I made an error when I stated in a previous post that we obtained Formula D drift race tickets from “a family friend [who] works as the publicist for these race events.” Just found out that the connection (my godbrother’s older brother; I grew up with this guy) is the president/co-founder of Formula D. Whoa….
I should not have had to pay for that souvenir Formula D t-shirt! =)
I’m just kidding about that; I would gladly support his cause. But imagine knowing the guy who founded Nascar! Formula D even got a prestigious hip-hop radio station, Power106, to be one of the DJs for the race we attended. I’m actually really proud of him. He’d always been a great PR person.
(This was my take on the FormulaD event last weekend. This is the Wikipedia coverage of Formula D.)
Yesterday evening, Mr. W and I dropped off his son at the gym (we’d both worked out at lunch already and weren’t feeling fighting the after-work crowd for a second session) and went to a nearby mall to kill time until we had to pick son up again. On the drive to the mall, Mr. W got a phone call from his parents and we stayed in the car after parking so he could finish the call. As he gabbed away, I watched a guy joined at the hip with a girl walk to their car in the parking aisle we were facing. I first noticed him because he was carrying a Victoria’s Secret bag in his left hand, and slung across his left hip and opposite right shoulder diagonally was a rather effeminate looking brown cloth bookbag. His right arm was around the girl. He opened her car door, she got in, he handed her the Victoria’s Secret bag, then removed the cloth bag from his shoulder and handed that to her as well. I realized it was HER bag. As he circled around the back of the older-model teal car to the driver’s side, I wondered if his testicles were also in that fabric bag. He got in, and they proceeded to back their car out the “wrong” direction of the angled parking aisle. Mr. W was now hanging up his call, and thus could comment, “Oh, THAT’s nice,” as their teal car banged right into the back of a pick-up truck parked behind the whipped guy’s car across his aisle. We both got out of Mr. W’s car. The teal car pulled forward away from the pick-up, still going the wrong way, slowly. And kept going. I yelled out the license plate number to Mr. W. At the end of the aisle, the losers slowed and paused, watching us. YES, there are WITNESSES, you weasels. Mr. W waved his arm at them, motioning them to come back. They didn’t move. And then when they did, they turned away from us and took off.
What a puss! Mr. W wrote a note describing the vehicle and I gave him a juicy description of the driver, explained what had occurred, left the time of the incident, and stuck the note on the truck. Walking into the mall, I wondered if the teal car would circle around and come back to see if we’d left a note, and take it off the pick-up. Then I realized if they’re gonna do a hit-and-run with 2 witnesses, they’re gonna be too chickenshit to come back for fear that we’d still be there, and maybe the truck owner would be by then, too, and if we didn’t get his license plate # the first time, now we just might.
So to the 5’7ish Latino/Filipino 180lb male with his 5’5ish 160lb Latino girlfriend driving a late 80s model teal Ford Probe (?) parked at the Westfield Mall and committed a hit-and-run at 8:30p last nite, BAD KARMA VIBES to you!!!
I like this picture. This is from James’ bday shindig some weeks ago. I’m posting it because 1.) I think it’s artsy, being taken in only candlelight; 2.) it reminds me of happier times, before I was sick and sniffling, and before James abandoned us to his wanderlust in Japan; and 3.) if I hold my hands up real close to the photo, I *almost* feel the warmth of the candles, and it helps me ignore the roar of the air conditioning over my head. I can pretend. I mean, there ARE a lot of candles on that cake. Poor James. (Hey, I can torture him; he’s all the way across the globe and probably won’t even see this for WEEKS until he gets back.)
