cindy's world

It’s funny how the power of the mind permeates things physical. For the past 2 days I’ve felt like such a patient, just cuz I was handed the patient hat. I went home yesterday, oozed onto the living room couch and took a nap. The air had cooled to a nice 75 with a breeze that wafted through my living room. I had also called my m.d. friend, pharm.d. friend, and mother. My m.d. friend will talk to her gyno coworkers and get some information for me. My pharm.d. friend had some personal experience and thoughts to share, but also didn’t have much expertise in my particular situation. In speaking with my mother, I tried to be nonchalant about the situation, but she was worried nonetheless while trying to convince me that I had nothing to worry about. And it is true; my family does not have a genetic predisposition to cervical cancer from either side.

I drove to Mr. W’s later in the evening when traffic died down, and told him at dinner that I was just giving myself the day to mope and feel sorry for myself, but that I’d be back to normal the next day. Today, first thing in the morning, my body bled. It’s playing the patient too, right along with my mind. Today I have a general “down” mood with low energy and cramps, but I behaved more normally than I did yesterday, which was sort of an alternatingly angry/tearful/anxious/defeated emotional carousel. Today, I cracked some jokes, was able to interact with strangers normally again (which is good since we started a court trial today), and went to the gym at lunchtime for a pretty crappy workout. But the important thing was that it was crappy because of the other people there, not because I didn’t do my best. It just seemed like people were following me around to jump on the exact machines I was using in my circuit, and then taking it over to sit and flirt with other people standing and milling about.

One bright spot in yesterday: I came home to find my garage door replaced to the rolling metal door; they did not replace my garage door motor against my will (as they insisted on replacing some of my neighbors’ motors), but left my old one up which worked very efficiently with my new door. AND, they’d swept my entire garage. I can’t say much for the company’s office staff, but the work crew seems very good.

I’m deferring the Brian McKnight/Boyz II Men concert post for something more eminent that just came up, and since this is a record of my life, I think it warrants recording.

I just received a call from my doctor’s nurse. Although all the blood test results came through online, the results of the pap smear haven’t been published yet. The nurse advised me gently to call another number and talk to a specific doctor, to make an appointment for a colposcopy. She said it doesn’t mean that something is abnormal, it’s just a more complete screening, beyond what the pap smear told them.

After calling the referral number, I spoke to the specialist there and found out more information. I do have an abnormal pap smear. I also tested positive for something else that is very upsetting to me, and as a result of the abnormalities they need to rule out cervical cancer. My colposcopy/biopsy appointment is set for October 1.

I suddenly don’t feel like working out today.

Happy Labor Day. But not for 24 Hour Fitness employess. You guys I thank for laboring through today to keep the gym open so that I could go kill myself. Much obliged.

This holiday weekend, Mr. W and I became “two.” Not two as in two people (altho we’re that, too), but two as in, we need two candles on the relationship birthday cake. We celebrated by doing nothing, our current favorite pastime, since weekends are oddly overbooked these months. So Friday, I stayed home all by myself and hung with the Dodo Boy; Saturday, I cleaned the house, organized some stuff, ran some errands, then in the afternoon finally made it over to Mr. W’s house, where we watched “Perfect Stranger” starring Halle Berry and Bruce Willis on DVD. (The movie affected the mood; I felt sick and perturbed afterwards. Not a great aphrodisiac movie for dates, just to warn you.) Sunday, we had a dim sum brunch with my parents, then went to my house where Mr. W worked some air conditioning filter magic and got my A/C in tip-top shape so that my Fozzy Wozzy Dodo Pal could survive in his unremovable fur coat in this freakish 100+ degree weather. There’s only so much cooling down my dumping ice cubes into his water dishes would allow. Oh, and I cleaned his little ears, so it was a productive day. Then after confirming that college roommie Diana has arrived in San Diego in the afternoon, I drove us down to meet up with her and her friend Gil for a nice dinner. Aside from Mr. W and I walking over a mile to the wrong location to meet them at the bar they were at (the brilliant Ivy League-bound bartender there gave her the correct number of the building, but the wrong street, so that the address made us walk across town stepping over the legs of drunken homeless people and crazy ladies in wheelchairs yelling at us on the streets and avoiding sidewalk pee puddles to arrive at the address we were given, staring confusedly at a run-down Hawaiian burger joint, which was CLOSED, instead of leading us to a safe, lit swanky bar in the middle of night life action in the Gas Lamp District), the night was fun and we got to explore the less ghetto parts of San Diego on foot. Diana also treated everyone to a very nice Italian dinner as an “engagement present” to me and Mr. W. Even as I write this, Diana is out playing in San Diego with Gil, her personal tourguide right now. Nice guy. Very funny. (I mean he’s a funny guy and made me laugh, not that it’s funny-weird that Diana knows a nice guy.) We got back to Mr. W’s house at 2am, and I was exhausted.

