When I left last time, she scolded me, “Lori, Lori, what is it? What are you holding on to? Just let it go. Your shoulder, it is the Berlin Wall. Let it go.”

I thought. I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t know what it was I was holding on to, but I did know my shoulders and back constantly ached. What was it?

It’s the one indulgence I have. Every month, I go to my Czechoslovakian massage therapist. She pounds, pulls, kneads, massages me. She imparts her wisdom. She gives advice. She tells stories. She always greets me with a kiss and sends me off with a hug. It’s the best hour of the month.

Today I rushed from work to get there by 7. BART was delayed; the city was crowded; I shuffled in, mumbling apologies for being late. “You are so beautiful. Look at you. Let me try your shoes.” I laughed, undressed, and slipped under the flat coolness of the cotton sheet.

She began her magic. What would my body tell her today that my words didn’t?

“So, my dear Lori. How’s life? What is new with you?” I laughed. “See, you know how to laugh. Some people, they laugh from their ears. Not you. It is from your stomach. It is from your soul. So, dear, what is new?”

Work’s good. Stressful, but good. I’m working long hours.

“You are happy. You are relaxed. No more Berlin Wall. What else, Lori dear?”

Well, I’ve met a boy. In fact, I met him on the day that I last came to you. At the party. I wore a skirt, like you suggested.

“See, Seka always knows. You have good legs. No hide them with the pants. Tell me.”

I talked for a while, then drifted into that state of barely consciousness as she manipulated my body, pulling me deeper and deeper away from this world.

“Sleeping beauty….” I felt her lightly touch my shoulders. “My dear, my sleeping beauty. It’s time to get up. Slowly, dear, slowly.”

I tried to open my eyes. I really did. The weight of happiness, of relaxation, of bliss, kept them closed. I stretched. My back cracked. My muscles unfolded. I dressed.

“Lori, dear. You are balanced. Yes, your energy, all different ways. Everywhere. But you are balanced. No more Berlin Wall. It is a good thing.”

Yes, Seka, it is.

We walked to our favorite Mexican lunch spot. As we neared, he said, “Hmm, there aren’t many cars in the parking lot. I wonder if they’re closed today.”

“No, they wouldn’t be closed. It’s July 6th. They’ve had plenty of time for a holiday.”

We walked closer. “But that charbroiled stove in the corner of the parking lot does concern me,” I said.

We came even nearer. “I think they are closed,” I offered. “It looks like maybe there was a fire – do you see all the debris in the parking lot?”

Sure enough, there was a note on the door. “Due to a minor kitchen fire, we’ll be closed for the next month.” Aiy-yai-yai, La Pinata. Our favorite Mexican lunch spot. Closed for a month. That’s unfortunate.

We re-traced our steps almost back to the office. We had two choices of Chinese restaurants. “Let’s go to this one,” I suggested, motioning towards the closer one. We walked several steps before noticing the “Closed” sign in the window. “Oh.”

I was ready to head back to the company cafeteria. “No, no, no,” he countered. “I know this other place is open.” We walked up and sure enough, they were open, lunch specials and all. Sometimes you just have to have a little persistence.

He called and invited me to the game. Then uninvited me. Then invited me again.

I laughed as I met him by the Willie Mays statue. “It’s so good to see you! Thanks for the invitation, sort of…”

We entered the box seats. We screamed as the Giants led, 6-1. “Spank them, baby, spank them,” I screamed. He laughed. “I think you’re mixing your metaphors…”

She and I went to the bathroom. She headed towards an unmarked door. “Hey, is that the right way? Are you sure that’s the women’s?” “The worst thing we’ll see is a few penises….” and we entered, the back way into the women’s restroom.

“Hey! It’s the top of the 7th inning. We need to go get another beer before they stop selling them.” I bounded towards the concession stand. He said, “Hey, let’s go to the bathroom first, then we’ll buy beers.” “Good plan,” I countered.

We went our separate ways, meeting up a mere minute later at the concession stand. “Sorry, he’s our last customer. It’s the top of the 8th.” Huh? We only were gone less than a minute. How could this be? The man in front of me said, “No, no, no, I said two beers, not one. Two beers.” She poured him another then he handed it to me. Sometimes it’s nice being a girl in tight blue jeans and red cowboy boots.

I had a Jill Scott moment this weekend. Right.

I’m still reading Eats, Shoots and Leaves and I love it. I can’t put it down on BART. I squeeze in just one more paragraph before starting work. Today I read all about the history behind colons and semicolons.

I thought back to the first time I used, really used well, really used correctly, the semicolon. Ahhhhhh. It was Freshman English 101 at UNC. David, that was my TA. David, the name embodied a Greek god. He embodied a Greek god. A mountain man from Boone, via way of the beaches of San Diego, ranches in Montana, other locales I could only dream of. He wore faded blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. His blonde hair encircled his head in tight ringlets. His blue eyes penetrated whatever, whomever, he looked at. He was the most exotic man, the most exotic person, I had ever met.

He had the practice of passing out sample compositions, asking us to read them, then challenging us to pick out the one, the two mistakes. I was torn. Should I give into my inner desire to identify the error, to embrace my language geekiness, to the mutual exclusion of popularity in class? Should I? The class was small; in the end I didn’t care. I couldn’t stay away from the pull of the language. I raised my hand. “Yes, Lori?” “Well, the second to the last paragraph contains a split infinitive.” He smiled; I had identified it correctly.

