cindy's world

I discovered in the wee hours of the morning that the pain becomes manageable if I curl up in a tight ball, hugging my knees, and remain upright. So I rearranged the pillows on my bed so that I could sorta sit and lean sideways and finally get some rest. I woke up with a start with the morning light streaming in through the windows, and my alarm clock, which had not gone off, was flashing 2:40. I’d lost power to the house 2 hours and 40 minutes ago. What the hell time was it? It was a bit past 8:30a. I called my supervisor and left a brief voice mail explaining my tardiness but saying I’m on my way, and clamored to the restroom and brushed my teeth, washed my face, decided to skip the makeup and instead bring my face to work with me in a makeup bag. I figured I’d make an appointment with Kaiser when I got to work.

When I got to my desk, I saw a flat little jewelry envelope sitting unobtrusively between my stapler and hole puncher. Inside is a metallic cookie-cutter type angel ornament that appears to be hand-painted. Definitely more sentimental than impersonally mass-produced. My staff knows nothing of it. I called a couple of coworkers who have left things anonymously on my desk before, and none of them seemed to know what I’m talking about. Who has access to a secure courtroom early in the morning, who would think to do this? I thought it was someone who reads my blog and therefore knows what I’m currently experiencing, and wants to leave a little token of support to tell me that I’ll be fine and that an angel is watching over me.

There is a small metal angel clipped to the upper left edge of my rear-view mirror, which I got after my first and only car accident. A circle around the angel reads, “An angel to watch over you.” I now have a courtroom angel which I will pin up on my desk bulletin. So to whomever left it, if you are a blog reader of mine, thank you for the reminder that things will work out. They do always work out.

I am going to juggle between my courtroom and a specialized courtroom down the hall today. They are very short on clerks again. My appointment is at 6:40pm a couple of miles from work, which will work out nicely because I’m gonna stay after work for the retirement party at a nearby hotel anyway. That way I’ll just leave at 6:20 or so to go to the appointment.

This is TMI (too much information) whining in desperate hope that writing this will ease me psychologically and somehow bring some relief physically.
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I had a little experience recently in which I was on my way somewhere unannounced, albeit invited. It started as a tiny little unrealistic voice in the back of my consciousness, and then it got louder and materialized itself in my conscious thought until it consumed me and it was all I could think about. I wasn’t terrified, exactly, because I didn’t really believe it, but having turned down the invitation initially, I found myself unable to proceed with the entrance without first pulling out the cell phone and giving trepidatious warning of my arrival. Yes, “warning.” If there were something going on that I’m not supposed to see or find out about, if there is something that I would walk into, knowledge of which would crush me, please get rid of it before I witness something that will change “us” forever.

Of course there was nothing. I was welcomed with open arms, as I had always been. He continuously passes every test, even though I am not testing him.

If I think back, I believe I can pinpoint the exact moment I started sliding backwards. It didn’t take much. It was just a tiny hair-thick root of a bad, bad weed. But I am powerless to pluck it out. It is not my garden, it is not my weed. And I am a sore gardener who still bears the dirt and stains evident of a prior battle with weeds that were not my own.

It is things like this, so small and insignificant by sight, so encompassing and ominous by feel, that makes me feel like I should quit gardening.

Sometimes all it is, is about connection. The desire to reach out in this vacuous existence and make contact with something. Sometimes I reach for what I think is a secure, unquestionable connection, and in touching this sure thing, I slowly realize it’s not as tangible as I thought it was. I feel it out, testing its shape and temperature and concreteness. Again and again, my hand falls through the mist. …So sometimes the security is in not reaching out, in refusing to confirm what is feared — that I am alone.

Sometimes I’m not sure whether “alone” is the relief that I tell myself it is. There is absolutely a security in aloneness, provided it doesn’t turn into loneliness. Take me right now, for instance. I’m blogging alone in my house, left heel propped up on the front of my chair in shameless unfeminine form, and I’m clad in oversized plush house slippers and tasteless hipster underwear that loudly declares all of Cancer’s traits in white felt print on the ass of the hot pink fabric, and on top, I’m in thermals. I look ridiculous. I don’t care. I enjoy the fact that this getup is so ill-assembled that I wince unintentionally when I pass by a mirror. It’s asserting my independence from others and their opinions. But give me 3 nights of this and I guarantee I will be lying face down on my pillow wondering why my friends have abandoned me. So maybe I can only take aloneness in small doses in order to fool myself into believing that I enjoy it.

