cindy's world

Jordan’s been hinting, then recommending, then strongly suggesting, then demanding that I photoshop her in my vacation photos so that she can be close to us from afar (Florida). I always kinda laughed it off, and then she brought it up again earlier today (on her comment on the Blogger Faces, Interfaceless post)…

Jordan: although I’ve met Cindy in real life and haven’t seen her in months, I’ve asked her to photoshop me into other photos (like her bday pics at Disney) and she wouldn’t do it!!!
🙁
Cindy: OH ALL RIGHT!!!

Stay tuned…
(You guys better post some comments on this entry so I know you’ve read it and are ready for The Unveiling.)

…my nose is cold from having to breathe in the cold air.
…I keep sitting on my hands to warm my fingers, but all I end up doing is freezing my butt.
…when I touch my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I can feel that it’s cold, and when I put a little puddle of saliva to the roof for a couple seconds then push the pool to the tip of my tongue, I can tell that the saliva is now cold which means my nasal cavity can be used to make ice cream.
…James suggested I drink something warm, and I drank a cup of hot coffee, but that just made me pee which meant I had to get half-naked in a restroom and sit on an ice-cold toilet seat, which just made everything worse.
…I went to Jordan’s blog several times today just to cuss at her weather pixie who’s announcing that Florida was 85 degrees Fahrenheit today.
…I still don’t think it’s fair we can pronounce judgment that will take away a man’s freedom for the rest of his life, but they won’t let us change the temperature in our own courtroom. (The thermostat is sealed behind a metal cover that only the maintenance crew has the specialized tool to open.)
…try as I may, I can’t bring myself to believe I’m in Sunny Southern California. My city dropped to 39F last nite, kicking the butt of the 1994 record low of 41F. But the irony is, it actually is sunny outside.
…I’m actually considering doing some divorce cases, which always warms my heart =P
…I’m trying to talk myself into overcoming the Asian thrift gene so that I’d turn on my heater tonight. So far, the frugal side is still louder, claiming once I change the sheets, I’ll be better, and it doesn’t make sense to heat an entire two-story house when I’m only in 3 square feet of it (curled up shivering in fetal position).

I had the radio on this morning while I was getting ready for work, and it played Christina Aguilera’s song “Hurt.” Since then, this song has been stuck in my head in all its pop and her falsetto glory with all instruments intact.

I want to jam my pen into my ear and swish it around. I want to vomit the nasty sound out of my head. I want to punch that song in the face for wearing out its welcome. I want to pull it out like a musical staff scarf and smack a certain person in the face with it, over and over and over.

Instead I think I am going to go lie down in the dark.

This would’ve been the day to call in sick. There’s a throbbing pain behind my left eyeball in my head, and I’m pissed as hell from being unable to reach Mr. W since 5:30p yesterday despite calling his cell, house, and leaving messages. I also didn’t sleep well last nite because I still had my summer sateen sheets on the bed and was freezing to death. I really need to change to one of my flannel sheets. I actually had to duck my face inside the covers so my nose and face could thaw out, and then I was scared of falling asleep and suffocating. Even now my fingers are frozen, stiff and painful. I suppose I can skip a workout today at lunch, since I got to go to jujitsu yesterday evening. It was just a 45 minute workout then a potluck/movie (we saw Kung Fu Hustle, which I did not know was entirely a Mandarin-speaking movie), but we ate healthy and I managed to sweat during the workout despite its minute duration and the freezing temperatures. Besides, I did run yesterday at lunch, a little over 3 miles.

Or maybe I just want to go shop or something, I dunno. I hate crowds, tho.

Where’s a pissy, cold antisocial girl to go?

** Addendum: We’re on a break right now and I just went to get some coffee and brought it back to my desk. It’s so cold that I gave a big shudder and almost spilt the half-full cup on myself. Good lord.

