cindy's world

There I was, driving along the street with half a tank of gas still in my car, innocent, unsuspecting, calm, sleepy even. And then HOLY CRAP! A Chevron station on my left displayed that its premium gasoline is currently being sold at $3.37 a gallon! $3.37! A gallon! 91 grade! Chevron! My last fill-up was $3.49 a gallon at Mobil. I immediately pulled into the left turn lane and waited at the red light to turn into this gas station. I spent $28 on my half-tank and merrily went on my way.

For the next 3 miles as I drove to James’s house (to pick up stuff to mail to Jordan), I kept freaking out looking at other gas stations’ posted prices. “Oh my GAWD!! Arco’s premium gas is $3.35! I just paid more than that when I didn’t even need gas!” (Buyer’s remorse.)
James, who was on the phone with me and kept getting all his sentences interrupted with my exclamations like this, said, “Okay, but do you really want Arco gas?” True. I moved on. He started saying something about work or his car or something, I wasn’t listening, because, “DUDE!!! The Mobil station HERE is $3.25!!! WHAT the HELL!!”
James paused and said, “$3.25? Really? For premium grade?”
I looked again. “Oh, nevermind. It’s 87 gas. Whew! So what’s your gateway entry code again?”
Before James could even tell me, this shot out of my mouth: “The Chevron HERE has premium gas at $3.45! Premium! Chevron!”
James said, with saintlike patience, “But you got it for less than that, didn’t you? Yeah, you paid $3.37, right?”
“Did I? Oh yeah, I did! Oh, okay then.”
*pause*
James said, “You know you’re getting all worked up over 10 cents, right? You only saved like a dime!”

Argh. What has the rip-off gasoline industry DONE to me?!

I think I’m gonna do it. Do what? Well, this. Cuz the more I thought of it, the more I liked the idea of reclaiming my childhood playground games. So once a week, for 10 weeks, $200 buckaroos. I’ll write it off as exercise.

The friend who invited me apparently spontaneously decided to go check out the studio yesterday and didn’t tell me, but she said everyone liked it and surprise, TurboTiger was right — they teach pole, standard, AND wall techniques. What the hell is a wall technique? I guess I’ll know when class starts.

uncrowded Disneyland
spontaneous attendance with Mr. W
free entry (with annual passes)
exploring caves, crawling in stone crevices, fake-spelunking
giant turkey leg
eating with fingers like a caveman
Thrifty’s mint chip ice cream cone
finding ultra-comfortable microfiber thongs that are also affordable (Costco)
falling asleep reading What Dreams May Come

me: I wanna go to Disneyland after work!
They changed Tom Sawyer’s Island into Pirates Island!!
[My bailiff] brought back a treasure map. He was there yesterday.
Mr. W: oh
me: oh?
Mr. W: k?
me: eh?
Mr. W: Oh-K
me: YAY!!

~ * ~

Vanessa (via e-mail): Just a reminder…boot camp tonight! Hope to see you there!
Me: I think I might go to Disneyland instead. They changed Tom Sawyer’s Island to a Pirates of the Carribean island, totally interactive, with pirates in character (including Captain Sparrow) roaming the island!!
Vanessa: The happiest place on earth??? Well.. I think that will be more enjoyable then boot camp. HAHAHAHA! Ok… if you change your mind, just head on down!

Tough choice. Haha!

Vanessa came by Saturday morning to drop off some delectations that will soon be on their way to Flat Coke’s residence. The three of us (plus Mr. W) donned our teeny weeny swimsuits and trekked to the pool and whirlpools. Mr. W took a flying dive into the pool as I was running up to him to push him in, but since I didn’t get to push him, Vanessa said I could push her. So I did. She popped out of the water clinging onto her arms with teeth chattering as she claimed the water was not that cold. Whatever. I decided to ease in from the shallow end, taking one little step at a time. I was up to my upper thighs when Mr. W, this evil grin on his face, walked to me from the deep end of the pool and as I whimpered, he threw his arms around my waist and slowly (slow for him, too fast for me) walked back to the deep end. I got about rib-deep, mock-crying over his shoulder, when Vanessa finally said that it was indeed too cold and that she was going to go in the jacuzzi. That saved me as I was released and I leapt out of the pool and ran for the jacuzzi as well. Ahhh, hot bubbling water!

