cindy's world

I’m writing this post at 1:30 a.m. on Friday, April 27th, but I’m gonna schedule this entry to post later on, in case you guys miss me when I’m in China. So to help you guys not miss me, I’m gonna post something icky. This came about on an IM conversation with James earlier. For those of you who don’t know, he plays lots of instruments and writes/records his own music, occasionally with his own band.

james: i should write a song about turds.
Cindy: “Tuuuuuurd, turd turd tuuuuurd, tuuuuuuuurd, turd turd turd, and I love you, you’re my turd, and I miss you…”
oh wait, that’s “dream.”
james: “My biggest mistake in my life, was when i flushed you down the toilet.. oh hey”
Cindy: “How could I have done you that-a-way, my turd, my one and only turd?”
james: thats a lie.
you dont have a one and only turd.
Cindy: it had to rhyme with “hey” cuz that’s what you ended with
james: you dont have to rhyme in songs!
if you’re an expert!
Cindy: well, every time you lose your love you thnk it’s your one and only and you’ll never love that way again
james: thats what they tought us ya know
like in poetry
true
Cindy: fine. I’ll anti-rhyme.
james: but then along comes the next turd.
that crawled up beside her
Cindy: “Yo turd, my lovah, thought you were gone forevah, but then I turned and whoa mama, my ass got taken ovah…”
I can’t do it, I rhyme.
I just do.
All the time.
james: Hahahahah
james: YOU are conforming!!!!!
you cant help yourself!!!!
Cindy: it takes more talent to rhyme than not.
I rhyme every time I start to jot
Even when I try to write
Prose my words just sound alike.
james: i have my guitar now.
im singing the turd song you wrote.
Cindy: I’m writing raps now.
james: lol
im taking your raps
and singing to them.
and putting music to it.
you know what.
Cindy: you’re gonna post it on your blog as a sound byte?
james: the first part. “Yo turd, my lovah, thought you were gone forevah” is really cool hahahahaha
Cindy: I know. I’M really cool.
brrr and stuff
james: lol
thats so cool
Cindy: what is?
james: your song

There you go, ladies and gentlemen! A real critique, from a real musician! I have talent! (Betcha don’t miss me NOW, huh? You’re welcome.) *curtsy*

You find out things when you leave your place of work at 8pm. I, for example, almost had a heart attack when I exited the elevator at the ground floor, turned into the lobby toward the front glass doors, and saw that the doors were chained closed with handcuffs. When did they start doing that?! Luckily, the side door was unchained so I was able to escape into the cool night air. Ah, night. You haven’t greeted me upon my daily prisonbreak for a long time.

Driving home past 8p, I felt a twinge of hunger. My mind’s eye explored my empty refrigerator. Maybe I just shouldn’t eat. But not eating would lower my metabolism, so I should get something light. Grabbing my cell phone, I called James. “You should definitely eat,” he advised. I wailed something about eating alone. So he agreed to meet me for a bite. We grabbed a quick sushi at nearby Miyako Sushi & Sashimi, a place he’d been harassing me about not taking him to when Vanessa and I ate there. This marks my 3rd straight night of eating raw fish, which I’m gonna miss when I’m in China. Eating cooked fish. Yech.

Dinner conversation led to my expressing a grave concern that had occurred to me earlier this evening, while I finished packing and doing laundry. What if my plane crashes, and my parents are forced to tearfully clear out my house? The task is difficult enough without them finding my porn and various, uh, physical pleasure paraphernalia. None of which I purchased, of course; they were from people who bought them as (gag) gifts for me and from others who just sorta left stuff at my house. There was only one obvious solution to this dilemma at this point. I begged James to take my schtuff for safekeeping until I got back safe and sound. He was hesitant at first, and I could see his brain was reeling with the possibilities of being in possession of something that he may have to explain to someone else. I told him he could just keep the collection in his trunk and never take it out, and even if someone DID happen upon it, he could tell them the truth. And if I die, he can either keep it or dump it, I don’t care.

Being a good friend, he reluctantly agreed. I double-bagged the schtuff in an opaque red bag. As I handed it to him and he started to leave my house, he said, “You better come back alive.” That’s a good friend, man. I wonder if he’ll ever be curious enough to look in the bag. Maybe that’s a TMI line even James won’t cross.

As the imminence of being gone for 2 weeks rolls in like a thick sea fog, I scurry around my second home, my courtroom and courthouse, making frenzied preparation. Life may be easier if I had the typical county worker mentality this week — lazy, spoiled and nonchalant, confident in the job security that a friend of my parents had once called “a metal rice bowl” in Mandarin. Instead, I am in hyper-drive. After the unusually complicated hearings this morning were held and their records and orders processed and entered, I went about the afternoon tasks I assigned myself. The dense stack of civil harassment files I received this morning must be calendared in the redbook; the Civil and Criminal computer systems must be checked for any upcoming hearings that I may have missed in my hand-calendaring; wrote a quick “Daily Tasks” list on a post-it and stuck it to the monitor to help the relief clerk out; I turned in my mileage claim (77 miles claimed) for my Hell Day a couple of weeks ago; I discussed with my supervisor and judge regarding having a consistent relief clerk in my stead here for the next 2 weeks; I did a (fruitless) hunt and investigation for 2 divorce cases that were “allegedly” assigned to me in January but which I’d never received; I set up courtroom statistics sheets for the next month so the relief clerk won’t have to dig too hard in my file drawers for those forms; I got answers on how to deal with a few “problem children” divorce cases.

I’d delved into my gym work with the same desperate conviction. Stepping up the intensity of my programs, I took my gym trainee with me as our workouts were elevated to 20 minutes of cardio and 20 minutes of heavier resistance-training on all major muscle groups every lunchtime, leaving her sore and painfully aware of the weight of her purse and of the court files on a daily basis. This we had done the past 3 weeks. I’d forgone group lunches, birthday celebrations, in favor of hitting the gym every lunch. Today was a hitch; a meeting was called at 1pm which robbed me of 30 minutes of my lunch period. I snuck out of the courtroom 15 minutes early, as soon as our last case was done, and hit the treadmill for a 3-mile run with my frenzied rushed state feeding into my energy level. I dashed into the meeting room only 3 minutes early, still sweating despite my cool shower.

Just a few more divorce cases…just a few more under my belt, and I can go home for the evening and resume my laundry and packing. Tomorrow after work, a happy hour party is being thrown at a local pub to say goodbye to 3 district attorneys, who are transferring to other courthouses. I’d decided early in the week to get my packing done throughout the week so I’d be free to attend at least for a little while, since two of the DAs are people I consider myself on extracurricularly friendly terms with. The presence of upcoming events like the meeting today and the happy hour tomorrow feel like looming deadlines to me and the pressure has had me on a sort of “panic mode” all week.

Just a few more files and I can get back to cleaning house and packing. I feel like I’m forgetting something, or will forget something. Ack, I need a vacation.