cindy's world

All around me, are women who I admire, who are older than me and are therefore living proof that age is nothing but a number, and that there’s hope after birthdays. I am grateful to…
…my court reporter, who shows me that health, athleticism, and being in great physical shape is achievable in one’s 40s;
…my mother, who shows me that age can mellow someone out, make a person more open-minded and able to enjoy life (man, talk about high-strung in her 30s, phew! haha);
…Jordan, who shows me that someone in her late 30s *ahem* can be fun, beautiful, and young.

Speaking of Jordan, I happened on a birthday card she sent me last year the other day. It’s one of those overly-verbose inspirational cards, and it hit the spot this year. “Whenever we become discouraged, let us close our eyes and remember a time when we were not afraid to dream… When we were small, we were all great artists, graceful dancers, storytellers. We composed songs, created paintings, and imagined great adventures. We didn’t think about it too much — we just made things up as we went along, improvising whenever we got stuck… And I want to remind you that even though you’re a “grown-up” now, you are still a creator at heart, an improvisor, an inventor who can make beautiful things out of whatever life hands you. Whatever you dream, whatever you hope to achieve in your life, all you have to do is remember to trust your heart… and trust that the answers have been a part of you all along.”

And speaking of birthday cards, I’m also grateful for two more out of many…
…one from Mr. W’s mom and dad, which had a $20 bill in it, because it made me feel like a kid; and
…Flat Coke & Flies’ card, which she signed off with “Love, [Flat Coke] and Elvis, apparently.” Huh? And then I saw that the inside spine of the card had a different handwriting in one line all up the fold, and it read, “Bet you’ve never had your cracked signed before. -Elvis”. Because that made me laugh (thanks, Bat), and gave me material to steal for when I sign other people’s joint birthday cards.

Early this morning, Mr. W sang happy birthday to me. I participated. It went something like this:
Mr. W: Happy birthday to you
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday to you
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday dear love
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday to youuuuu!
Me: [burying head under pillow]
Mr. W: You’re in your 30s now!
Me: [popping head out] I am NOT! Not until like 5:30!

Driving this morning before work, I thought about what’s so special about 31 that has me so bummed out. Because this is where the old life ends, and you get new life by starting a new phase, like adulthood — family and kids — and I don’t have that, my brain thought. I can’t be a caterpillar my whole life, I need to come out of the coccoon and be a butterfly, be the adult insect. And I cried the rest of the drive. As much as I’d been declaring war on birthdays for the past 5 or so years, this is the first one where I’ve actually shed tears.

At work, I got plenty to cheer me up. Lots of presents, coworker friends, song, and this beautiful delicious artisan mocha cake with cinnamon and brown sugar “sand” and white chocolate and edible glitter “seashells”:

The text messages, emails, cards and e-cards were pouring in, and I especially felt better when I read this little text message gem from Mr. W’s daughter:
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY CINDY! YOU ARE STILL SO MUCH YOUNGER THAN MY DAD :] HAHA I LOVE YOU!”

And then came my mom’s happy birthday email. It was just this portion that got me crashing back down again:
“WELL, CINDY , IT’S ABOUT TIME TO PLAN YOUR FUTURE, YOU DON’T WANT END UP JUST YOURSELF TO THE END, IT’S KIND GOOD THING TO HAVE A FAMILY, CHILDREN, SOMEONE TO SHARE YOUR LIFE. [Mr. W] IS A NICE PERSON, BUT IF [Mr. W] IS NOT THE ONE TO HAVE FAMILY WITH, YOU KNOW I MEANT… ”
She doesn’t know that I torture myself with this on a daily basis, because I’ve made it seem like I nonchalantly disregard any consideration about my future or childbearing, stuff like that. I don’t think I’m ready to have kids right now, but I don’t know that I won’t want them in another few years. All I know is that presently, kids in general annoy me. I want nothing to do with them. I make the occasional exception for the occasionally exceptional kid, but those kids are few and far in between. (By kids I mean ages 4-12.) I watch Mr. W’s daughter patiently play with and talk to other people’s kids, and I shake my head in amazement. I don’t have that in me. But will I ever?