After getting enough heat, the three of us laid out on the poolside lounge chairs to air dry. Then I decided I wanted to rinse the chlorine off, so I went to the pool showers. Vanessa joined me in a few minutes offering soap. So we showered together (enjoy that image, guys) while she told me about how she lost her “Sexy Challenge” bet to a coworker who claimed to have spent 90 hours at the gym in May, to her 78. We agreed he must be lying. (I told Diana about this on Saturday evening, and she thought he was lying, too.) 90 hours at the gym means 3 hours a day with no days off, plus full-time work, and Vanessa said he used to be a couch potato before that. How is this possible that you can work out for 3 hours and not be burnt out, especially when your body’s not used to that much activity? Plus, who gets a perfectly round number like 90? Of course, I calculated my average gym time and I sheepishly note that in May, I clocked approximately 10 hours to Vanessa’s 78. I can usually get in more than 30 mins at lunch, but since we’d been in trial the last 3 weeks, the judge has been running late into lunch but starting on time, so I had to either go late or not go at all. This weekend, however, Mr. W and I hit the gym both Saturday and Sunday, I did some pretty hardcore exercises that left me sore today, so I more than made up for not going last Thursday and Friday.

A note: here’s how spoiled I am. I called my parents Sunday after the gym, and asked if they’d had dinner yet. They had not. I said we were on our way over there, and to not eat until we got there cuz I was starving. I was thinking I could take my parents and Mr. W to dinner, but my mom instead cooked a nice 5-course homemade meal which was waiting for us on the dinner table when we got there, despite my parents not being hungry enough from their late lunch to eat yet. So Mr. W and I ravaged the food while my parents watched some teapot Chinese soap opera in the living room.

Oh yeah. Forgot to mention. After lounging by the pool, we introduced Vanessa to the Curry House and she really liked it, and also enjoyed the tofu cheesecake we got in the end. Yum.

College roommie Diana is in town for a week on business-related matters, and we’d planned to hit up Sushi Wasabi for a super duper yummirific expensive meal, but when I called to make reservations on Friday, I got a pre-recorded message that said they were under construction or something like that until June 14. “Oh yeah!” James said when I cried to him via IM, “I remember seeing that notice posted when I took Vanessa there. He’s on vacation in Japan.” So instead, I drove up to LA, collected my former college roommate, then we headed to Killer Shrimp in Marina Del Ray. I made sure to work out really hard before going because I knew I was going to suck up a lo-hot of buttery Cajun sauce on French bread with the big shrimp. And I did. Every available drop. Afterwards, at the recommendation of the hostess, we drove a few miles away to a local hoppin’ street and dropped in on a few bars and clubs. We didn’t actually go clubbing, but she and I were simply walking down the sidewalk when the corporeal bouncer waved us over and offered us free entry all night. It was hip hop night, so we figured we may as well get stamped just in case. It was a small club but very cool, with exotic burgundy chiffon swags draped in dramatic Middle Eastern decor. Think “Arabian Nights.” I believe this club is called “Mor”? We got to catch up over a few drinks at another bar that had an outdoor patio lounge area with light-lined trees, a separate indoor-patio stone wall, walk and fireplace section where we sat, and a swanky long indoor bar area. I think this place was called “World” something. (I’m sure Diana would have the information on her blog post.) The unlimited-entry stamps on our wrists for the club came in handy before we left for home, as we breezed through the club to use their restroom. While in there, Diana noted a publicity poster advertising a new book that’s somehow related to Greg Behrendt’s best-selling self-help book, He’s Just Not That Into You, and a blonde stranger in the restroom suddenly turned to us and insisted she “had to” tell us a story about that book. Apparently, her husband came back one day and gave that book to her. She has no idea to this day what he meant by that gesture, but they’re divorced now.