You know how sometimes you’re reading a blog, and that blog refers to another blog, and you think, “Oh, that’s cool, they’re supporting each other’s blogs.” But then sometimes one blogger talks about another blogger as if they actually know each other, and then they talk about meeting each other and lifting the blogger interaction from the pixelated pages of the internet onto a real live 3-dimensional face to face interface. I know what you guys all think — “Pssh, they don’t actually know each other! It’s all just an act, a scam, shenanigans to hype their blogs. Everyone knows bloggers don’t have lives, and are too socially inept to deal with real human interaction.”

…

Well, here’s photographic evidence.

Apples are just kewl, aren’t they? When I was little, I’d imagine that early peoples (like Neanderthals, I guess) who didn’t know what an apple was would be handed this red hard rock-looking thing, and be told to bite into it. They’d dubiously look at the object in their hand. “But it’s hard. And I’m thirsty.” Then the apple introducer would explain that yes, it is a solid, but as you chew it, liquid comes out that you can just swallow directly. So they’d take their first hesitating bites. *Crunch, crunch, chug, chug.* “This is amazing! And it’s sweet! Apples are kewl!”
“Yes, and it cleans your teeth, too! Feel how squeaky clean your teeth surfaces are.”
*lick lick, squeak squeak*
(Cut me some slack. I am an only child. But my Barbies and stuffed animals always had the most interesting conversations with each other.) It’s juice, that travels easily. You don’t have to worry about spillage, it’s all contained in these solid-looking cells.

Now, there are so many different sizes, textures, flavors. You like slightly more sour juice with cleaner teeth? Gnaw on this Granny Smith apple. You like crisp and syrupy sweet? Here’s a Fuji apple. Have one a day! It keeps the doctor away! As you chew and drink, chew and drink, you’re actually getting all these great tasty vitamins and antioxidants, too! Easy delivery method, no pill-swallowing required.

Plus, there’s just something about apples that helps you go poo. I don’t know what it is, maybe all the fiber goes through your system and scrapes your innards clean on its way back out.

You want cold juice? Refrigerate an apple! And altho I’m not a fan of this, you can have your apples hot, too, cut in chunks and wrapped up in sugar and pastry shells!

Apples are as kewl as bar soaps are neato!

(Read the 1st in the Miraculous Series [which may turn out to be just a two-part post instead of a whole series, I dunno yet], The Miraculous Soap Bar.)

Mr. W had no plans for lunch, so after hearing all the commotion about my tires being overinflated, he offered to come find my car and deflate my tires to the proper PSI for me. (What a great guy!) Meanwhile I hitched a ride with my gym trainee to go work out at the gym for lunch, laughing about how people would see him letting air out of my tires and go, “Dude, did you guys break up?”. That’s when I checked out her tires and saw that her maximum PSI was 44, which made me wonder what makes my tires so different to have a maximum of 51.

We just took a break in our trial, and I was able to touch base with Mr. W. He said he did indeed let out the air in all 4 tires to between 34 and 35 PSI, BUT that the tire said the maximum PSI is 40 and not 51.

=O !!!

Not only am I going blind and can’t read numbers anymore, but I almost killed myself! Mr. W quickly said that it was dark in the parking structure so maybe he saw the numbers wrong, or maybe it was a recommended PSI and not a maximum PSI.

Can I leave right now and go look again?!

Oh, and he also said his tire pressure gauge read that I had 40 PSI in each tire, not almost 50. Did I spring a leak in all 4 tires? I did drive thru broken glass the other day! Waaaaah!!!

I was just in the midst of an email exchange with a coworker. She wanted to know if I still had a copy of an email forward entitled “The Slightly Gay Male” which described the modern day “metrosexual.” She said she wanted to send it to a friend who’s in denial about his metrosexuality. There was no way I could dig that old email out, and we went back and forth on how she could bring up her archived mail and look in there, and when that didn’t work, I had the brilliant idea of telling her to google “slightly gay male” because it’s the internet, and any forwarded email can probably be found online. I know I certainly post some of my favorite forwards as “humor”, as pages linked from my sidebar.