This morning while at the gym, trudging from machine to machine, I thought for probably the hundredth time in the past year how I must be just physically out of it right now, because I’ve had to stop to catch my breath in between exercises of my supersets, and will myself to continue to the next exercise. I tried to remember the last time I’d felt full of energy and ready to tear it up. I know I’m anemic right now from the time of month, but the fact that I can’t remember the last time I felt really good in-between exercises makes me wonder, am I getting lazy and unconditioned? Am I *gasp* old? My recent physical examination scored me in high marks health-wise, both in bloodwork (crazy-low triglycerides, ideal blood pressure, low overall cholesterol with high HDL cholesterol) and in physical body (doctor said everything looked and felt very healthy and normal, and I’m right-smack in the middle of the ideal range for my body mass index). So what is going on?

I’m blogging from my living room. Today is the rare day off, given to me in exchange for taking me out of my courtroom for a week to help out another court. So like all overworked employees who get to enjoy an expected day off, I made myself a 9:10 a.m. annual physical appointment at Kaiser.

I believe this is the first time I’ve ever had a male examine me for my pap smear. Dr. Wu was thorough, friendly and took the time to answer my questions and check on my concerns, and when it came time for the pelvic examination, he got his female nurse in the room to assist as is policy. He explained everything he was about to do before he did it, and told me what to expect, from “I’m going to touch the skin now to examine the outer regions,” to “I’m going to use a lot of lubricant, but you’ll still feel pressure, and then you’ll hear clicking. The clicking is the speculum opening up, so don’t be alarmed.” As he was examining, he told me his visual assessment of each area he was checking on, “Cervix looks very normal, discharge is healthy, very pretty vagina…” Just kidding on the last one. Okay, it was inappropriate. Shame on me. My point is, nervous as I was that I was to be seen, poked and prodded “down there” by a guy I’d never met, and the only other guy since Mr. W, that it was the most gentle, painless and quick pap smear I’d ever received. I told him so, too, and he looked pleased. I said off-handedly that I think men are just more gentle about this than women, and the female nurse turned to me and made eye contact, nodding at me in emphatic agreement. I guess I wasn’t the only one who had to deal with rough cold metal stuff. (This one was disposable clear plastic.) We agreed that since I’m 2 years late on my annual physical, that I should be tested for everything, from liver function to STDs. A lot of tests can only be performed if you’ve been fasting for the day, so my never eating breakfast finally paid off. He ordered a battery of blood tests and off I went to the lab.

