I really don’t have any quirky habits – but my cat sure does. And my husband? Jesus, he’s as quirky as a firefly before a thunderstorm. Each morning, Celine , my cat, sits on her brown fur pillow in the corner of the bedroom staring in cat-like silence at my sleeping body until the moment I stretch and pull my laptop out from under the bed (where I park it each night, so it will be there, at my fingertips as soon as I wake up because if I don’t write something, anything, first thing in the morning it will be impossible for me to construct a complete sentence at all for the rest of the day). Once I have perched it on my lap, she hops onto the bed and plops down by my side, positioning herself just under my right elbow LOVE THE IMAGES BUT WHAT DOES CELINE LOOK LIKE, HOW OLD IS SHE, HOW DOES SHE MOVE, WHAT DOES SHE SMELL LIKE?. And she begins nudging my right hand with her head and then poking her wet nose at the laptop screen, nudging then poking, like a crazy cat. This aberrant behavior would not be such a problem were it not for the fact that the hinge on the right side of the laptop screen is broken, has been for almost a year now, and when she hits it, the screen collapses onto my lap. I’d get it fixed but I know if I did I would never, ever finish the book. After we’ve wrestled for a while, her nudging, me fixing, her nudging, me smacking her lightly on the nose, we both give up and I move to the dining room table to write – but not before I’ve put a flannel shirt on over my thin cotton night IS IT COLDER IN THE DINING ROOM OR ARE YOU JUST MODEST?. I have two – a blue on and a red one that I hang on the double hook on the right hand side of my closet, over the top of my yoga bag. If it happens that both of them are in the washing machine (wet!) I’ll stuff them into the dryer, jack it up to hot and walk around the house drinking my coffee and mumbling under my breath until the damn thing is dry so I can put it on and concentrate. If they are both in the hamper, which means I have let the laundry go way too long, I’ll pull one out and remind myself to throw it in the laundry again that afternoon, at four-fifteen, which is laundry time. Doing laundry in the morning is a quirk my mother had. Then Celine will exhibit more bizarre behavior – screaming like a banshee for her morning ration of dry food, storming around the kitchen, then sitting in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, yelling at the top of her lungs. Celine is part Siamese and part Himalayan and it’s the Siamese part that hollers; the Himalayan part needs food every minute of the day, stashing it in the fat bag that hangs down and flops around when she walks, storing it up I guess for those long treks into the mountains that Himalayan cats must have been bred for. DOES SHE WAIL IN PLACE, PACE, RUB AGAINST YOU OR THE FURNITURE, JUMP ON THE TABLE? So I give her some food, careful to just cover the bottom of her dish with kibble. I don’t actually count the pieces of kibble but I can tell if there are more than two or three kernels too many and I’ll pick them out and place them back in the plastic container in the cupboard. For her own good. Around that time, my husband Clark will call, because he always checks on me around nine in the morning – one of his many quirks.

“How are you?” he’ll ask.

“Fine.”

“Whatcha doin?”