Mr. W said that life isn’t about overhauling phases, it’s one long and gradual process. To him, there’s no such thing as going from child to teen overnight, from teen to young adult overnight, and from young adult to family-producing grownup overnight. I think he feels I’d be shortchanging myself if I force myself into expected traditional roles at expected traditional ages, instead of being as my bailiff was telling me earlier, “true to myself.”

So I emailed my mom back, pensively, with, “I think I deserve to just enjoy being happy with my life right now.” Her response came back after lunch and I was almost too scared to open it. When I did, it said simply, “OKAY, BE HAPPY!”

Maybe this is all really in MY head.

It was a morning like any other. My court reporter happily waved us into her office for some cake she’d made the night before, I poured myself a mug of coffee sweetened with half a teaspoon of sugar and lightened with soy milk, and returned to the courtroom. My new bailiff was unfolding some clothes that some friend or relatives of the defendant had left for the defendant’s use in our murder trial. The defendant’s attorney, a public defender, was setting his trial documents on counsel table while telling me he was going to be in another department for the next 10 minutes. And that was when the morning turned.

From my bailiff’s desk came a crinkle sound. The public defender suddenly froze and turned and looked at my bailiff, who had her hands on the waistband of the defendant’s trousers in her routine clothing search. She slapped on latex gloves and ripped the waistband open. Some conversation ensued that I wasn’t listening to, because at this time my naive self did not realize the magnitude of what had just been uncovered. The public defender was tracing the origin of the clothes aloud; they had come from the defendant’s mother yesterday and were handed to him; he had then placed them on a side table in by the bailiff’s desk. There was a gentleman who had urgently tried to get the public defender’s attention in the afternoon, and he had brought the clothes, and had handed them to the defendant’s mother. “That’s why I usually don’t ask them to bring clothes, cuz then THIS happens,” the public defender was griping.
“WHAT happens?” I asked, finally interested.
“Heroin in the clothes,” my bailiff answered.
“WHAT?! I’ve never seen real heroin before!” I said and leapt out of my desk toward hers. She unraveled the fabric of the inside waistband of the slacks and revealed a flat dark brown smear wrapped inside plastic wrap or cellophane. It resembled a molten piece of coffee candy pounded down. The placement of the piece was right inside a belt loop section of the waist, where you’d expect the fabric to be a bit bulker from the extra fabric stitched in. It was clear that they’d ironed the pants down there to smooth the heroin bulge. There was likely more heroin packs all along the waistband, too. My bailiff packaged the clothing and took it down to her sergeant.

“I really just don’t need this right now,” the public defender shook his head. “Now I’m part of a drug investigation.” A few other bailiffs popped their heads in and asked what’s going on in our department, and whether we needed back-up. I explained my bailiff’s findings. Turned out they’d just covered this issue in their briefing this morning, because as recently as yesterday, another bailiff in the building had found dope hidden in the trousers of HIS criminal trial defendant. The mother who’d brought the clothes for that defendant was taken into custody. “I’ve HEARD of things like this happening like an urban legend, but I’ve never SEEN it,” the public defender was saying.

I’d personally never been that close to real drugs before (that I know of), so it was new to me, too.

This job’s a trip.

My dad did some investigative work with his friend Alex, who is the owner of the established avocado tree that my dad offered to give me a graft from. The conversation continued today via email:

Dad:
DEAR CINDY:

AFTER ASKING ALEX THE ANSWER IS YOU MAY HAVE AVOCADO IN THE POT. THE TREE HAD A TYPE AND B TYPE IF YOU WANT ALEX MAY CRAFT HIS TREE TO YOUR TREE TO MAKE SURE YOU WL HAVE AVOCADO. THE NURSURY SALE THE TREE IS AFTER CRAFT A AND B TOGETHER SO ONCE YOU BUY WL HAVE LOT’S AVOCADO.

Me:
yeah, someone already told me that yesterday. but I can have avocados grow with the tree in a pot?!

Dad:
YOU NEED TO DO PUT POLLEN ON PISTILS BY YOURSELF. CAUSE THERE ARE NO BEE IN YOUR ROOM.

Me:
so I CAN have my own avocados in a pot as soon as it flowers?

Dad:
IF YOU DO IT RIGHT. I THINK SO.

Me:
Yay!

