Cilly Stuff


Hi, um, my name is Cindy and for show-and-tell I brought my boyfriend’s favorite pictures. *shuffling around with photos* These pictures are from our trip to San Francisco last weekend. He took them himself. With his camera.

He calls this one “I heart SF.” That’s me sitting on one of the last San Francisco Heart Project pieces. I’m wearing a UCLA shirt. *giggle*
cheese-o-rama, I know

He calls this one “Go Straight to Jail, Do Not Pass Go.” It’s me in the jail hall at Alcatraz. All puffy in Mr. W’s big jacket in the cold.
Jail House (at the) Rock

This is “Boat Framed on Alcatraz.” This building was burned down by the Indians in the early 1900s during their protest. Mr. W had to climb on a railing to take this picture. I think it’s pretty.
a photo I'm too short to take

“SF City View.” I dunno where he got that name from.
taken from the ferry upon our return from Alcatraz

He calls this “Sailing the Golden Gate.”
good zoom, huh?

“Merry X-mas from Pier 39.” I like this picture because it looks like a Pier 39 postcard. Lotsa pictures he takes look like postcards.
why'm I trying to think of words when a picture paints 1000 of 'em?

This is “Daytime Christmas Moon.” That’s the American Indian name for this photo.
pretty.  you almost expect to see a pixie or elf or fat man in a red suit

He named this “Eerie Night.” I like the lights on the bottom.
muahahahaha!  or however you spell evil laughter.

Even tho he called this “Haunted Hotel,” I don’t know that’s really a hotel.
I take credit for seeing this shot!  'Ooh, take this, it's creepy as hell!' I demanded in my hell-hath-no-fury voice.

You guys did all remember to pass the mouse over the photos, right? 😀

disgruntled-looking lions in Chinatown (courtesy Mr. W)
There were lots of lions on our trip to SF last weekend. It started with the National Geographic magazine that Mr. W bought at the airport, which features the magazine’s 100 favorite or best photos they’d ever had in print. There was a beautiful photo of a male lion walking, and the photographer had written that the lion was majestic, powerful and completely indifferent to him. Typical cat. Looking at that photo, I wanted to sink my hand into the dense lion mane, touch a fingertip to the flame-shaped tuft of fur at the tip of his tail. Of course there were stone lions all over Chinatown, guarding front doors, keeping the evil spirits out. We had also seen a framed closeup painting or photo of a lion’s face somewhere, and I remember saying I wanted a lion. Riding to work on a lion would ensure that nobody messed with me. Talk crap behind my back? My lion will eat you. Or at least bat you around. It’s funny to imagine some catty chick giving me the once-over and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, this huge paw smacks her upside the head.

One morning last weekend I woke up from a dream that I was hanging out with lions, playing with one’s gigantic paw, curling up against another one in a vast plain. When I opened my eyes I was in the San Francisco hotel room with an already-awake Mr. W. “I dreamt I had a lion,” I said sleepily, still disoriented and rather disappointed that there was no lion next to me. He smiled his boyish dimpled smile and said, “Well, how about a Leo?” I’ll take it.

WARNING: Do not read this if you are in your 40s or 50s and sensitive about that fact.
(more…)

I went back and forth about whether to post this for fear that Mr. W will get mad at me (or at the very least, be uncomfortable about it), but I figure heck, Diana recently posted her first and only photo on her blog and wrote something about the cute boy in her photo…

On Friday, I found myself alone across our hotel lobby bar from a cute guy. I figured there’s no harm in taking a photo, you know, for the women who read my blog, so I did. Unfortunately, the photo does not do the guy justice. Oh well. I tried, girls.

Since Erin and I were commenting about the “are you going to hell” test in the “Jaded Courtroom” post a couple of posts ago, I thought I’d put the link up for all of you to enjoy. My cousin Jennifer sent me this link a couple of weeks ago.

Are You Going to Hell?

Disclaimer: for those of you with more “sensitive” senses of humor, i.e. you don’t have one, this test is for your amusement purposes only. It is not meant to be any sort of indicia as to whether you are actually going to hell, or whether you are a good or bad person. If you are one to think a quiz which scores your sin points is bad taste, do not click on the above link. Thanks.

P.S. I scored a 70. I think Mr. W scored 200. Haha. Feel free to comment on what you scored and if I know you, I’ll tell you whether I think it’s accurate. >=)

For our most recent trial about the defendant who chased down the victim on the street and used the victim’s car Club in their fight and to break the van’s windows, the jury came back this morning and found the defendant not guilty of assault with a deadly weapon (I agree, cuz it really does sound like the two were just fighting each other), and guilty of vandalism with over $400 in damages (the victim produced a receipt from a car repair shop showing the repairs cost him $425.)

My bailiff said, “When the defendant’s mom asked him the night of the incident where he’s been, he told her he’d been clubbing.”