Now blood-drawing, that was a whole different experience. I walked into the lab and sat down at one of the counter booths. The big lady (nurse) on the other side told me to stick my arm out and make a fist, then she poked with her fingertip around my inner elbow. More poking. “Oh. You’re one of THOSE,” she said.
I said apologetically, “Yeah, I am. I was the last time I was here, too.” Small veins. Poke, poke. Turned my arm down. Poke, poke.
“Lemme see your other arm,” she said, and I extended my left arm. Made a fist. Poke, poke. Turned my arm. Poke, poke. Checked the back of my hand. Poke, poke. No, don’t take it THERE! I’d surely pass out! Needles already put me into shock as it is! “Nope, nothing here, either. Lemme go back to the first arm.” Poke, poke. Touched the back of my forearm. Poke, poke. “And you’d think he doesn’t have a sense of humor.” Eh? I looked over at the other nurse, thinking my nurse was talking to her about a doctor or someone who played a trick on my nurse sending her a patient with no veins, but the other nurse didn’t respond. My nurse continued, “I have terrible veins, too. And I bet He thinks that’s really funny.” Oh, she was talking about God.
“Well, they’re just gonna have to find a better way to test for things,” I started blubbering, as I felt her needle poke my forearm, pull out, poke again, pull out, poke again.
“Pssh, they already think they’re geniuses coming up with THIS. I’m not getting anything here. Lemme try another place.” She taped a cotton ball over the offending area and went an inch and a half higher. The repeated poking went again as I concentrated on not hyperventillating, going into shock, or passing out. She may have said some stuff. I may have replied some stuff. It’s all a blur from there. And then, “I’m gonna have my coworker try with you. I’m not having any luck. Sorry. Hey Jan, when you get a chance? I already stuck her twice.” A second cottonball got straddled to my arm.
The second nurse came by, poked my non-holey arm, and asked if I’d drank much water today. I told her no, just half a cup in the morning. She said that sometimes when people don’t drink enough water, the veins get hard to find. She didn’t seem stressed, however, as she ripped another needle out of its plastic packaging and attached it to a new test tube. “Look over there,” she had me turn away. I did, and I felt a prick, then a deeper pain. “There we go,” she said.
“What did you do differently?” I asked, although I already knew. The needle went clear through my arm.
“Oh, some people are just different,” she said hesitantly. Probably didn’t want me to go into shock right there in front of her and pass out. The four tubes were collected relatively quickly as I tried not to feel the pain, tingling in my fingertips or the beginnings of nausea, and she taped my third cottonball on my body, told me to put my finger there for a few minutes, and I left. Walking out into the waiting room again, I felt like a pincushion in my black tanktop and all the white fluffy cottonballs protruding very visibly from my arms. People probably thought I got tested for everything under the sun.
I staggered to the warmth of my car and decided, hell. I WAS gonna go work out but now I’m just gonna go fill up my car, get postage stamps, then go home and eat.

What a stressful day off.

One thing about being in a heavy multi-defendant gang-related shooting murder case, is that we get big-time attorneys with great stories.

This morning, one of the defense attorneys told me about a recent case in which he had to defend a man who was drunk driving. And it’s not just that it’s a DUI, it’s that he was so drunk that he plowed right into another car. And it’s not just that he caused an accident, it’s that whom he hit, was a 19 year old Marine who’s a month away from deployment. And his 18-year old wife. Pregnant. And it’s not that he injured these young people full of promise for the future, it’s that he killed them. And it’s not a freak accident, it’s his third DUI.

This defendant is apparently just beside himself, and is accepting of whatever maximum punishment the law sees fit. He keeps replaying the accident over and over in his head, and how absolutely preventable it was. If he’d just stayed home. If he’d just not gotten that drunk. If he’d just had a friend drive him home. If he’d simply left later, when he’d sobered up. But everything’s different now, so many lives have vanished and changed because of one decision in which he really did know better. The first two DUIs were warnings to him; he was charged, convicted and punished, but he’d never injured anyone else. If you ignore the early warnings and chances fate gives you, sometimes the road you walk down has irreversable, irrepairable effects.

That’s my public service announcement today. Be careful out there, especially now that Mr. W’s two kids are baby drivers on the road. Nothing had better happen to them.

I think I’m getting into cooking again. It’s so nice and rewarding to cook when there’s someone else to eat it with you, and it’s especially nice when the someone else is really complimentary and appreciative. I have this developing inherent knack for feeling what goes well together and how to cook various things, even if I’ve never cooked the item before. That’s why I usually don’t have recipes to give out when people ask me for them. A retired coworker gave me a huge bag of home-grown produce, and I did eggplant last week (lightly sauteed in fresh jalapenos and garlic and then steam-cooked the rest of the way in chicken broth) and Anaheim peppers today (stir-fried with low-fat ground beef and fresh Serrano chili peppers, served over steamed multi-grain rice), both of which were totally new ingredients for me. I’d never even heard of Anaheim peppers till I was faced with their shiny curvy green selves. And experience now teaches me another lesson — don’t touch mucus membranes when you’ve been chopping spicy chilis and peppers. (Duh, Cindy.) =P

I got an email on Friday advertising 50% off on this massage package:
“Renew yourself with this head to toe pampering experience! The OC Spa Vacation Package includes a full body Swedish Massage with Deep Back Therapy & a Heavenly Warm Foot Exfoliation & Reflexology Treatment (75 min.). Next, enjoy a Green Tea Purifying Facial accompanied by a Soothing Acupressure Scalp Treatment & Neroli Floral Water Aromatherapy. Finally, your stress will melt away with a Calming Back Facial to help soften & smooth this often neglected area (75 min). A Perfect Package for both men & women who would like a summer vacation without the stress of travel. We look forward to taking you away soon!”

