So, what position do you play?

At a salsa club called Buzz the other night, I was hanging out with a couple of Dominican friends y conocidos. (I’ve noticed something interesting about certain Carribean people I’ve met: when hanging out with one Cuban or Dominican, I tend to become acquainted with every other Cuban or Dominican in the damn club within the next 15 minutes. Seriously. Hasn’t proved to be the same for Puerto Ricans, but there are so many Boricuas en Chicago, that maybe it’s sort of a moot point.) So yeah, one guy I know introduced me to another Dominican friend of his, who told me that I should come over to the VIP booth for a drink to meet a couple of the White Sox he had over there (also-you guessed it-Dominicans). I’m sure he didn’t realize I was married, but I thought, “Sure, yeah, I’ll go for this.” So I went over and sat down with three rather sheepish-looking young men and introduced myself to Juan, su hermano Matia, y another guy whose name I can’t remember. I chatted with Juan, got to speak a little Spanish. I told him yes, I do like baseball, but I’ll always be a Tigers girl, and I was a catcher myself en escuela, but no, I wasn’t very good, “Porque no tenía mucha confidencia.” Then I found out that he’s numero 5, the shortstop, and was informed yesterday by Craig that I was talking with no less than starting shortstop Juan Uribe (a name I would have recognized more readily than the number, or even the face). Craig was also curious about whether Uribe was wearing his new ring, <a href=”http://atlanta.braves.mlb.com/NASApp/mlb/news/article.jsp?ymd=20060406&content_id=1386976&vkey=news_mlb&fext=.jsp&c_id=mlbwhich he was. I finished my drink and declined a second; he asked why not, then said “Oh, are you driving?” I said I was, and he said, very solemnly, “Oh yes, then you shouldn’t.”

she is the devil

Remember the Cuban man from a past entry? The other night he walked me to the car and gave me a talking-to. He pointed at the salsa club and said, “You don’t believe me, but there is the devil in there.” He predicted the ruin of me and my marriage by salsa. “Salsa, it is an addiction, and you are already addicted.”

I laughed, and then thought about it in silence all the way home. This is a man who blames his divorce on dancing. It’s not that I believed what he predicted for me, but that out of respect I thought I should seriously consider what he’d said. So I did.

I stopped and got a couple of tacos, and came home to find my husband and ER playing video games. I sat down to eat and told them the story. They loved it. My husband shook his fist and exclaimed, “Damn you salsa! Damn you to HELL!” While I was laughing I tipped a cup of salsa all over the front of my skirt.

Without missing a beat, ER repeated the curse, this time directed toward my taco, “Damn you, salsa!”