I think I caught a cold at the Formula-D event this Saturday. It was colder than I expected, overcast near the water, and the wind was blowing. It had crossed my mind that my body temperature might just take a dip long enough for some viruses to really grab on, but I hoped for the best. Sunday, I woke up with a sore lumpy throat (looked almost like tonsillitis) and got congested. I couldn’t sleep Sunday night because my body had temperature regulation issues; it was either too hot with the covers on, or too cold with them off, the pillow was either too high and cutting off my breathing, or too flat without it, and it seemed like there was a monstrous hole in the middle of the mattress trying to suck me into some bed bug abyss. Plus, I just wasn’t sleepy. I probably got an hour of sleep. It didn’t help that Monday (yesterday), work worked me beyond belief and I was sniffling with an itchy throat all day. I was able to get some shut-eye last nite, but today I come into work and the air conditioning is on full-blast so that it sounds like I’m in the middle of a blizzard. *sigh* Oh, in case you guys don’t know how A/C works in the building, here’s a short little ditty I’d written on it some time ago.
I was having an email exchange with a friend who was home “sick” from work to work on his masters thesis. When I found out that’s what he was doing, I offered to stop stealing his time so that he could finish up his thesis. He wrote back, “dont worry about distracting me, i can multi-task…. and besides, if it werent you, there would be something else to distract me..” That sounds like ME in college! Here’s me back then when an essay’s due the next day:
1.) Turn on computer.
2.) Lay out assignment materials (book, assignment, syllabus, notes).
3.) Check email.
4.) Type out a diary entry about the latest drama regarding boys.
5.) Check email.
6.) Call friend I haven’t spoken to in awhile. Bitch about all the assignments I have due.
7.) Remember that Victoria’s Secret is having a huge online sale. Check their site.
8.) Ask roommate for her take on a few VS pieces.
9.) Go to kitchen and rummage around for snacks.
10.) Settle down in front of computer with a sandwich.
11.) Unable to work AND eat (not enough hands), so I check email again.
12.) Finish eating, put plate aside, decide to go brush food out of teeth.
13.) Examine face in bathroom mirror.
14.) Lean in real close, see unwanted eyebrow hairs, start plucking.
15.) Brush teeth.
16.) Examine skin in bathroom mirror.
17.) Mess with new hairstyle.
18.) Walk by roommie watching TV. Pause next to her to see what show’s on.
19.) Sit down next to roommie to watch the show. It’s half over already, anyway.
20.) Sit down in front of computer. Re-read essay topic.
21.) Pull out paper to outline essay.
22.) Stand up and go to the bathroom to stare at teeth in mirror.
23.) Sit down in front of computer.
24.) Check email.
25.) Dinnertime!
His response: “Whew…I thought I was the only one.”
I wrote: “No way. The term ‘procrastination’ was invented because of ME.”
He wrote: “The only reason it wasn’t invented because of me first, was because I kept putting it off.”
He won the argument. But that’s why he’s the one who earned the advanced degree.
From the moment we stepped into the fenced-in lot off the Long Beach Convention Center, I was excited. I exclaimed more than once, “This KICKS Nascar’s ass!!” This, my friends, is drift-racing.
That was a qualifying round. This is a head-to-head face-off:
TurboTiger was right. There were a lo-ot of niiiice, fixed-up cars and custom paint jobs. (Rest mouse pointers over photos for captions.)
Some cars are so fancied up I can’t even tell what model a lot of them are from just looking.
Of course, YA KNOW that if I find MY car model, I’m gonna take pictures of it. Because the IS350 is a new model, there are few after-market modification parts available for it. The owner of this car is doing almost all the mod parts from scratch himself, and expects to be done with this baby next week:
I just thought this little cherry-red number is cute:
Mr. W liked this RockStar car:
This dude’s one of the premier drifters in Japan:
After the race, Mr. W and I took a walk down to The Pike and chowed down on shrimp at Bubba Gump. And then we took a stroll to a nearby Borders book store, where he purchased a yoga/pilates book and a “better sex” book which he claims to have purchased only for the pictures. I had a really good time, and am looking forward to the October Formula-Drift event in Buena Park, where we’ll be in the VIP box. Jealous?
Well, don’t be. I think I’m growing a penis from all the testosterone floating around today. Speaking of that, this morning’s question of the day, introduced while still lounging in bed, was What would you do if you wake up one morning and you look down to discover you’ve changed gender? My answer was that the first thing I’d do is jack off. I wanna see what all this penis hype is about. After that I can panic.