And then when I have tired of drifting alone but have reached out and taken a hold of …nothing… thereby causing me to have convinced myself that I’m okay with being an island, as in the way no man is supposed to be, my self-proclaimed brothers find me. Gerardo tells me he’s right there with me anytime I’m feeling cruelly antisocial, and Josh says he likes me and my edgy attitude when I’m PMSing and he’s gonna start tracking it on his calendar (so he has something to look forward to every month). And they both give me a hug. And I smile through my cramps as I feel truly connected to people who get me and accept me. And I reward them with more cruel sarcastic comments drawing parallels between the new people in jujitsu and the audience in Jerry Springer shows. (Gerardo had suggested Maury Povich, but I feel that the new people’s collective IQs are not up to the sophistication in Maury shows, and upon further consideration and with further examples exuded by the unknowing victims of my criticism, he agreed with me.)

It really was a great weekend. As it usually is. There were walks in the rain, dashes in the rain, drives in the rain. (No rain here, however, compares to my wet yoga experience in Cancun.) There were candle flickers and friends and games. Sunday, Mr. W and I drove up to my friends Vicky and Peter’s house in Pasadena and had lunch at Big Mama’s Rib Shack for some BBQ and soul food. I had been touting that place for months, so I was really glad that Mr. W enjoyed it. Then we went back to Vicky and Peter’s, let their vizslas trample us (purebred really happy and friendly red-headed doggers), and had game night so fun and intense that we forgot to eat dinner.

I’m really glad we found a couple we can play games with. I was starting to wonder whether I’d spent all that money on games in Vegas for nothing. Ooh! Ooh! I was really proud of myself for correctly answering a question in which I had to employ the Pythagorean Theorem. Vicky was really proud of me, too, because we’ve known each other since the 3rd grade and she knows math is not my forte. I asked her and Peter, “Would you guys have gotten this question?” “Mmm-hmm!” she said in affirmation. I was crestfallen, but only for an instant, because Vicky’s a pharmacist and Peter’s an aerospace engineer for NASA, so it’s no great feat that THEY could figure out the question.

What the hell game is this? you wonder. It’s Mindtrap. The question was something to the effect of, “Sid Shady is staying at a motel and he had too much to drink. In a drunken stupor in the dark, he staggered over to the circular kiddie pool in the center of the motel, went into the pool, crawled due south in the pool 6 meters until he reached the edge. From there, he turned due east and crawled 8 meters until he reached that edge, and crawled out of the kiddie pool. What was this pool’s diameter?” I know, I know, I’m proud of myself for being able to do 8th grade math. I’m pathetic.

Monday, New Year’s Day, we did a Costco run and bought lots of ingredients and I made 1.5 lasagnes for dinner. The reason there other one’s just a half is because there was only enough ingredients for 2 layers on the 2nd pan, and I like to do 3 layers. Mr. W’s daughter called it “our lasagne”, as in, “You’re gonna make lasagne? Our lasagne? The one you made last time? That was good!”, and his son ate quickly, quietly, and had seconds. These kids are supposed to be picky, so I was almost moved to tears. Or maybe they’re not as picky as Mr. W thinks they are, or maybe they just don’t like Mr. W’s cooking. … Oh, who cares! They liked my lasagne!

(And here Wilco is thinking, “Isn’t lasagne spelled l-a-s-a-g-n-A?”)

Today is the first day back at work after the New Year holiday weekend. All the photos and stories from everyone’s respective New Year Eves are circulating by mouth and via email. Although I’m glad to hear how much fun everyone had in welcoming 2006, I can’t help but feel a little teensy bit bitter that I was the lone person awake as midnight struck that night. The tradition/superstition is that whatever you do on New Year’s Day (or maybe Eve or maybe as the hour turns, I’m not sure) sets the precedent for the coming year. Apparently 2006 is going to be a lot of my being awake and alone and slightly irritated at that setup.

Oh well. At least I wasn’t physically alone, just the only one conscious. I can hang with that. I keep hearing something my dear friend Erin told me that her dad had told her: A hand has short fingers and long fingers. Everyone has some shortcomings, and if this is the worst shortcoming I have to deal with, I consider myself ridiculously spoiled by blessings. This hand still works very well, short fingers, long fingers and all.