefits. If the date’s going well, just don’t answer.

Dating has always been a game of sorts, but the gaming has gotten more serious. Witness “The Player,” a new reality show about competitive heartbreaking on UPN. Those contestants could really use the Escape-A-Date service, which Cingular calls an added “functionality,” except that their dates probably already suspect that they’re being gamed – a new euphemism for being lied to.” The New York Times, Opinion, August 5, 2004

Excuse me, you have to have a third party service get you out of a date that isn’t going well? Whatever happened to honesty? The “It’s nice to meet you, but I don’t think this is working out.” Or, “I enjoyed meeting you, but I don’t think we should continue seeing each other.” Whatever happened to accountability? I abhor the fact that this new service exists, and, that it will probably be quite successful.

People. Be honest with yourself. Be honest with others. What’s so hard about that?