I had knowledge that some weeks ago, Mr. W had helped my good friend Vanessa out because she had broken up with her long-time guy and was therefore sexually unfulfilled. And by “help out,” I mean he slept with her, kind of as a favor. And I was aware of it, and I was okay with it, it was nice of him. And then yesterday, the three of us went to the gym. Vanessa wasn’t able to drive, and Mr. W and I drove separately, so she drove back with him to his house where we were gonna meet up, drop a car off and go get a bite to eat. As Mr. W was exiting the house to go to the car, and Vanessa and I were picking up our purse and shoes and about to follow, Vanessa mentioned, tossing a used napkin or something in front of me into a trash can, that they had taken a little longer than me to get to the house from the gym earlier because they had a quickie in the gym parking lot before they left. I asked her, “I thought you were on your period.” She said no, and then I remembered that she’d recently told me that her period strangely lasted only a day and a half this time. So she was no longer on her period. “Oh, okay,” I said, and waited for Mr. W to leave the house completely. As soon as he did, I said discreetly to Vanessa, “Actually, I’m a little hurt about this one. He and I hadn’t had sex for 3 days, and then he goes to YOU for a quickie.”
She looked surprised. “He told me it was 5 days –”
I said, “Fine, maybe it WAS 5, but that’s even more of the point; that he hadn’t slept with me for that long and he goes to you instead of me.” And then, suddenly it hit me. “Wait. You know, I’m not okay with any of this at all! Nobody told me it was going to happen again or made sure it was okay with me this 2nd time! In fact, no one checked with me before the first time! I was just INFORMED after the fact that it happened!” And then I questioned my own logic. WHY had I been okay with this before?! “I just loved you guys too much to make a big deal out of it, but now I feel — I think he cheated on me!”
Vanessa gasped. “Oh my gosh! I think you’re right!” Suddenly she looked indignant, like she was angry on my behalf.
The two of us went outside, where Mr. W was at his car. Vanessa got to him first and said something I couldn’t hear to him, but it sounded kind of angry, and she pointed behind her to me. I was already in a rage. “You CHEATED on me!” I yelled at him, walking toward the car.
Mr. W walked forward toward Vanessa. I thought he was just going to talk to her or take her to eat as planned and ignore me, but he walked past her and walked toward me. I couldn’t help but notice, however, when he passed her, he gave her a smile and a look as if to say, “Cindy’s going crazy for no reason again.” Another two steps toward me, and I held out my hand as if to say STOP. I stepped backwards, away from him, maintaining a distance of about 15-20 feet.
“You SLEPT with her, TWICE, and you just TOLD me about it aftewards! I wasn’t asked if that was okay!”
“But you knew about it,” he said, almost laughing at me as if I was making a big deal out of something stupid. He took a few steps toward me again and I quickly put up my hand. STOP. I took the same steps backwards, back toward the house, away from him.
“You SLEPT with one of my closest friends! That’s NOT right! Normal people don’t sleep with their friends! Did you sleep with [his female best friend]?” He cocked his head to one side. “Did you sleep with [male best friend]?” I expected those answers to be no, I was just making a point.
He took a few steps in my direction again. “Well, I didn’t sleep with [male best friend],” he said, still smiling and shrugging like this was not a big deal.
“Wait. What are you saying, you slept with [female best friend]?!”
“Yeah, I slept with her.”
“WHAAAT?!” This was all the more absurd because I know that female best friend is not romantically interested in men, and she has a live-in long-term relationship. Suddenly I understood that he had slept with her to satisfy her curiosity about men at some point. I shook my head at him in disgust. This was just too much. Given all the things I had been forced to accept as part of his sexual past that I am not generally okay with, and now all THIS.
I turned and ran back into the house. I could hear him running behind me. I ran into the bedroom and closed and locked the door, then threw myself against it on the ground, sobbing. The sound of my wails bounced hollowly off the walls of the room.
Mr. W suddenly came in, and I realized I hadn’t locked the side door to the bedroom. Idiot. But there was no fixing this, there was no going back. I was just aware of how absolutely hurt I felt, and I wished so badly that none of this had ever happened, that time could turn back to before his indiscretions and instead of going on the skewed path, he would’ve chosen the correct things to do, and we could be happy together again. How much I wished for that.