How could I turn that down? That’s 2.5 hours for $160! The facility was able to accomodate 2 simultaneous appointments on Saturday afternoon, so I booked that for me and Mr. W. While at our appointment yesterday, I think I picked up on the massage therapist in that platonic girly way. She’s fairly newly here from Chicago but had always said, since she was a young girl, that she would move to California one day. Her family just ignored it as the unrealistic musings of a dumb kid, until she up and moved here last year. We got talking about how she feels like she ought to start dating, but she was also enjoying her freedom too much to give it up. On the other hand, she’d like some casual dates here and there to pass the time but didn’t know how to go about doing it. She was thinking about joining Match dot com, and I held my tongue about that which ended up being a good move as the next thing she told me was that her brother had been on that dating service and ended up marrying his Match. I suggested that if she just wants really casual hangouts for now, to give people around her a chance before she puts money down on an internet dating site. She didn’t know where or how to start.

I suggested that she think about what hobbies or interests are important to her. Then to join a group or activity revolving around that interest and meet people through there. At least then, she knows she has at least one thing in common with the guy. I told her that I’ve actually had quite a few people ask me out through the gym, and at least if I meet someone through the gym, I know he’s not a total couch potato and is into keeping up his physical health, which is important to me. I told her that peak gym times are about 5:30p, when people get there after work, and if she gets there a bit before that and situates herself to see patrons walk in, she’ll know who comes in wearing suits cuz that’d mean they’re professionally employed. And if she sees someone she likes, she can always walk up to him and say, “You look like you know what you’re doing, can you help me with this piece of equipment?” or maybe ask some tips on developing some body part while complimenting the guy, such as “You have great shoulders, what exercise do you do to tone that up?” She’s actually very pretty, so I can’t imagine that some guy wouldn’t be glad to give her a few pointers. Plus, when some gym rat finds out she’s a massage therapist, he’d be all over that! She thought my ideas were creatively brilliant. I suggested if she likes cooking, to take a few recreational specialty cooking classes, and it turns out she absolutely loves cooking. So that opens a ton of other stuff up, such as telling some guy she’s developed some rapport with, “I’ve got a class tonight to make Mediterranean pastas from scratch and I can’t finish all that food we bring home by myself, wanna help?” Or, “I’ve got this great recipe I wanna try at home from my cooking class for savory tarts, wanna come by and loan me your taste buds?” Pretty girl + massage therapist + cook, HELLO! I also told her she has very little competition in SoCal because (sorry for the stereotype, but stereotypes exist for a reason, not saying there are no exceptions) pretty girls tend to be pretty useless. They tend to have everything handed to them on a silver platter due to their looks, so they can’t cook, don’t clean, have nothing interesting to say as they haven’t needed to develop their personalities or be particularly educated, they can’t save or hang onto money, and feel entitled to being financially spoiled by men. “Really?” she said, “But the stuff I do are so…normal.” “Not around here,” I told her. I also gave her some examples of overheard conversations at restaurants; some pretty blonde in a business suit gushing to her girlfriend about a new guy she met who’s so perfect and oh yeah, he’s a “waitress” (how’d he pull that one off?); girl going on and on to a guy at the bar about her lipstick color and lip shape, while he zoned out and sat there silently staring into his beer while she obliviously rambled on (he ended up turning to his other side, where I was, and bought me a drink and the other girl was so mad she stormed out and kicked my barstool hard as she passed by); man at a restaurant’s outdoor patio table staring past a woman’s shoulders as she gabs to him about random stuff, completely unaware that he had been silent and not looking at her for the past 15 minutes as she talked. The massage therapist laughed and said she was going to pay more attention to things around her from now on.

When we left, she passed me her email address and after getting back I sent her the most recent specialty cooking class syllabus for a great artisan bakery nearby. We’d been emailing since.

Why weren’t things so crystal-clear when *I* was looking, years and years ago?

After skipping the noon workout on Friday (I went with Mr. W’s coworkers to lunch as they wanted to treat him for his upcoming bday), eating the rare lunch and rich dinner out, having lunch out again today (P.F. Chang’s China Bistro), and making myself a grilled chicken quesadilla for dinner tonite, there are few things more guilt-quenching than feeling rivulets of sweat trickle down my lower back and between my breasts, dissipating into the elastic bands of the bottom of my sports bra and the waistband of my shorts, after a 3+ mile run as I sit here and type this.

