cindy's world

Are hickies in style now? Do they replace jewelry as neck decoration? Or are they to be worn proudly, like red badges of wantonness? I’ve seen more hickies on the necks of 20-somethings this week than I have in all of 2005 combined. I guess peeing directly on the person doesn’t have quite the lasting power of broken capillaries.

My goal tonite after returning from jujitsu was to sort out and categorize the bag of paid bills and statements I have sitting by my desk. In completing that task, I pulled out some old thank-you and Christmas cards and started reminiscing (this is why it takes me so long to clean any clutter around my house). I realized I haven’t been keeping up with a lot of my friends very well. There’d be the occasional phone call or email forward and response, but I haven’t called to check up on them cuz I’m always running off to somewhere. I just took for granted that all my friends are self-sufficient and alive and I’ll just pick up with them some other time and meanwhile things will not change. Funny thing is, with IMing and blogging, I haven’t felt the NEED to see what’s up with them.

I suck.

I hope you’re all all right out there! You’d all better be! Don’t make me go down there!

I love that my parents have stepped into the 21st Century. I also love that Gmail gives you an internet instant messaging system thru their email site. So I IMed my dad (who’s also at work) for the first time just now:

me: Hi dad!
I’m at work in trial.
You must be busy.
[dad’s screen name]: WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?
me: nothing.
I just wanted to say hi.
[dad’s screen name]: MUST BE BORRY
[He means “boring.”]
me: yeah, a little bit.

Cool, huh? =D

My mom’s stressing me out. Earlier in the week, she wrote me an email about ordinary stuff, but buried in the text was something to the effect that both she and Dad like Mr. W and have we talked about the future? Mr. W was good about it and laughed it off (we haven’t even been dating 6 months!), and today, she writes me again in an email that very sweetly reviews her family life starting from her marriage to now, and says that she got married, had a kid, put the kid thru college, helped her get into her first house, and now she’s going to prepare for retirement “and…something else.” And then she goes into how she wishes that, presumably before the “something else,” she will get to see me at my wedding and then hold her grandchild. And then in a later paragraph, she asks if I’m going to help her with her living trust.

I had never liked having to address my parents’ mortality. It used to scare me to death as a kid until I gulped and decided not to worry about such an improbability when I was in middle school. In middle school, my parents had brought home 2 blank certificate-looking wills and just had it on the wet bar so that when I came home from school at the ripe mature age of 12 or 13, I freaked out. Those forms stayed empty and undealt with for months or years until I felt better about it, and then they just disappeared.

It’s rough shouldering the responsibility of your parents as an only child. People assume that I’m spoiled by them, and to an extent, I guess I was. I did get everything without having to share. But I also got their bad moods, the butt of their bad days, all of their expectations and disappointments. The thing with being just one person is that you get both the long and the short ends of the stick. It was a selfish decision to move out of their house on my own, and very anti-traditional Asian. My mom cried nightly when I first moved out. I go home regularly and visit them on the weekends (look at that, I still call their house “home”, as tho I were in college), just like all the good little Asian kids who have moved out due to school or work, and that alleviates the guilt somewhat. But generally I shrug it all into the back of my head. The guilt that I should be taking care of them (altho they are autonomous and I’m very proud of my immigrant parents for that), that I should be more involved in their daily lives, that I should have a finger on the pulse of their health and know what’s going on and be doing things to help them improve their health. I feel guilty that the weekend visits are almost dealt with like a mandatory chore in my perceived-busy life instead of something I look forward to.