A minute later, my phone rings. It’s the coworker. “Uh, Cindy,” she starts. “I would recommend that you do not look up slightly gay male on Google.”
“Why not?”
“Because… *hesitantly*…all this porn popped up about slightly gay male sex!”
Oops.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, people, he’s RIGHT THERE!

Now look again at the original photos, you’ll be able to spot him in the other one, too.

Oh my gosh, lemme tell you guys what happened to me this morning before work! To squeeze all that drama in (which happened in a half-hour), I’ll have to write this Jordan-style. What happens when you’re too tired to go to jujitsu, and too tired to get up for work at your normal time? You have a tire problem.

Last nite, I skipped jujitsu (in reality, I still didn’t go to jujitsu) and went to Mr. W’s house after work. Usually when I stay over, I leave when he leaves for work, and I go home to shower and get ready. This morning, however, I could not get out of bed. I was just sleepy and cold. So with a kiss, he left me in bed and warned me not to stay too long or I’d be late for work. (stop laughing, people who know me) I probably only left 10 mins after he did. As soon as I turned on the ignition, the car went thru its usual systems checks, and then flashed a warning on the dashboard: “TIRE LOW!” There were two or three more warning lights in red and yellow. I realize this is not a big deal for most men, who’d interpret the warning and act accordingly. But for me, I just stared at it. “Tire low? What’s that mean? Maybe my tire pressure is low. What do I do? WHICH tire? And how low is it? Is it DANGEROUSLY low, or can I drive the 20 freeway miles home, and the 7 miles to work until I can have some male coworker look at it for me? It’s a new car; how can it have problems?!” I got out of the car and examined all 4 tires. A minute later, I shrugged and sat back in the car. The warning bells and whistles were all still dancing like sugarplum fairies. I looked to the left, where I saw Mr. W’s truck parked. He’d driven my Accord to work today. If we’d left at the same time, I could’ve left my Lexus there to deal with later, and he could’ve taken his truck and I could’ve taken the Accord. Maybe he’s not too far out yet. Maybe he can at least give me advice on whether he thinks I can make it all the way home. My cell was dead, but luckily I had a car charger, which I plugged in and called his cell phone.
1.5 rings later:
Phone: Hi, this is [Mr. W]. Can’t get your call right now so just leave a message.
Me: Hey, it’s Cindy. I’m in my car right now, and there’s a warning light on saying my tire’s low. I don’t know whether I should risk driving all the way back home and explode into a big ball of flames on the freeway. *click*

Having nothing else to do, I got behind the wheel and backed out slowly. The car’s moving all right. I called James. He has an expensive foreign car, he should know what to do. But of course at 7:15a, he wouldn’t be awake yet, something about rolling into work at 10:30a daily. (Why do techies have such late work hours?!) I drove carefully out of the neighborhood and down the block before paranoia took over and I pulled into the nearest Chevron. After parking in front of the air/water machine thingie, I squatted and looked at my left front tire. Shouldn’t it say on the tire what the pressure ought to be? I read the entire tire, turning my head upside-down. “Max. 51 PSI” I read. I unscrewed the air cap on the tire, grabbed the air nozzle on the machine and shoved the two ends together. The instructions on the nozzle said to release lever for pressure reading. My tire was only a few lines past 30, so I must only be at 32 PSI! That’s really far from 51! The machine said 50 cents to use the air/water, so I went thru my coin purse. I had one quarter. How could I only have one quarter? I ALWAYS have coins! I checked my little travel wallet in the glove compartment; I usually leave coins in there. It was EMPTY! What the hell. The only money I had on me was a dollar bill. So I locked my car and trudged into the station’s mini mart.
Me: Hi, can I get change for this dollar? I just need to put air in my tires.
Girl attendant: Oh, that’s free!
Me: Really?!
Girl attendant: Yeah, just push the button to the side of the machine and hold for 3 seconds. *she pushes a button behind the counter*
Me: Thank you so much!

