The best part of dancing salsa has been the people I've met...and within that group the women (i.e., Saleras). I don't know what's more fun, dancing with a variety of crazy characters, or talking about the guys you've danced with your friends. There's nothing like sharing a horrible dance experience with your friend to take the sting out of it (the guy smelled, groped you, yanked you, danced horrifically off the beat, accused you of being horrifically off the beat, burned his eyes through your skull because he wants your attention, did perverse moves in the pretend name of dancing, or just acted like you were the worse experience of his life...). Besides bad dance experience (which, I think tops the list) wardrobe malfunctions (aka, pulling a "Janet Jackson"), salsa flings, ladies styling, and info on where to buy shoes and clothes are fodder for some serious femal bonding. I may have met more men dancing salsa, but I've bonded more with the women (thank God).

Just for today, I am grateful for my salsera friends.

I'm in mid-production of a project and am surrounded by Programmers. I told Evil Flash Programmer that he may as well be conversing in Greek for all that I can understand what he's talking about (action scripts and blah, blah, blah...) and he suggested that, if that's the case, then maybe I should learn Greek (GIANT SIGH as the sarcasm slowly eats away at what's left of my youth, while I finish it off with the pretend healthy Cheeto's I co-opted from the kitchen).

My tendency in techno-centric meetings is to take a mental vacation (remember the name of the guy I dated for a month six years ago...oh wait, that was in jury duty....so many opportunities to space out!) while the Programmers have their pow-wow and, for all I know, could very well be discussing my bra size (32B). When they're done, my tendency is to grab one and cry, "English, please!" I'm starting to understand the sworn "code" (no pun intended) of Programmers which includes, first and foremost, "Thou shalt NOT reveal the true duration of time necessary to complete a task..." For all I know, they could be playing games for 10 hours and add one line of code at midnight.

Regardless of my complaints, they're actually a very gentle breed of people who simply seem to enjoy contributing to the inception of my long overdue drinking problem...and for the sake of my own spiritual growth and sanity I'm sending nothing but love their way (take that Evil Flash Programmer!).

Just for today, I can love programmers.

As many know (at least those that I work with), I sit next to the snack table and am notorious for co-opting the wanna-be health food that's really the Trader Joe's equivalent of Cheetos, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Like any addict, I justify my behavior with frank over-exaggerations on the difficulty of My Life, as in "It's been a rough week...I deserve a handful of chocolate covered almonds...who cares if they put me in a coma..." Anyway, when the flab reared it's ugly head I realized that no amount of salsa (well, maybe if I danced 24-7) will keep me away from the fat cells that were built into my DNA. So, I'm turning over a new leaf...again (...I'm going to need to find a new tree soon) and, henceforth, I am going to say no to the chocolate covered espresso beans and yes to self-esteem building behaviors. I'm going to give more money to worthy causes, clean my apartment less, and have stronger boundaries with people who don't take no for an answer (Relentless Salsero).

Just for today, I can turn over a new leaf.

On Wednesday night I made the mistake of letting Relentless Salsero walk me to my car. I couldn't find my friends, and I didn't feel like braving the usually tame streets of Santa Monica alone, although, I would have been better off. Not only did I have to stave off Relentless Salsero's very direct proposition for the fifth time (no ceremony, just five words: "will you sleep with me?") but I also had to listen to him drone on about how all Salseros are solely interested in getting a women into the sack (how naiive of me to believe that any man might actually like to dance...). According to Relentless Salsero, what makes HIM special is that AT LEAST he's HONEST about it...

I had to tell him that as much as I appreciate his bizarre and self-defeating honesty, and despite the fact that I have no interest whatsoever in his offer, he might want to consider refining his seduction campaign (it's sort of like a burglar telling a homeowner that he's planning on robbing his house and expecting his admission to keep said homeowner from calling the police). I may not like him, but I would certainly respect him more if he at least pretended to be interested in my work, background, or refrigerator magnet collection (it's small, but unique), at the very least, I would appreciate the opportunity to talk about myself (as many know)...

I suppose, in his own way, Relentless Salseros' attempt at being honest about a possible compulsive behavior is a step in self-improvement and, therefore, the right direction, but, really...who cares? Is this my problem? I'm still left wondering if the the potential muggers and homeless people who haunt the streets of Santa Monica might not be better company (no wonder I'm still single, I can't even pick suitable men to spend five minutes with...let alone the rest of my life).

Just for today, I can spend time with less honest people.