Do you guys know what this MEANS?! I can artifically sex up my avocado (“do it right,” as my dad put it), never plant it in the ground, and STILL have avocados to eat! It’s like a metaphor for ME! No home, no roots, artificial insemination… But, hold on…I won’t be having avocados without grafting if my boy turns out to be a boy, tho. Hmm. Oh, poo.

Speaking of me, Mr. W had this delivered to my courtroom today:

It came with a card that reads, “Cindy, You are the most special person in my life. I hope you enjoy these roses. I love you, always! [Mr. W]”
I think this means my bday week has officially begun.

I got this ad via e-mail today:

Four Minute Dating Party for Thirtysomething and Fortysomething Singles
Title: Four Minute Dating Singles Party
Venue: Sushi Dan (Los Angeles, CA)
Full Price: $20.00 Our Price: $10.00
Are you single in the city? Would you like to meet other interesting, professional and fun singles while cutting through all the hoopla of the “first date” scene? Here’s your opportunity to experience several first dates in one evening. When the event ends, you’ll get to write personal notes by email to anyone that you’d like to get to know.

Apparently, it’s a form of speed dating, but look at the target audience! 30- and 40-somethings! Waaah!! I’m still 30 yet!! Not 30-SOMETHING.

TurboTiger asked me in the comment section of the last post how one tells whether an avocado tree is male or female. So I figured I’d ask my dad. Here is that conversation.
me: Dad, how do you tell if an avocado plant is male or female?
Dad: WHEN IT HAVE FLOWER THE MAIL FLOWER ONLY FLOWER BUT FEMAIL FLOWER HAD SMALL AVOCADO
me: if it has an avocado, then I don’t NEED to graft it, right?
why would I need to have a male/female pair if the female’s already going to make avocados?
Dad: MAIL FLOWER HAD POLLEN. ADN FEMAIL FLOWER HAVE TO HAVE POLLEN TO MAKE PISTILE HAVE AVOCADO
me: but you said if the tree is female, then she’ll already have an avocado.
Dad: SOME TREE HAVE BOTH FLOWER IN SAME TREE
me: okay, now I’m confused.
so I don’t need a 2nd tree?
Dad: MOST OF THE TREE HAD BOTH FLOWER IN ONE TREE. NOT AVOCADO.
AVOCADO HAVE TO HAVE TWO TREE.
me: okay, so for an avocado tree, if the female already has an avocado with the flower, then why do I need a male avocado tree?
Dad: TO HAVE POLLEN TO MAKE YOUR BABY AVOCADO GROW.
WITHOUT POLLEN AVOCADO WL NEVER GROW
me: oh, so the female will have the baby avocado, but it won’t grow to be a big avocado unless the male tree pollinates the baby avocado?
Dad: YES,
me: oh. Thansk!
Thanks
When will it flower? Is it seasonal?
Dad: THAT IS WHY YOU NEED BOTH TREE
EVERY SPRINT
me: but if it’s in my courtroom, then it doesn’t KNOW it’s spring.
🙁
Dad: IF THE TREE OLD AS 2-3 YEARS
YOUR RIGHT. BETTER ON GROUND.
THINK ABOUT IT THE POT ONLY HAVE LITTLE SPACE NOT GOOD FOR TREE TO GROW
me: but I have no ground to put it in.
unless you and mom want some avocados.
Dad: IT IS A BIG TREE. WE DON’T KNOW IF WE HAVE SPACE FOR IT.
me: then what’ll I do?!
Dad: JUST ENJION THE TREE IN THE POT, AND NOT HOPE IT WL HAVE AVOCADO TO EAT.
me: what?! then what’s the point of having an avocado tree? I wanna eat avocados!
Dad: IF YOU MAY MAKE IT ALIVE THAT IS GOOD
me: can I eat the baby unpollinated avocados?
Dad: NO.
THAT IS WAY TO SMALL TO EAT.
me: rice is small.
Dad: RICE IS ALWAYS LIKE THAT SMALL.
me: okay, fine.