And bunnies! I saw lots and lots of white cotton-tailed bunnies bouncing and pouncing and prancing on the rolling hills of the park we ran through! The hills were alive with the movement of bunnies! “Bunnies!” I said delightedly to Mr. W on the run, “What do you think they’re all doing out here?”
He said dully without looking around, “Breeding like rabbits.”
I examined the bunnies that darted off as we ran by, trying to catch some of them in x-rated bunny-style action. No luck. “Bunnies!” I said excitedly again. Aside from the sound of heavy rhythmic breathing, I got nothing back from Mr. W. “You don’t seem as impressed with the bunnies as I am,” I observed.
“I ain’t impressed with shit right now. I’m in pain,” he spat.
Footfalls in the silence. Pitter patter of our feet. “Bunnies,” I said quietly to myself.

In the afternoon yesterday, I received two emails that informed me of a spontaneous 1pm meeting today (which is during lunch) and on the 25th. Annoyed at the late notice, I decided I wasn’t going to forego my lunchtime workout today for the meeting, so I’m going to hit a 3-mile run before the meeting. But I emailed my gym trainee to let her know I would not be able to go to the gym with her. Today, she returned with a similar forwarded email meeting notice. Her meeting’s tomorrow, with equally late notice. I complained that supervision is trying to keep us from gymming since my meeting’s today, hers is tomorrow, and there’s a special event luncheon on Friday.

Gym Trainee: I thought your meeting was on the 25 of this month.
Me: it’s today AND the 25th.
Trainee: oh that’s crazy. Do you guys have that much to talk about.
Me: I’m just gonna be there as an accessory. People won’t even notice me.
Trainee: that may be a good thing. I won’t be able to do that. Which is why I was told to go.
Me: I’m sure if you ran 3 miles right before the meeting, you could zone out too.
Trainee: Please I have a chair on the beach at club med already reserved for the meeting.
Me: lemme borrow it for today’s meeting and I’ll have it set up for you again for your meeting tomorrow.
Trainee: Ok. It’s the lounge chair with the three long island teas next to it on a tray and a magic wand sitting on in the drink holder in case I need it 🙂
Me: I’ll have to borrow your magic wand at the beach cuz I’m taking mine with me to the meeting.
Trainee: that’s what it’s for while I’m at the meeting. Every time they try to bring me back from club med I’ll just hit them over the head with it.

We’re so into our jobs.

I popped some vitamins on an empty stomach before leaving the house this morning, and I usually have adverse reactions to vitamins taken without food, so I opened a new box of protein bars and unsealed a bar on my drive in to work. It was an “all natural” brand made of “all natural” ingredients like oats and dried fruit, no candy coating. Pushing a bit of the brown cow-poo looking stuff out the top of the package, I took a bite. My mouth was instantly filled with the foul sensation of having put asphalt and black tar on my tongue. I couldn’t bite into the piece, but as I was driving, I couldn’t spit it out, either. I looked at the label. What the hell flavor was this, “Satan’s Ass, Now with Real Dingleberries!”?! It was chocolate raspberry. I sniffed the bar. It seemed fine. I bit into the piece in my mouth carefully. Maybe this bar just tastes like this? As I chewed, I realized that as much as I don’t like the raspberry seeds, it wasn’t THAT bad. I took another bite. It seemed okay. A third bite, and again the nasty tar and black oil smell/taste filled my mouth. At a red light, I looked at the one side of the bar I hadn’t yet examined, the surface in the wrapper that faced away from me. It was covered with white furriness.

Great. Mold. I’m eating mold.

I chugged half a bottle of water that I’d thankfully refilled this morning and put in my workout bag, in the passenger seat. After coming to work, I asked my new bailiff, who’s a mom (and therefore should have above-common-sense knowledge magically infused into her brain), “What would happen to someone for eating moldy bread and stuff like that?”
She said, “Not much. They make penicillin out of bread mold, so it’s not going to hurt you.”
I said, “Oh, so all it’s gonna do is kill the bad bacteria in my body.” I can live with that.

So it’s been 2 hours now and I haven’t had any problems. We’ll see how the rest of the day goes.