Mr. W put his hand on my shoulder. “Cindy, wake up. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare. It’s okay, I’m here.” I woke up in mid-whimper. The nausea was still at my chest.
“You cheated on me! Twice! …With VANESSA!”
“Oh gawd, you and your dreams,” he smiled and hugged me.
“And you slept with [female best friend]!” This time he laughed. So I told him the dream in detail, ending with how he admitted to sleeping with his female best friend. He remarked how improbable that’d be due to her sexual orientation, and I said that it was because she’d been curious what being with a man is like so he did that to help out. “It’s like you were this sexual humanitarian or something!” I can’t remember the actual term I used for the life of me. But it means something like sexual assistant, sexual facilitator, someone who goes around having sex to “help” people. Whatever the term was that I used, he repeated it and thought it was hilarious.
I didn’t find it funny at all, and was unable to fall asleep after that. Ugh.
Oh, a note. After awakening, I did feel like I got my wish in the dream, cuz time went back to when we were good and he had committed no indiscretions. The 2nd thing that struck me was remembering how helpless and sad and hurt I felt while I was crying in the dream. Where was the anger? In real life I’d imagine I’d just stand up and walk away from him forever, knowing that my life would be fine without him.
Here’s a most bizarre thing. I was reconciling my latest DiscoverCard statement with my receipts last nite, and saw that a particular Chevron gas station had charged me $40.60 for a fill-up on February 27, but the receipt in my hand, for the same date, same gas station, showed $20 even. I’d been resistent to filling up all the way partially to boycott the recent rise in gas prices, and partially because gas always seems to fall the day after I fill my tank up all the way.
So anyway, I’m comparing the dates, the gas station numbers, they’re all correct. And I’m feeling really indignant because gas prices are insulting enough without them overcharging me! Can you imagine, if they steal $20 from everybody, how much money they would obtain fraudulently?
During a break in our trial today, I called DiscoverCard and disputed the charge. The person I spoke to was very nice and helpful, and I could hear her typing as I explained the situation, and I told her I’d like to fax them a copy of my receipt. She said the receipt would help a lot and that she’ll credit me the difference immediately. Then she asked if I’d contacted the merchant (Chevron) about the issue. Just as she said that, my eyes zeroed in on a line at the top of the receipt that said “Visa.” VISA? I was confused, but I do realize (now) that the receipt I was holding is not for the corresponding DiscoverCard charge on my statement. All sorts of things ran through my mind. Should I keep going with this? Maybe they wouldn’t catch it and they’d credit me anyway? I can’t do that!
“Uh, can I do that? Contact the merchant?” I asked, stalling.
She said, “Sure! Actually, it might be faster doing it through them because they can usually credit you immediately, but we can do it also, it’s up to you. It’ll take us up to 30 days.”
“Oh, okay! Lemme try them then, since it’d probably be less trouble. I mean, I can just show them the receipt, they can’t dispute THAT.”
“Exactly. But it’s no trouble, I can do it here, too. Are they close by?” she asked.
“Yeah, they’re just up the street.” At least THAT part’s truthful. My face was burning. “I’m just gonna go to them and it should be faster that way.”
“Okay, if you have trouble with them, or if you want us to do something about this, just go ahead and call us back.” She was being so nice. I wonder if she found it odd I was so adamant and now I just want to cancel the dispute and get off the phone.
“Thank you so much for your help!” I said lamely and we said our goodbyes.
I looked through my wallet. I have no Visa card anymore. This is totally someone else’s receipt. Somehow, I filled up my car, pushed the button to have a receipt printed out, and someone else’s purchase printed out. Maybe it’s from the person who filled up there just before me, and someone behind me had MY receipt.
*beep* “Hi, guys. This is [Mr. W]. Lily called Cindy and said that our passports and visas are ready to be picked up, and she wants to know if you want her to pick up your passports and as well.”