Speaking of health, my mom said in an off-hand way in an email string a couple of weeks ago that she had to go now because she had a doctor’s appointment. My mom’s always had doctors’ appointments as I was growing up. It was something I was used to and I normally wouldn’t ask much. But normally I’d get my information from her complaining about the healthcare network or the doctors’ vague reports. This time, when I responded to her email the next day asking what the appointment was for, she deliberately kept it from me, saying it’s too complicated to explain and then just changing the subject. I responded to the subject she changed it to succinctly, and then deliberately readdressed the doctor’s appointment, asking again what it was and how it went. She wrote, “nothing, just a blood test.” How is that complicated?! She’s keeping something from me. And now all this weird pressure to rush my life that she’d never done before. Either she and my dad REALLY like Mr. W, or something’s egging her on. *anxiety puke*

Vanessa brought in a photo album of her in gothic attire. Wow. She really is a trampy goth, but she looks really good. I got to see a photo of her in those famous holey boots. It’s a fitted black boot ending just under the knees and the “holes” on the side were large round cut-outs so that the remaining patent leather looks like horizontal straps across her calf. Her goth makeup is awesome, very sexy. I especially liked what appeared to be Halloween photos in which she was wearing a white string bikini with black chaps over her legs, and a blonde wig. It was during her Navy days, so the girl had abs to die for. I guess it’s too much to hope that I could pull off that look (she’s also like 5’9″) in goth garb.

When I got home, I walked around the house putting up the framed photos of me and Mr. W from the cruise. I’m so lazy; instead of looking for a perfect spot for each photo, I instead look for empty nails on the walls. The nails were left there by the previous owner of the house, and I’d just been putting my stuff over their nails, so my stuff’s totally not lined up. There’s actually a framed photo of me and Mr. W that overlaps a section of another wall hanging I have up, because that’s how close the nails are together and that’s how it worked out. I need to take a vacation just to rid my house of clutter and really set it up nice.

There’s been a lot of discussion lately about real estate property and investment property between me and various people, and today I see this article about rent. Rent is rising again due to increasing demand (I’m speculating that the housing market has priced out of the average person’s ability to purchase). The most expensive 3 cities to rent according to the stats from the last quarter of 2005? I’m sure it’s predictable.

1. New York City, average rent $2400/mo
2. San Francisco, avg rent $1573/mo
3. Los Angeles, avg rent $1421/mo

Orange County (where I live) ranks #4 with rent at $1384 a month. Miami, where I just was on vacation, ranks #17 at $971/mo, Las Vegas ranks #24 at $795, and on the lowest end of the study is Oklahoma City at $543. I’m glad I bought my property before this crazy spike, and it’s comforting (and selfish of me) to see that as rental property, my place will do well. I think I need to seriously consider buying investment property in the still-affordable-for-me places and catch them before their own spikes, and then sell high or rent it out and let it pay for itself.

After jujitsu today, a large portion of the class went to a local steakhouse pub to celebrate one of the instructors’ 32nd birthday. Let’s see, class ended at 8:45p, so we changed, cleared out… I was sitting at the restaurant past 9pm looking at a menu. This conversation…

Me: I shouldn’t be looking at food.
Vanessa (Navy Chick): You’re in a restaurant! Of course you should be looking at food!
Me: But I’ve resolved to stop eating past 6pm.
Rebecca: WHAT?! You can’t not eat, you just worked out!
Laurel: Just think of it this way. You ordered a drink. It would be irresponsible of you not to have some food with your alcohol.
Me: I know, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have ordered that Redheaded Slut.
Vanessa: No, you HAVE to drink! We’re celebrating Ramon’s birthday!

…with alcohol, later came THIS conversation…

Vanessa: (motioning at the four of us girls at the end of the table) We should start a band.
Rebecca and Laurel: YEAH!
Laurel: We can call ourselves Attention Whore.
Me: That is a good name for our band, cuz that’d be the reason we’re starting one.