3 – drinks consumed between the two of us at the nice “World” bar
325 – pounds on the woman sitting behind Diana who was loud and drunk and dropped her drink, shattering the glass
11:48 – pm turning to go onto the freeway to return Diana to her hotel
3 – number of lanes on the section of freeway we were on
1 – number of lanes available, as the two RIGHT lanes were coned off for “construction” that we never saw, such that we could not even exit the freeway
0-1 – mph of the entire length of freeway before we were able to get off 4 exits down and 50 minutes later
3 – number of car accidents on the freeway we were on contributing to the Sig Alert caused by invisible construction
1:10 – am arrival time at Diana’s hotel
16 – miles traveled between 11:48p and 1:10a
5 – hours spent hanging out
2 – hours of which were in my car
2 – am arrival time back to Mr. W’s
100 – percent chance we’d do it again and enjoy it all

Some days it seems everything happens to prevent me from doing what I’m trying so hard to do (like get to work on time), and in the midst of my frustration, I’d sometimes stop and think, “Maybe this ISN’T just ‘bad luck’ or ‘a coincidence.’ Maybe I’m being saved from something bad happening if I got my way.” It’s unfortunate that we rarely get to verify this. Sometimes we get confirmation, like the afternoon when weird things on the road just prevented me from getting to the ATM at the end of lunch one day, such that I had to forego my withdrawal and return to work. Upon my return to work, I heard that the bank I’d been trying to get to was robbed at lunchtime. And sometimes, something bad DOES happen to you and you’d think, “Dang, if I’d only done this one small thing differently, I would’ve been able to avoid this,” and you wish you could go back in time just to tweak that small thing. But how do we know how many “small things” were done or prevented to keep us safe thus far? You don’t know about most near misses unless you don’t miss them.

On the same line, here’s something I got via email today, which I will send on as a “Happy Friday” to my dear readers.

The ‘LITTLE’ Things
As you might know, the head of a company survived 9/11 because his son started kindergarten.
Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring donuts.
One woman was late because her alarm clock didn’t go off in time.
One was late because of being stuck on the NJ Turnpike because of an auto accident.
One of them missed his bus.
One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change.
One’s car wouldn’t start.
One went back to answer the telephone.
One had a child that dawdled and didn’t get ready as soon as he should have.
One couldn’t get a taxi.
The one that struck me was the man who put on a new pair of shoes that morning, took the various means to get to work, but before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot. He stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. That is why he is alive today.
Now when I am stuck in traffic,
Miss an elevator,
Turn back to answer a ringing telephone,
All the little things that annoy me…
I think to myself,
This is exactly where
I am supposed to be at this very moment…

Next time your morning seems to be going wrong,
The children are slow getting dressed,
You can’t seem to find the car keys,
You hit every traffic light,
Don’t get mad or frustrated;
God is at work watching over you.

May God continue to bless you
With all those annoying little things
And may you remember their possible purpose.

I was approached today with an offer to join a pole dancing class. As in stripper pole, not as in Polish polkas. The friend who invited me found an instructor whose studio has 6 poles set up for 6 students in a class, and the instructor has agreed to close up the class and make it a private session if my friend could bring 5 other friends along to fill up the class. I’ve heard it’s great exercise and all, and I’ve always loved poles (I was a little monkey when I was a kid), I can climb them, manuever around them, spin from them, had spent hours of recess and lunch times in junior high flipping around on them with my friends. So it should be fun.

Well, here are the cons. I don’t like following trends, and I’m well aware that “pole dancing” is some stupid Hollywood trend thing now where stars like Terri Hatcher rave about its results on her body and psyche. I don’t like strippers, so do I want to do what they do? I don’t have a stripper pole myself, so where would I practice or use any of this, short of onstage at questionable local clubs during Amateur Night? And do I really want to spend $200 for a 10-week class that won’t amount to anything productive when I finish, i.e. I can’t be at a house party going, “Hey, put this song on, I’m gonna POLE DANCE! Right up against this rain gutter pipe!” At least with belly dancing, I can use the moves without needing major hardware.