Did anyone reading this understand that conversation? Haha. BTW, see TurboTiger’s researched information in his comment on the previous post. His research said that there are indeed two “genders” of avocado trees, but instead of being a full male and a full female, one tree is male in the mornings and female in the afternoons, and the other one is female in the mornings and male in the afternoons. Can we say, “Ranma 1/2“? (Okay, who got that?) His research also showed that avocados start flowering in 5+ years (not 2-3), and that the tree needs to first be a height of like 15 feet to trigger it to flower. *looking at tree* *taking out ruler* My little avocado tree is 32 inches above the dirt right now. That’s just short of 3 feet. *sigh* Also, the avocado seed first went into the cup of water on March 22, 2006 and I think the first real growth appeared on it on April 6, 2006, so that’d make our boy…1 year and 3 months old. *looking at tree* *sigh*

The judge took half an hour away from us for lunch to cram in more time for jury selection, so I was unable to go to the gym. Instead, I kept busy with something else…look who got a new little house!

It’s my big boy! The “little” avocado tree! My dad told me recently that an avocado tree has to be “mated”, male and female, to bear fruit, and asked if I wanted to graft his friend’s avocado tree into mine to take care of that. I told him I already knew that there has to be 2 trees together and that I’d already taken care of that by growing my little avocado tree a wife:

And then I found out from my dad that you can’t tell whether an avocado tree is male or female before it flowers for the first time. What?! It has DESIGNATED gender, like a human? I did not know that. I just figured you put 2 different trees together and they’ll straighten themselves out. So now it’s possible I may be raising a little gay or lesbian avocado couple. But 2 out of 4 courtroom personnel in here agree, the little avocado tree has a definite male presence. And the new seedling in the plastic cup took her sweet time springing out roots and a little stem as everyone waited, so it seems female to me!
For prior photos and a little avocado history, click here.

It occurred to me in my recent stats post that people may not be aware of the current scale for body fat percentage, so here it is as according to FamilyEducation website (sorry for the formatting; my blog spaces things funny so I couldn’t line up a chart):

IN WOMEN:
Body fat percentile provides the most accurate estimate of body composition. Body fat percentile is an indication of the percent of your body that is made of fat. Normal body fat percent for women is 20 to 30 (for men it is lower). In women, below 17 is extreme low body fat; between 30 to 33, high body fat; and above 34, extremely high body fat or obese. The recommended healthy body fat percentiles increase slightly with age.

Body Fat Standards for Women Recommended by Age Group
* Ages 20-29:
Very low: <16%
Low: 16-19
Optimal: 20-28
Moderately high: 29-31
High: >31

*Ages 30-39:
Very low: <17
Low: 17-20
Optimal: 21-29
Moderately high: 30-32
High: >32

*Ages 40-49:
Very low: <18
Low: 18-21
Optimal: 22-30
Moderately high: 31-33
High: >33

*Ages 50-59:
Very low: <19
Low: 19-22
Optimal: 23-31
Moderately high: 32-33
High: >34

*Ages 69+:
Very low: <20
Low: 20-23
Optimal: 24-32
Moderately high: 33-35
High: >35

This is what I could find on men, as compared to women, on another website:

* For “athlete” body type:
Men: <10%
Women: <17%
* For “lean” body type:
Men: 10-15
Women: 17-22
* For “normal” body type:
Men: 15-18
Women: 22-25
* For “above average” body type:
Men: 18-20
Women: 25-29
* For “overfat” body type:
Men: 20-25
Women: 29-35
* For “obese” body type:
Men: 25+
Women: 35+

The weekend went too fast! Where’d it go? On Sunday, I sat there and had to really think about whether the next day was Monday. When I found the answer, I was deeply disappointed.

Friday evening, Mr. W and I met up with my parents and maternal grandmother for dinner. My grandmother wanted to treat me and my mom to dinner, since Friday was my mom’s birthday and this Friday is mine. *panic* OH my GAWD, I did not realize that I have to flip the number up by one on Friday!!! Holy crap, where did the time go? Soon every time I enter my age on the cardio machines and on the digital scales, I’ll have to put…31! AAACK!! *hyperventillating* So anyway, my grandma gave me a cute little handbag with some Lancome eyeshadow and Victoria’s Secret “Love Spell” body spray, lotion and bath gel. That’s my favorite toiletry scent! What a koinkidink. My parents gave me a tiny golden dragon (my zodiac sign) encased in a small display stand shaped like a rickshaw, and a little glass horse figurine to put at the front of the rickshaw to pull the dragon around. It’s sooo cute. I had fun playing with it as if I were 5 years old. And of course, from both my parents and grandma, the much coveted, omnipresent gift among Chinese circles: red envelopes. My grandma’s contained $60, and my parents’ contained $160, which I was a bit distressed about, because that means they returned every bit of the money I spent on them for running shoes the weekend before.