…with more alcohol, the conversation evolved to THIS…

Vanessa: Okay, so our band’s gonna be called The RubSluts.
Me: Wow, can you imagine what great costumes we’d have with a bandname like that? Are we gonna be in all rubber?
Vanessa: Yeah, with tiny short skirts to dance onstage with.
Laurel: I’ve always wanted to be a go-go dancer. (doing some go-go dancer moves with her arms)
Me: And we can wear fuck-me boots with holes in them…
Vanessa: I HAVE a pair of those, patent leather boots from Frederick’s of Hollywood! They’re the most awesome boots, and they have holes on the side! I went to a goth club wearing those and this woman asked if she can photograph my boots for a flyer.
Laurel: We should go clubbing!
Me: Yeah, let’s all go goth and go to a goth club!
Vanessa: You want to! There’s an event this Saturday. It’s S&M night. You guys’ll fit right in!
Me: Can we connect a chain from someone’s penis piercing to a collar around my throat, and then I’ll just snap my head like this (quick sideway tilt of my head) to get him to c’mere!
Laurel: (just tuning in again and thinking that I’m swishing my head/hair to the live metal band that we’d been shouting over) Yeah! Whoo! (swishing her head to the music, too)
Me: No, no, that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about S&M!

Yup. When the chickas in jujitsu chat, the men stop and listen.

I’m still at work for an unknown reason, but I started looking back at my early entries on this thing. In June of 2005, I’d written this post when all my emotional crap came to a head and crashed. I wrote an ode to the future, meaning a letter to my future man, the “good” guy, and I’d posted a poem I wrote in October 24, 2003 when I’d first pleaded for him to come into my life. In October 2003, I was miserable and sad and during a week of nauseating depression, during which I was writing furiously in my journal several times a day (before discovering blogging, obviously) to just stay sane, I had written that poem. I’d always joked with my closest friends when they say that “the right guy’s just around the corner,” that when I finally meet him, I’m gonna kick him in the shin and yell, “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?! Do you have any idea the kind of HELL I went thru while I was waiting for you to come into my life?!”

Looking back now, Mr. W had walked into my life days after I’d written that poem the first time in 2003. He’d expressed interest, asked me out (he doesn’t remember this, altho he remembers the event we’d seen each other at), and… I turned him down. At that point back then, I’d just finally, after 8 months of torture, officially gotten together with the Cheating Ex, and didn’t want to jeopardize that relationship (not knowing that just days after that, the Cheating Ex would begin to make his nickname-sake).

I’ve often thought back to the first time Mr. W asked me out, and how it felt so wrong back then to say yes. There were superficial issues back then — the age difference, the different points we are at in our lives — that made it hard for me to see him in that romantic way. It really took my being ground thru the wringer after that to make me able to see past what I used to think was important in a man. And when I was ready 3 months after that June entry, Mr. W reappeared, like some uncanny fated chess move, and we clicked in September of 2005. And haven’t stopped clicking.

I placed an order for checks thru the mail last month. You guys know what I’m talking about. You get those colorful ads with your coupons and advertisements thru the mail. The order form says that the check order will be mailed to the address on the checks unless I specify otherwise. So I stuck a post-it onto the order form saying please mail my order to my work address, and wrote out the work address. Last week, I got an email (information given on the order form) saying that the checks are on their way to my work address, thanks for the order, and here’s an opportunity to double my order at a discounted price. The email has the wrong name on it, it’s addressed to a Danielle Rudd. I disregard it, but then start wondering if the check people screwed up my order. A couple of days later, I get a letter in the mail from the check company saying “we were unable to process your order for the following reason(s): NO ORDER FORM WAS ENCLOSED WITH YOUR ORDER. PLEASE COMPLETE AND RETURN THE ENCLOSED ORDER FORM.” Huh? Then where’d they get my email address from, the dorks? They also returned my payment check, check reorder form that came with my original checks (for use as their sample) and check deposit form (for use as their sample). I’m annoyed, cuz I’m out of checks, and they HAD my order form, they just screwed up!

And then today, at work, I get a box of checks. It’s the design I ordered and specified on the order form. It begins with the sequence number I specified on the order form. But it’s Danielle Rudd’s personal address and phone number on the corner, and HER bank information and routing number. This instantly brings to mind: Who has mine?! These are legitimate checks! Anyone can forge a signature and get money out of my account!