Sounds creepy, doesn’t it? “The Waiting Room.” Thunder and lightning, loss of electricity, then a strange glow moves from one window to another. Only when the patients and small Kaiser staff realize they’re locked inside the waiting room does the aging head of the nursing staff find it necessary to inform all present of the gory murder/suicide of another staff member and a patient years ago, and of the strange, inexplicable occurrences since then…the bloody handprints on a ceiling too high for any of the staff to reach, the missing scalpels, the DNA retrieved from tuft of hair last week which matched the DNA of the murdered patient dead and buried half a decade before…
***
Okay, well anyway, lemme tell you of MY waiting room experience. My appointment was at 5:50p, so I thought if I got there early, I’d be seen early. Wrong. For nearly an hour I sat in extraordinary stillness watching the kids run amock around me as patients who checked in after me were called in. Next to the check-in windows was a flu shot table. The bored nurses giving the flu shots invited various patrons to their table with shouts of, “You get a flu shot this year already, honey? Ya want one? We just need to see your Kaiser card, dear. Don’t worry, we don’t bite. We just sting a little. Ha, ha.” People entering the waiting room for entirely unrelated ailments wafted to the flu table on pure whim. I was especially interested in the mother dragging her two sons in, ages 8 and 11 (I evesdropped…er…overheard). The mother made some inquiry to the counter, and the employee’s response was that the flu shots here are for adults only. The overweight mother looked annoyed and said, pointing to her knee brace, “I just dragged them all the way from pediatrics Building C down here, and I AM NOT going to climb stairs again!” The nurse at the flu station stood and asked the kids’ ages, then said, “Yeah, that’s okay, we’ll do ’em.” The younger boy immediately started to panic. “I AM NOT going to have a shot! I DON’T WANT a shot!” He gripped the counter and started to cower underneath it. The mother dragged him out and I didn’t hear what she said over the older boy’s declaration of, “You LIED to us!” The boys were eventually forced over to the flu table and the mother gripped the younger one, turned his head to herself, as the wailing started. “Look at your mom, it’ll be over with real quick,” the nurse with the big needle said to the boy. Almost before the wailing reached its full fever-pitch, the nurse was done with the shot. The boy was left looking rather sheepish as another boy about his age, in line with his own mom behind this boy, said, “I’m ready for my shot. I ain’t no chicken.”

There were several moments when the flu shot table was entirely open with no one in line. I have never taken a flu shot and I rarely get the flu. I’ve always reasoned it was unnecessary for me to pay the $25 to the mobile nurse that comes to the courthouse every year to administer flu shots, because I’d likely be sick from my immune response to the shot whereas if I chanced it, I wouldn’t even catch the flu. My parents had gotten flu shots before and both of them were sick as dogs. (I personally have never seen a dog sick, but if the saying has any logical backing, dogs apparently get very, very sick.) I figure my genetics are similar to theirs so my body would react the same way. Another genetic thing passed down from them to me tho — the Asian thrift gene. Despite my severe dislike of needles and all practical aversion to getting flu shots, I found myself seriously contemplating going to the table because, well, the flu shots were free. Even if I don’t need it nor want it, here is a hospital facility offering something that is normally in high demand — for free. And there’s no line.

What eventually saved me from taking up that painful and unnecessary offer was seeing an Asian woman and her son, who had received their flu shots about 10 minutes prior, come back into the room and walk up to the flu table. She asked the nurse some question. The nurse responded, “This is just the regular standard flu shot that they give us every year.” The woman said something else. The nurse replied, “No, it doesn’t protect you against anything specialized…no, it’s not the bird flu vaccine…well, the bird flu isn’t even in the United States yet…if it gets here, we’ll have to do something about it then, but right now you don’t gotta worry about it cuz it’s not here…” The woman eventually left with her son. I knew that the Asian newspapers and TV news and their overblown propaganda had gotten to her and she was uninformed as a lot of these Asian housewife types are. The Asian thrift gene suddenly lost its pull on me.

Don’t you guys just love incidentally uncovering money somewhere, like in a forgotten coat’s pocket? Or when you come across cash when you weren’t expecting it, like when someone pays you back on a debt you’d written off in your head? Or maybe you get a surprise in the mail, like I did.

According to a notice I received in the mail, someone named Edell sued Bank of America, N.A. in Pima County Superior Court in Arizona and I am included in this class action suit. They settled, and my settlement check is attached to the notice.

You guys are gonna be so jealous… I don’t know what I did to deserve this financial windfall… I got a check for $0.49. WOOHOO! I can’t wait to go to the bank and cash this in, and collect this sum of money that cost Bank of America $0.37 to mail, and me $1 in gas to drive to the bank, and the bank personnel $35 in costs and salary to process on both the printing and sending end, and the receiving end when I cash it in.

I should just use the check for scratch paper and save everybody trouble and expense.

My judge (Cal alumnus) has a running bet with one of my other favorite judges, Judge Higa (UCLA alumnus). Whenever Cal plays UCLA, the loser has to buy the winner a six-pack of specialty beer. This morning, I passed my judge in the hallway who told me that he was stepping out for a few minutes. “We won this weekend!” I said, dangling my UCLA keychain attached to my work keys. “I know,” he grumbled, “I’m on my way to bring beer to Judge Higa right now.”

Later on, we were in another judge’s chambers singing happy birthday to a coworker over Boston Cream, lemon meringue, and Dutch apple pies. My judge reached for my court keys and said, “Mind if I borrow that for a minute?” I was about to hand it over, thinking he needed to access a locked door or something, when he continued, “I’m gonna stomp on that keychain for a minute.” I snatched my hand back.

Sports nuts. tsk.

My bailiff, upon seeing the success of my chemical diet so far, made a photocopy of the instructions and menu. I told him that if he wants to do the diet, I’d give him the seven saltine crackers it calls for so he doesn’t have to go out and buy a gargantuan carton like I did if he doesn’t normally eat saltines. He looked at the menu and said, “I don’t think I can do this, man. There’s not enough eats on it for me.” I looked at him quizzically, wondering why he made the photocopy. He answered my unspoken question. “I’m gonna give this to Lisa.” His girlfriend.

Can you guys just SMELL the bloodspill already?

I didn’t say anything to him.

« Previous PageNext Page »