In the above sentence, who does “she” refer to? Grammatically, the pronoun (“she”) would refer back to the subject (Lily), so doesn’t it sound like Lily called me to tell me that our passports/visas are ready to be picked up and Lily asked if I wanted to pick up passports/visas for Mr. W’s friends, as well? When I heard Mr. W leave this message on his friends’ answering machine, I told him that it sounded convoluted as to who was asking whom to pick up the passports because all he said was “she.” The remainder of the message, he told them to call him back and let him know so he could tell “her” (meaning me). This led to a dispute because Mr. W insisted that he’d made a point to say my name so that they would know that it was me who was offering, not that our travel agent, Lily, was forcing me to take other people’s personal documents into my own hands. I told him that he’d only said “she” and he said that because he’d said my name, then the “she” obviously meant me. I said it did not, and then he claimed that the message he left was “Lily called us and said our passports and visas are ready to be picked up. And Cindy called, and asked me to call you guys to see if you want Cindy to pick up your passports as well.” I KNOW he didn’t say THAT. Cuz as soon as he said “she” in the first version I had typed up there, I winced. It’s the editor and writer (and copywriter) in me.
And then Mr. W characterized this dispute as a “fight”, and complained that we “fight every day” about stuff like this. I asked for other examples. He brought up the day before while we were having dinner with Vanessa, and the day before that when he and I were watching Ally McBeal.
The dinner dispute was when Vanessa and I were talking about weight loss and dieting, and Mr. W interjected, “I’m coming back at like 210, 215 now.” Both she and I thought he was saying he’d gained 20, 25 lbs recently, and then I realized that he meant he’s coming back from the GYM at his lunchtime workouts at 2:10p, 2:15p now instead of the regular time when lunch is over. So I explained that to her and he was lost and I told him that Vanessa and I were on the same page, confirmed that with Vanessa, and that was the end of that. He called that a “fight”? The Ally McBeal thing was because we thought we may have been viewing the 4 episodes in the wrong order on the DVD, since the episode names weren’t displayed in a list, they were displayed in a block of 4, so we didn’t know whether we were supposed to go from the left top episode to the right, or straight down. We picked one, and there was a scene where Ally was making reference to all the strange guys who’d asked her out that week and she talked about some fat guy or strange event that we hadn’t seen in a prior episode, so Mr. W said something to the effect of, “See? We did skip something cuz we never saw that happen.” There was another place where he made a similar comment. But later, he denied ever even thinking that we may have viewed the episodes in the wrong order or that we may have skipped an episode, which is still confusing to me, but we went back and forth with me saying, “But you mentioned it TWICE!”. But anyway, his dramatic overcharacterization of those 2 disputes as “daily fighting” offended me yesterday evening and I’ve been irritated ever since.
I know fights, I’ve been in fights. I’ve fought when some sleezeball treated me like crap and told me it was my problem if I didn’t like it. I’ve fought when I was cheated on and lied to. I’ve fought when someone twisted something my mother said and published it to brag to his deluded friends. But I’d never fought physically or thrown things. And I know of Mr. W’s past fights with women he said had “volatile tempers”, who cheated on him, who screwed him over, who had psycho fits over stupid things like going thru his personal stuff and finding something he owned that they didn’t like. Women who had neighbors call the police on them for screaming and cussing and physically fighting with their men on the streets outside their homes. And he wants to lump ME into dramatics like that?! You’d think he’d know the difference.
I’m actually dizzy and lightheaded right now, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so irritated about all this, or because I couldn’t sleep all night from being bothered by this. Maybe I’m overindulging in his fatalistic, dramatic outlooks, and maybe it’s cuz I’m PMSing. But I hate, hate being wronged and I feel wronged often in this relationship. Who cares if his friends misunderstood his message? They could probably pick up the meaning through context if they had half a brain cell. I was just pointing out that it sounded convoluted, it’s not a stupid fight. (When I went to pick up the passports, by the way, travel agent Lily mentioned that the “friends” had picked up their passports that morning already, so now the friends can feel bad when they hear the message that we offered and they didn’t.)