I called Danielle Rudd and left her a voice mail. She called me back, told me to go ahead and discard the erroneous checks in my possession, and that she’d call the check company. She said she didn’t get any check order returned so she assumes her order is being processed correctly. I think some idiot typed her information into their computer off her order form, then did the other half of the specifications off my order form. It really worries me where my name/address/bank account info got printed up and sent to. I can’t expect good samaritans to call me like I called Danielle (who, by the way, was very appreciative). I’ve called the checks people and got transferred to their department that specially handles checks they printed with mixed-up information. THEY HAVE A DEPARTMENT FOR THIS. How often does this happen?! But the person I spoke to seemed very efficient and concerned and she said she’d mail me an SASE to return the erroneous checks to them so they can destroy them, and then they’d straighten out my order for me. She also said that Danielle had already called them.

And after lunch, I returned from the gym to find a second box of checks, also erroneous in the exact same way, on my chair.

Geesh!

One of my very favorite things about hanging with Mr. W is that I like who I am when I’m with him. I feel pretty and happy and giddy and silly. And I feel smart. Not because I’m smarter than the company, but because he makes me feel like my opinion and knowledge count for something. This morning upon waking I did impressions (and made him guess) of a dog laying in bed, a penguin laying in bed, a jellyfish laying in bed, a paperweight laying in bed. The only one he was able to guess correctly was my impression of him laying in bed. It’s wonderful to wake up and laugh.

Yesterday we went over to my parents’ house and my mom made dinner (which really impressed Mr. W’s palate — I’d been telling him my mom’s a brilliant cook), then we showed my parents a PG version of our cruise photos, and as my dad served tea in the traditional Chinese serving style (strong loose leaf tea served in tiny little cups on tiny little coasters from an authentic wooden tree-trunk looking serving station), Mr. W walked my mom thru how to burn a DVD on the laptop I bought her for xmas and my mom took notes. It was so cute. And Mr. W invited my parents to come with us when Huntington Library opens up its Chinese Garden in late summer this year. That guy knows how to stack up brownie points. And then afterwards, we went to my house where he fixed my garage door. More brownie points. Oh, and I finally got to yell at my stupid neighbors who ignore all the signs posted as well as the note I’d left on their car and parks smack in the middle of the community driveway and block my ingress and egress. They moved the car. 1 point for me! And then we came back to his house and sat in the jacuzzi. Or maybe that last part was the night before. But we did it again this morning.

Oh, last nite while Mr. W stepped away for a moment, my mom said to me in Chinese that I looked pretty in my cruise photos. She noted I looked better in those photos than I did in prior vacation photos. I said that Mr. W photographs me well. She asked if my mood had anything to do with it. I thought a bit and said maybe. She asked about a vacation I took over a year ago, asked whether I was happy then. I said I wasn’t. It’s nice that my parents can observe my general emotional well-being thru just an image. I remember one of x-gf‘s entries in which she wrote that she photographs well when she’s happy.

I’m not at liberty to tell you HOW, but I saw my first gay porn this morning. I was so excited! (Not in the sexual sense, in the 6-year-old-going-to-Disneyland sense.) I’d been wanting to watch a gay porno ever since I watched Grace (of “Will & Grace”) yell out while watching TV with Jack, “Gay porn is SO HOT!!!”

At first I was like, “This isn’t that different from straight porn.” And then the camera panned out beyond just the point of penetration. And now I know how gay porn is so hot. The men are FKING HOT!! We’re talking hard bodies, cut-up pectorals, biceps, triceps, deltoids, six-pack, gluteous maximus, hamstrings, quads. Caressing each other. These guys put WORK into their bodies. And their faces are better to look at than the men in straight porn. Definitely prettier eyebrows. The straight porn guys are pale, lanky, greasy, long-haired men that you wouldn’t touch in a bar with somebody else’s ten-foot pole.

All the good men ARE gay. Damn it.

Uh, with utter exception to Mr. W. He’s thus far denied being gay.