On Saturday, Mr. W and I took a long walk to go errand shopping. He bought nylon rope to retie his hammock and the Tanita scale, and I bought a larger pot and potting soil for my little avocado tree. Ya know, that’s all I remember about that day. Hmm. Wow. I don’t even recall eating.

On Sunday, Mr. W and I got up bright and early and hit up Disneyland. This would mark our 2nd attempt to go on the new “Finding Nemo” submarine ride. The park opened at 8am, we were there right about that time, and the line for that ride was already 2 hours long. What the heck!! No ride could be THAT good. We decided again to skip it and instead, hopped on the virtually line-free “Indiana Jones Adventure” and “Pirates of the Carribbean” rides. Then we got back to his house, changed and got prettied up and went to his male best friend’s hosted buffet brunch in honor of their son’s high school graduation. I didn’t know that El Torito had buffet brunches, and was pleasantly surprised to find pretty delicious food. Mr. W’s daughter was already at the restaurant when we got there; we hadn’t seen her since his son’s graduation since both kids had been at their mom’s house since. We hugged each other and she exclaimed how pretty I looked, and I told her it’s weird without her around, the house is so quiet. I think I may have accidentally guilted her into coming back home with us that night. So Sunday night, the three of us watched Norbit (it’s sub-par even as a rental, despite the many stars) and ate popcorn after taking Daughter out to practice driving. This was our first time having her drive, and she did pretty well. I’m impressed that Mr. W didn’t yell or cuss, and no one lost their tempers. I’d left 5 or 6 belts on Daughter’s bed from the 80s that had been hiding in my closets so long that they actually came back in style. I’d told her that I was going to donate them along with the rest of the crap I’d cleaned out from my closets unless she wanted them, and she wanted them all. It’s really nice to have a little sister to pass stuff down to.

Mr. W bought a new Tanita scale today, the Innerscan BC-533, that gives you incredibly comprehensive body readings. Here’s mine:

Height: 5’2.5″
Weight: 126 lb
Body Fat Percentage: 24.8%
Body Water: 52.3%
Visceral Fat: 2 – “good” is 1-12
Muscle Mass: 90 lb
Physique Rating: 5 – “standard: average muscle, average body fat”
Bone Mass: 4.8 lb
Daily Caloric Intake to Maintain: 2134
Metabolic Age: 19 (I’m not sure how accurate the metabolism measurements are, since there was no option for me to input that I’d messed up my metabolism with anorexia.)

Visceral fat is fat in the internal abdominal cavity surrounding the vital organs. High levels of fat here puts one at risk for heart disease, Type II diabetes, and high blood pressure. If the rating is 1-12, it’s healthy, 13-59 is increasing levels of unhealthy.
Physique Rating is based on the ratio of body fat to muscle mass, on a scale of 1 (“hidden obese: looks healthy but high body fat percentage to low muscle mass”) to 9 (“very muscular: lower than normal body fat with above-average body fat”).
Metabolic Age is based on basal metabolic rate (BMR, or “resting” metabolism rate, calculated by using a medically proven weight vs. age formula and then factoring in your activity level and current body composition), and comparing that to the normal metabolism of an average person from ages 12-50.

Here’s Mr. W’s stats:
Height: 6′.5″
Weight: 188 lb
Bodyfat Percentage: 10.2%
Body Water: 58.8%
Visceral Fat: 5
Muscle Mass: 160.4 lb
Physique Rating: 8 – “thin and muscular, athlete: lower than normal bodyfat, adequate muscle mass”
Bone Mass: 8.2 lb
Daily Caloric Intake to Maintain: 4621
Metabolic Age: 12

Mr. W is going to set up a spreadsheet to chart our progress. His goal is to get to a Physique Rating of 9; and mine is to get to a Physique Rating of 8 (unless I start losing curves, in which case I wanna be a 6, which is “standard muscular, athlete: average body fat, high muscle”). I also want my body fat to drop to 20%-22%, my weight to drop to about 118lbs, and my height to increase to 5’6″. *sigh*