“Nothin’." He used to ask me if I was writing but after he did it the third time and I started screaming that it was none of his damn business if I was writing and what did he think anyway that he could PUSH me into finishing this book and I never asked him if he was doing his accounting or whatever the hell it is that he did all day, he never asked the question again. After that quirky morning call, but not before, I’ll pour some Nature’s Path Heritage Whole Wheat Flakes to fill my white cereal bowl to halfway, count out sixteen raisins to put on top and pour nonfat milk just to the top of the cereal, fill my lucky coffee cup – the white one, from the Museum of Modern Art in New York – for the second time and sit down at the dining room table. During breakfast, I’ll do my emails because unlike trying to construct a witty or dramatic paragraph, emails can be read and written while munching on cereal. Without fail there will be a quirky email from Clark, wishing me a happy Monday or Tuesday or whatever day it is. And he’ll remind me to do little things like pick up his shirts at the cleaners or buy more milk at Traders or call the gardener about fixing the fence. He’s so strange – he’ll only tell me those things in email, never in person. I guess he just can’t forget that ONE time I got all pissed off and reminded him that I had raised millions of dollars of venture capital and run companies and raised a kid all by myself and I really didn’t need to be reminded of my housewifely chores. He’s such an eccentric guy. And then at three forty-five p.m. Celine will launch into another of her feed me feed me peculiarities, whining this time for her wet food. HOW DOES THE AFTERNOON WHINE FOR WET FOOD DIFFER FROM THE MORNING WHINE? DOES SHE EVER UP THE ANTE WHEN SHE’S NOT FED? I’ll let her whine until four o’clock because it is really better for her not to get immediate gratification for such obnoxious and temperamental behavior and I’ll snatch a can of Fancy Feast from the 24-pack we buy at Costco, crack it open and turn it upside down into her bowl. I don’t mash it up because it looks so, well, stately there in a little cylindrical mound and since Celine has that Himalayan streak she couldn’t care less. I think she would chomp through a tasty old tire by four o’clock. EVA’S COMMENTS ON MY PIECE JELLY’S: CHEERS WITH A CHA CHA BEAT It’s 4:45 on a bright Sunday afternoon and Jelly’s is the only place to be. I have made the pilgrimage to this place Pier 50 to feed my passion for Salsa music and dancing. Don’t need this. I go to Jelly’s when I cravet a soul-stirring, dance til you drop experience in one of the world’s most popular cities for Salsa. I’m not talking about San Juan, Havana or even Los Angeles. I am talking about Jelly’s at Pier 50’s, a funky little waterfront club, at 295 China Basin Way in San Francisco Nice surprise. You might want to try to re-work this without telling us the name of the place and use it for your first sentence. Then tell us it is Jelly’s. The boxy white building with a lavendar neon sign is wedged between rusty freighters and weather beaten warehouses and sits like a plucky dwarf in the shadow of SBC Park. GREAT! On the elevated stage on the right, there is Anthony Blea Y Su Charanga, a 12 piece Salsa band, pumping out fierce trombone and trumpet riffs so strong that the speakers are starting to rattle. At the bar on the left clusters of slender, dark haired Mexican men and full breasted women was laughing and talking. A l Puerto Rican woman with platinum tinted hair and white Capri pants is drapped over a Jamaican man in jeans and a black t-shirt who is guzzling a cold Dos XX. The smoky sweet aroma of grilled onions and charred barbeque chicken wafted though the back door. The tiny dance floor is packed with middle aged Latino and African American couples smiling and spinning as they dance up a sweat, their spirits possessed by a scorching timbales solo from Cuban born Carlos Cara. I would keep all of this in the present tense so we can get the feeling that we are there right now. Also the descriptions of people might have gone on a little long. Two or three images would be enough to entice me. Since 1997 , Jelly’s has provided a casual, communal oasis for Salsaholics(dedicated salsa dancers) and Latin music fanatics hungry for the best in Bay Area Latin Music. Jelly’s, originally a weekday luncheon spot, as a Salsa club was the brainchild of owner Clarice Lebeau, KPOO Latin music DJ, Chata Guiterrez and music promoter Linda Wossokoski. Jelly’s is the modern version of a long standing Bay Area tradition of Sunday afternoon dances (called “tardeadas”) which first appeared in the 1950s at night clubs like Sweets Ball room in Oakland and the Marine Auditorium. Nice to have a little history. Good placement too, after you’ve drawn me in. I was had been dancing for three years in the 1990s when I first fell love with the place, the passion and the earthy vibe, of Jelly’s.. The regulars are men and women who hugg, kiss and dance with each other week and after week for decades. A man might not know the woman’s name, but he knows the smell of her perfume, knows the feel of her barstrap against his arm. He knows how she grins when he leads her into a double turn. When I walk in the door, I know can get a laugh from the bouncer, a kiss from the bass player and the bartender automatically lines up two bottles of sierra springs mineral water for me. I can leann on the bar and see welcoming smiles from 5 guys ( all great dancers) lined up, all waiting to dance with me. For me Jelly’s is like “Cheers with a cha cha beat” This is great, but I am getting the feeling that it is an exclusive place and that everyone knows everyone else. I’m not feeling like I would want to visit there unless I was an expert salsa dancer and even then I might be intimidated by the clubbiness that is being described. Jelly’s where the soulful, experienced Salsa dancers go—the people who have embraced Latin music, language, culture and community . This is not the place for beginners or ballroom dancers are welcome. They don’t give dance lessons at Jelly’s so better know what you’re doing when you walk in the door. So I think this article needs to be aimed at experienced salsa dancers coming to San Francisco and is less of a general travel piece. Another big draw for the dancers is the talent of Puerto Rican born, Ivette Fuentes, who plays the best of hard driving new and vintage Salsa, Mambo and Cha Cha Cha. (we’ll have none of that new fangled Latin Hip Hop or Reggaeton music). Ivette can intuitively feel the pulse and taste of their audience, seamlessly blending big bands like Machito and Celia Cruz with the latest music bands from Cuba. She keeps me so wrapped up in the groove of the dance floor, that I forget to drink, eat or even pee Jelly’s is a no-frills, down home scene with two cramped booths and three metal tables inside and dozen wrought iron tables and chairs outside on the cement pier. Good. I see it. No disco balls, tuxedoed parking attendants. Part of it’s unpretentiousness charm you can let down your hair and hang out with all kinds of people from policemen, mechanics to lawyers and stock brokers. Marvin, veteran Salsa dancer says, “Jelly’s has the old school Latin spirit, it has a really down-home feel is part of our community. You don’t find the snooty airs and competition on the dance floor that you find at the upscale clubs.” The music always sounds better at Jelly’s. A good band can sound spectacular there, the musicians feed off the enthusiasm, cheers and whistles from the crowd. The band and the dancer tap into each other’s energy and sense of adventure. . Steve, long time patron of Jelly’s, “At Jelly’s, the musicians rule. The musicians can play whatever they want without any limits. It’s like a big descarga, a jam session” They can stretch out, launch into extended solos, experiment with new compositions, styles.” Head liners like Jimmy Bosch from New York and Johnny Polanco from Los Angeles always drop by Jelly’s to sit in with the local band because they know they can let loose new wild sounds and they can take the crowd with thiem. Lately the buzz on Jelly’s has leaked out to Salsa dancers from Seattle to Senegal who get off their planes and roll into the club. With a minuscule advertising budget and strong word of mouth, Jelly’s is packed by 6 PM with local dancers, out of town dancers and curious tourists who want to check out the scene If you’ve spent all your money at Union Square, , you’re tired of the sea lions and the crowds at Fisherman’s Wharf, swing by Jelly’s to be part of the fun. If you can’t dance show respect and get out of the way. You can stand at the bar, grab one of the tables on the back deck. But, please STEP AWAY FROM THE DANCE FLOOR. You’re taking up precious space in our temple and we need room to embrace the joy.