Where’s the Mother-of-the-Bride?

The mother of the bride isn’t tough to find. She’s me. I’m her. But the mother-of-the-bride DRESS? Now there’s an elusive thought! I had a date with Jenny yesterday to hunt that thing down, kill it, and drag it home.

So mid-afternoon, I strapped on my Merrell’s, tucked my ‘cute-but-deadly shoes’ into my carrying bag, and set out for the mile walk to Bay Area Rapid Transit, aka BART. Bart and I have a love/hate relationship. But yesterday it was mostly love as his body, ten cars long, glided to a stop in front of me.

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Rockridge Bart Platform

The air felt freshly scrubbed offering a clear view of the San Francisco skyline across the bay. I whipped out my camera to record the scene as Bart pulled up but Mr. Business Commuterman walked in front of the shot. No second chances with Bart, if I didn’t catch him quick he’d leave me faster than a slippery bill passes through Congress.

I met Jenny at the appointed time and place. She works in the Twitter Building. Yes, the very same Twitter as in the social media phenomenon that has swept the globe. We whisked up to the One King’s Lane offices and I felt like I’d stepped into a scene from 3001 Space Odyssey.

I’ll spare lengthy descriptions, but basically there are no walls. Picture a full city block sized space filled with acres of countertop where every three feet is a very youngish person staring at a very large computer monitor. Often the youngish person is staring at two monster screens at once.

Jen introduced her fossilized mom to co-workers who seemed properly impressed by my advanced age, and we set out for the task at hand.

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compliments of adage.com

Another adventure awaited when we hit the street. Jenny whipped out her phone and sent a quick text. “I’m getting a Lyft,” she said, “It’s an App,” and showed me the screen. There was a map with a dot for us and a dot for, “Hi! I’m Sally, your driver. I’m 3 minutes away.”

In three minutes, there was Sally in our pink-mustachioed Lyft car. Jenny jumped into the front seat and I took the back. We exchanged gang greetings (fist bumps all around, evidently a requirement) and sped away. Sally offered us water and gum. I took water, Jenny took gum.

By the time we reached Union Square we knew that Sally teaches yoga in Oakland and just opened a new studio, has a workshop coming up called yogapuncture or some such, that starts with ashtanga yoga and ends with acupuncture. No money exchanged hands as we exited the car. “It comes right out of my Lyft account,” Jen explained when I wanted to know how Sally gets paid. “It’s automatic.” Like I said, 3001 Space  Odyssey.

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Jenny in front of the red heart in Union Square

Union Square bustles. It’s also windy. We paused for quick photos and bee-lined for Macy’s. My cute feet already hurt. Jenny, still wearing the adorable, high-heeled chambers of torture she’d had on all day, was miserable. When she learned that I was packing Merrell’s she acquisitioned them for the rest of the afternoon.

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An opposite view of Union Square and Macy’s

Macy’s has no lack of dresses. One would think, in a veritable wonderland of retail bliss, there would be hundreds of options. First we gathered our arms full of possibilities. Then I zippered in and out of all of them as Jenny either thumbed up or thumbed down. Mostly she just said, “Ahhh, no.” “Nope, not that one.” “Ummmm maybe not.”  After hours we had three outfits. It took about a minute and a half to nix them all. We looked at each other and stated the obvious: “Food!”

A quick Bart ride later we were back in Oakland at Noodle Theory sucking down cold beer and feasting on beef udon and salmon whatchama ching chang choo. It was a perfect day.

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