I got called in for jury duty today. I thought I was off the hook for the week (silly me who doesn't read instructions).

A co-worker (I can't think of a name for him...) e-mailed myself and the entire company the following suggestion:

"Go in dressed like a crazy, bedraggled woman with Tourette’s—bound to be a big jury duty turnoff. Just don’t bring that persona to work…"

Upon which Evil Flash Programmer replied:

"It's too late..."

Oh, the abuse I endure in order to pay the rent and buy slutty salsa dresses...!

When I first arrived at jury duty I thought, "This isn't so bad. Alls I gotta do is sit in a room and read magazines while watching Judge Joe Brown bring out the ghetto in people who don't believe in an authentic judicial process, AND try not to resent the fact that I missed Jury Appreciation Week (why did they have to tell us about all the free donuts and coffee we missed?)." I went shopping at lunch (hour and a half lunch break...and we wonder why the government is in debt?) and fantasized about spending the rest of the afternoon listening to my iPod and checking in with work people.

Then suddenly, around 3 pm, my name was called and the next thing I know, I'm sitting in a court room and hearing words like "rape" and "burglary." What?! Nobody said anything about jury duty immersing me into the evening news (which I don't watch because I don't want to get depressed)!

The court was unable to select a jury today...so, now, not only do I have to work on my Bedraggled Tourette Syndrome Act, and find something to wear that screams out "I hate accused rapists!" (Mojo Rising suggested bikini and trench coat, but I'm not sure what he was getting at...), but I have to try not to let the reality of the Crime that causes court trials in the first place (why can't they be about flowers and hearts?) to put me in a evening news panic.

Oh, by the way I'm not supposed to discuss this with anybody...see what a bad juror I am!

Just for today, I can serve jury duty for the state of California.

I don't have to report in for jury duty on Monday...so, there is a God (he/she just doesn't always see the big picture...).

I sent my office a message asking them to send a little prayer asking the universe to make sure I don't have to serve jury duty. I know there are more important things in the world to pray for, like maybe the end of violence, hunger, poverty, and global microwaving, but it felt like the universe was dead set on making sure nobody showed up at work during the busiest time ever in a grand conspiracy to make me start my long-overdue drinking problem (I'm always behind schedule). Next week Evil Flash Programmer is flying his bride in from Brazil and getting married (so inconsiderate...where are his priorities?!), and everyone else is on vacation or on some fun company-sponsored trip (so, if I'm going to miss work, it sure as hell isn't going to be to serve the state of California!)...Besides no competent lawyer would pick someone as judgemental as myself to sit on their jury. I would absolve a murderer because I thought he was cute (my therapist is on it), and convict a seemingly innocent person because I didn't like his shirt...(not really, I'm just practicing in case I get called in on Tuesday)...

I tried getting an appointment today to get my hair trimmed, thereby, letting go of the last annoying strands of blond highlights that are hanging on in a nagging reminder of my pathetic betrayal of self. It was really a temporary rebellion against my mom's prejudice towards blond hair (or rather society's institutionalized preference for light skinned blond people). Since I started dancing salsa the power of blond hair over Latino guys has become strikingly clear. It's like some magical magnetic power. Not to make a political statement out of hair (because if you're blond you're blond, more power to you) but I don't want to be noticed because I'm fair skinned in a dark skinned community (and I do think more Latino guys asked me to dance because my hair dresser put some chemicals in my hair and made me sit under a hot dryer for $70 bucks...thank God I don't have to do that anymore...).

Just for today, I can be brunette and jury duty-free.

The other night Salsa Guru told me that non-white people (Latino, Black) have economic problems, while white folk have different problem (he didn't specify, but let's assume they're psychological dramas). I'm not saying he's totally right (he also told me that it was very "white girl" of me to buy a song on iTunes...little does he know that it's really the conscious action of a recovering con-artist), but I respect the belief that money solves problems because I felt that way for many years . However, I must be getting whiter as I get older because it seems clearer that money isn't getting me anywhere...except taking me shopping (and then we're talkin' about some serious drama).