Back at the car, I pushed the button and the machine hummed to life. I squatted in front of my front left tire again and put the nozzle into the tire. A sticker on the nozzle handle said to check tire pressure often. Thanks for the late advice, that’s how I got into this mess, I thought. And then I realized that it meant “As you’re filling your tires, check pressure often so you don’t overinflate,” not “Haha you should’ve checked your tires more regularly so they didn’t go flat, ya moron.” I hit the trigger. Fffft. 34 PSI. Fffft. 36 PSI. Fffffffffffffffffffffffffft. 44 PSI. Fffffffffft. 49 PSI. Ffft. Ffft. Fft. 50 PSI. That should be good, right below the maximum.

I checked the left back tire. It said 32 PSI, too! So I filled that one to 47PSI. I had second thoughts about overinflating the first tire, so I let some air out to 47 PSI, too. I got back behind the wheel and started the ignition. “TIRE LOW!” I didn’t hit the correct tire!! I was able to drag the hose over to the right front tire, but the machine had stopped humming. I checked the tire pressure. It, too, was at 32 or so PSI. I turned my car around and then ran back into the mini mart to beg the nice lady attendant to turn the air back on. Then I ran out and filled the other 2 tires to about 48 PSI. Now the car did its check and everything showed fine. Driving out of the gas station, my phone rang with Mr. W’s special ring tone.
W: My phone’s doing this weird thing again with a SIM card problem and keeps shutting off and not letting me make a call! So I had to take the battery out, take the SIM card out, and then put it all back in and turn everything back on again.
Me: Yeah, when I called you, your phone only rang like one and a half times before it went to voice mail.
W: You must’ve called when it had turned itself off. I didn’t even know you called. I only checked my phone because while I was driving, I had the overwhelming urge to call you and tell you I love you, so I took out the phone and saw that it turned itself off again.
Me: You had the overwhelming urge to call me and tell me you love me because I was gonna die in a big ball of flames on the freeway.
W: Well where are you now?
Me: I’m driving to the freeway. I just filled up all my tires. They were all only at 32 PSI!
W: That’s pretty normal. What’d you fill them up to?
Me: Just under 50.
W: 50!! That’s WAY too HIGH! You don’t want to fill it that high because when your car’s driving for awhile, the tires heat up anyway and the pressure will go up again. You might blow a tire!
Me: *blink blink* …But the TIRE says the maximum is 51! That should be the maximum to drive it safely, not “Your car will explode at 51 PSI”!
W: It says 51? …Well, I don’t know, every car’s tires are different.
Me: The car’s warning lights all turned off now.
There was some further discussion about high-performance vehicles and under-inflating high-performance tires which I will not bore you with, presuming perhaps audaciously that you’re not bored already and are still reading this.

I suppose your average manly man would’ve gotten the car warning, and simply pulled a tire pressure gauge out of his front shirt pocket, or from the back of his pants, and tested the tires, humming all the while. And he would’ve said, “Oh, this car’s warning is pretty conservative. The pressure’s still fine. I’ll fill it up to 36.7512 PSI after work today,” then he would’ve put the tire gauge back up his ass and then hummed his way back into the car and driven uneventfully to work. But for ME, I imagine this exchange took place above my panic:
Cindy’s Spirit Guide: Dude, she’s freaking out. She can’t be freaking out. Call Mr. W, he’ll tell you everything’s all right.
Mr. W’s Spirit Guide: She can’t call him, his phone’s going wacky again!
Cindy’s Spirit Guide: Well, get him to fix it!
Mr. W’s Spirit Guide: How?! He doesn’t even realize it’s off!
Cindy’s Spirit Guide: I don’t know, she’s about to drive home! Make him call HER or something.
Mr. W’s Spirit Guide: He doesn’t even normally call her. What reason could I possibly give him to make him contact her?
Cindy’s Spirit Guide: I don’t know, make him call to check if she got up for work or something. Or just to call and tell her he loves her.
Mr. W’s Spirit Guide: Oh right, like that’s gonna work.