Pre-David, I didn’t know the correct usage of semicolons. I used them indiscriminately. As he pointed out. One day in his office, I remember it well, the sun streaming through the windows, the cool air of an autumn day in Chapel Hill, he dissected my paper with me. “What are you trying to say here? Do you know how to use a semicolon?” I thought for a moment. “Actually, no, I don’t.”

“You can only use a semicolon when connecting two complete thoughts.” He pointed out my errors. Pointed out where colons were appropriate, where commas should be inserted, where my lovely semicolon could rest peacefully.

I’ve felt a certain smugness since then. I don’t think most people know the correct usage of semicolons; I feel a special calling to insert them into my writing. I notice when others use them wrongly and think of David, his blue eyes staring at my composition, “Do you really know how to use a semicolon?”

So where does the typing go? I often have several programs open at the same time on my computer. After toggling back and forth, I’ll begin typing, only to look at the screen and realize the words aren’t there. I’ve typed them. I toggle again. They’re not in any program. Where have all the letters gone?

It’s not particularly original, but it did make me laugh. My friend was waiting for me to meet him for drinks; I was obviously taking longer than he expected. This appeared in my inbox:

Lori- Lori Loo, Where Are You?

We Got Some Work To Do Now.

Lori- Lori Loo, Where Are You?

We Need Some Help From You Now.

Come On Lori Loo, I See You . . .

Pretending You Got A Sliver.

But You’re Not Fooling Me,

Cause I Can See The Way You Shake And Shiver.

You Know We Got A Mystery To Solve,

So Lori Loo Be Ready For Your Act.

Don’t Hold Back!

And Lori Loo If You Come Through

You’re Gonna To Have Yourself A Lori Snack!

That’s A Fact!

Lori- Lori Loo, Here Are You.

You’re Ready And You’re Willing.

If We Can Count On You, Lori Loo,

I Know We’ll Catch That Villain.

I called him, didn’t even say hello, and just laughed. “You’ve made your point; I’m on my way.”

Every Friday is casual Friday. We’re allowed to wear jeans to work. Which I find simply preposterous. We’re adults. We’re in a business setting. Let us decide what is appropriate to wear and what isn’t. But I don’t set the policy.

For the first year at my office, my dress never changed between “business casual” Monday through Thursday and “casual” Friday. I always wore skirts or dress pants on Fridays. Then my co-workers started teasing me. “How come we never see you in jeans?” “Hello, there, Miss Fancy, too good to wear jeans?” “Do you even own a pair of jeans?”

I was embarrassed to admit that no, I did not. Well, I did. I do. One pair. From college, over 10 years ago. That were ripped and torn and faded and so not appropriate for anything but drinking cheap drinks in a dive bar. I’ve never thought I looked particularly good in jeans, so I never really focused on making them a part of my wardrobe.

My girlfriends decided to remedy the situation. One Saturday they took me to Gap. They were an excellent support system, bringing me multitudes of sizes, cuts, colors, and styles. And they were decisive. “No.” “Absolutely not.” “Mmm… no.” “Check out your ass!” So that was the pair I got.

As we were leaving Gap, we noticed the promo playing on the instore televisions featuring Missy Elliot and Madonna rapping, singing, dancing, all about Gap jeans. At some point someone in the video said, “Where’d you get them jeans?” and it’s stuck. Emmy and Tricia played out the situation come the next Friday in my office. I’d walk in, all sassy, strutting my new blues, posing by the copier, all the while the other office workers following me, spinning, imitating Missy and Madonna, their speech punctuated with, “Where’d you get them jeans?” A modern day West Side Story.

Each time I wear them out, Em and Tricia still comment, “Where’d you get them jeans?” and snicker.

I was having a particularly rough day at work today. I emailed Em for emotional support. We had plans to see a show tonight. I mentioned I wanted to go home after work, and change into my red cowboy boots and jeans to lift my spirits. She responded with, “Red cowboy boots and where’d you get them jeans are always good for the soul. Ole!” Couldn’t help but laugh.

Read this. By Lance. So true.

I look around me. I’m traveling first class, which I think is a mistake, but I’m going with it. I typed in my origin and my destination into our corporate travel web site and this is what came up. First class. I’m going to play along until someone stops me. This is what I see around me. Three older white men sleeping. Hands crossed in laps, head bowed. Two men (plus me) working on laptops. One on a work document, one organizing downloaded music files. And me. Observing them. One man reading the NWA magazine, concentrating on the article “A Ticket to the World,” news about Northwest’s partner airlines. Or maybe he’s sleeping. No, he’s really reading. Not sure why, but he is. Now he’s studying the types of planes Northwest flies. 16 747-400s. 17 747-200s. 8 A330-300s. 22 Dc-10s. 72 757-200/-300s. 148 A319/A320s. 164 DC-9-10/-20/-40/-50s. 36 RJ-85s. 94 CRJs. 64 Saab 340s. And the North American route systems. Where the hubs are. Where the flights go to. Now he’s joined the ranks of the sleepers. A man to my left, reading a paperback novel. Tom Clancy, perhaps???? Why am I the only woman in first class? The man next to me, awake now, listening to his iPod. Scanning through artists, selecting the one perfect one. Still scanning, still circling. More, more, more. Stop. Yes, that’s the one. Wish I could tell you what he was listening to, but can’t see it because of the glare. Two men in front of me, talking about a radio campaign. One sniffing a lot, as though he’s done too much cocaine in his lifetime. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Rad, man. Yeah. That’s it…” sniff, sniff, sniff…. A gnat flying around. I’ve tried to swat it several times, unsuccessfully. There it goes again. Fly, fly, fly…. Over my wine glass, over the man sleeping next to me… Fly, fly, fly… I’ll get you. Yes, I will.