I got in a car accident on Saturday when this girl turned left in front of me. Even though my car was infinitely more %$#@ up, I consoled her while she cried and told me that this was not the right time to get in a car accident (what about me?). Anyway, after white SUV girl's quick therapy session (damn codependent upbringing), I experienced the absence of a comforting male presence to tell me that my car is safe to drive (or too *%$# up). When it comes to cars I become this helpless woman looking for a man to tell me what to do. I don't know how and why they work or break down (cars, that is), I just know that they take me places I need to go (I'm still talking about cars...sorry, I can't resist). To make matters worse, my mom wasn't reachable by cell phone. Needless to say, it was a not a good afternoon in my life or weekend (which ultimately improved). Without going into more drama and self-pity, I'll just say it was a white girl's bad day (and I'm not even really white, but I can't get into it now because I'm at work and have maxed out this distraction...can you tell I'm tired?)...

Just for today, I can avoid feeling sorry for myself.

My battery died last night at 2:00 am while my friend and I sat in my car and bonded over our relationships with men. I know I need to get a new one (a battery, that is), but I think I just find the experience of the AAA guy arriving on schedule extremely gratifying. Where else am I going to experience that as many times as I want for $60 a year?!

I would write more about the men in my life, but I'm trying to stay away from using my blog to revel in Bridget-Jones-style patheticness. I'm tired of having my writing compared to that of women who hate themselves. Still, what's so funny about positivity? Surely it's not as powerful as the pain that binds us all in this terrorist-laden, commitment-phobic, paranoid, microwaved world (see what I mean?).

While walking to the dentist the other day (speaking of pain) I started to think about the purpose of human suffering and came to the depressing conclusion that if it weren't for suffering and humanity, and the needs these conditions create, people would surely never leave their apartments or stop watching cable (I cancelled mine, but I do miss the Sopranos). I probably would never blog, dance salsa, build relationships, or feel so strongly about the AAA guy (whoever he may be).

My dentist appointment was delayed because a girl chipped her tooth at a graduation party. Her mother sat next to me in the waiting room and spoke to me about how she was planning on suing the parents who threw the party for not cleaning up the drink that a 17-year-old spilled on the floor, thus, creating the circumstances for her (probably drunk) daughter to slip and chip her tooth. She went on to tell me about how home owners are responsible for all personal injuries that happen on their property, even if the person is breaking in (hey, don't give me any ideas). I didn't really know what to say because it seemed to justify a depressing vision of isolated nuclear family units living in fear and suspicion of one another in an increasingly heartless society. I didn't want to shame her for appearing to be an unforgiving Brentwood mom (because she seemed nice), but what came out was:

"Gee, kind of makes you never want to invite anybody over."

Silence ensued as I did a sort of slow head rotation back to my People magazine. I'm not saying this lady needs to suffer anymore (I mean he daughter chipped her tooth for Godsakes!), but give the parents who invited her daughter to their party a break.

Just for today, I can embrace my humanity and get a new car battery.

I know it's been a while since I've updated. I guess it's been hard to blog since I got back from my trip up North for my brother's graduation from high school (I'm old) and realized that my father's friends are actually reading this...guess that puts the kabosh on writing about salsa sex scandal 07 (just kidding...?).

Anyway, highlights of the trip (I know you'd rather read about my trip than salsa sex scandal...) include the giant full roasted pig my father bought for the catered graduation party to ostensibly "feed the guests"...do we really live in an age where we want to know what it is we eat? Let alone have it stare at us all afternoon?! I think he was really just acting upon his unconscious perverse desire to horrify...forget about the vegetarians (not that any came, or stayed once they saw that adorable slaughtered pig head...). Anyway, I managed to sneak some pig meat into my suitcase and onto the plane. Not that there's a law against bringing meat on a plane (yet), but as my father's friend pointed out, it could read as a body part on one of those x-ray machines...(so the perverse desire to horrify runs in the family).

Other highlights include the wine, cheese, and salami (it was a very pork-filled trip) lunch with my oldest friend of 25 years. While we were at the deli buying the food, we ran into another girl/woman (she's, like, old now...what is up wit dat?!) who I used to play JV basketball with. She always got kicked out of all our games for swearing at the refs. Which I would have admired had she not then left me (team captain), stranded with only three other players (all skinny freshman) to get slaughtered time and time again in a humiliating defeat. To this day, the feeling of abandonment is still with me. Lucky for her I have a soft spot for Jewish girls who date black guys and lack any cliquish vibe, and so it was still good to see her. After lunch, I fell into a wine/cheese/salami coma/nap before taking my mother salsa dancing, which required more wine. She enjoyed the lesson, but I have to say the LA dancers are far superior.

I realized that I've relayed the events in the wrong order, but memory is non-linear.

Just for today, I had a good trip home.