cindy's world

I got out of lunch a tad late yesterday and had to cover for a busy court in the afternoon, so I had to skip the lunchtime Insanity workout. To make up for that, Mr. W and I ran my usual course last nite — a hilly trek from our house down past the lake and back, 4.42 miles total. I’d started running it (sometimes with the girl stepkidlet) at a pace taking me about an hour and some odd minutes. (There are some really long killer uphills!) We managed to get the time down to right about an hour when her summer vacation hit and she stopped running. I still went on for a few more runs on my own, shaving more time off until I averaged about 49, 50 minutes. I used to run flat land at approximately an 8.5-minute mile pace, so this wasn’t good enough. I know I have to make allowances for the extra hills, but still. Anyway, my last run was in June. Last nite, I donned my brand new Asics (coolest, most comfortable model ever! I have these in the blue), and ran it with Mr. W. The weather was perfect and cool. Not only did I not get blisters, and didn’t die without my iPod (which is battery juice-less), but I felt good thru most of my run and ended up shaving more time off! 45 minutes! It’s still a hair over a 10-minute mile, but I’m much closer. I think the Insanity workouts have helped strengthen my legs and cardio.

Now I’m less nervous about this month’s boot camp race I signed up for.

I believe that for the most part, quality of life is a state of mind. Assuming you’re not impoverished, painfully diseased, you didn’t just lose a loved one, or get brutally beaten up by a drunk husband, etc., your average life can be great if you just allow yourself to see the silver lining. I did this exercise late this morning, for example:

Cindy is hungry. –> Fortunately, it’s 10 minutes till lunchtime. –> Unfortunately, she spends lunchtimes doing Insanity workouts. –> Fortunately, she has nothing to barf up mid-workout.

See what I did there?

I think Insanity is perking up my butt. Which is another perk to this insanity.

(photos courtesy Tom’s cell phone camera)

Just got home from The Doors concert at our lake. I didn’t get the music; it was just noise to me except for the encore song, which was “Light My Fire,” #1 song on the charts in 1967. It was pretty cool that Robby Krieger (who mainly wrote the song) was performing it live in front of us. Maggie, her hubby Tom, and Mr. W had a great time. I’m glad, because I was mostly distracted and very violently annoyed by three morons standing up in the front nearly the entire time blocking people’s view with their gyrating, despite Lake rules that people stay seated and despite my and other people’s requests to them to sit down or move aside. I had never wanted a slingshot so badly in my entire life. Tom kindly told me after the concert that he’d considered throwing a fork at one of the guys. Judging by the way these idiots ignored angry tugging on the back of one of the guys’ shirt and the crowd’s shouting demands for “down in front” to sit down, they wouldn’t have felt the fork, but it was the thought that counts. According to the people in the know (apparently everyone except for me), the current lead singer sounds like Jim Morrison, looks like Jim Morrison, and has the exact mannerisms and movements as Jim Morrison. Mr. W said he felt like he was watching and living 60s history. At one point, someone even lit up and we smelled the skunky stink of pot. I think the sheriffs were on that pretty quickly because the smell was gone within a minute. But let me back up.

Before the concert, Dwaine came over and hung out, then Maggie and Tom arrived, and we all went to the lake early to get in some kayaking. Dwaine asked as we left the house whether we were gonna take pictures of our adventure. I thought it was a great idea, and asked Mr. W if he had his waterproof camera ready. He answered that it was too much trouble to put the camera in the waterproof casing, so I ran upstairs and got my (significantly more expensive) DSLR camera and met everyone outside. We got to the lake, I grabbed a towel and my camera and we headed to the watercraft rental station. Since we had to wait for Tom and Mr. W who were changing in the restroom, I decided to start a new folder in the camera for this trip. I turned it on, the battery indicator flashed, and the display shut off. That’s weird, I had enough juice in the battery the last time I used it, or I would’ve changed the battery already. But I walked back to the restrooms where Mr. W was walking out, handed him my camera, and asked him to put it with his stuff in the locker because it was out of battery. He looked like me like I was stupid and troublesome, which okay, I was at the moment. I ran back to my beach bag, retrieved my fairly new Android cell phone so that I could at least take photos with that, and returned to the kayak area. Soon we were on our kayaks in the water. I took some photos, and Tom pulled out his cell phone and took some photos, including this one of me:

This is the conversation that followed the photo.
Everyone: Be careful! Don’t fall!
Me: It’s fine, the kayak’s actually pretty steady. I can even probably even do this on one foot. *lifting one leg*
Everyone: Be careful! Don’t fall!
Me: It’s fine! *lifting the other leg in another direction* *the kayak rocks toward the weight*
Everyone: *random gasps and yells*
Me: *lowering my foot quickly and restabilizing the kayak*
Everyone else: *sighs of relief*
Dwaine: Nice save! I thought it was gonna tip over!
Me: No, the kayak’s stable. I can actually get it to rock pretty far and it stays upright. *rocking left and right* See, I can rock it back and forth and it doesn’t –”
*flip*
*sploosh!*

When I came back up, my kayak was upside down. Which wasn’t a big deal in the very comfortable water temperature in the hot sun, until I understood what Mr. W was yelling. “Your cell phone! Your cell phone’s in there!” Oh, CRAP. My phone was in a zippered pouch attached to the back of my kayak seat. I pushed on the kayak. It just floated a little away from me.
“How do I flip this back over?”
“You have to get under it,” said Mr. W, paddling toward me. I took a breath and went under and pushed. Again, the kayak just moved away from me across the water. I had no leverage. Soon Mr. W got the kayak from one end and someone else, I think Tom, got it from the other end, and they pulled it up and flipped it. I pulled myself in and checked on the pouch right away. There was about 3 inches of water inside and my phone was submerged. Tom immediately took my phone and examined it, and took it apart to dry. *sigh* I wasn’t worried about it because what I was supposed to do? Besides, it’d gotten wet once before (rather mysteriously cuz I didn’t do it, I just found wetness and steam inside the display) and that time, after it dried and I recharged the phone, it stopped acting weird. So I wasn’t too concerned, altho it did suck that I was unable to entertain myself with it during the concert.

When we got home awhile ago and we walked to the front door, I mentioned to Mr. W that I need to remember to say a prayer of thanks to God (and really, to everyone helping me up there — spirit guides, angels, friends, etc.) for killing the battery of my DSLR camera. “Why?” Mr. W looked at me oddly.
“Because if that camera weren’t dead, it would’ve been in the kayak.” And I definitely would’ve been upset about THAT, because not only is it an expensive camera, it would’ve been resting on the bottom of the lake.
“Oooh,” he said, understanding.
A negative’s not always a negative, that’s why I’m not usually upset when little “disasters” strike, such as when I’m stuck hitting every red light on a drive. In that situation, I’m probably being deliberately delayed for a reason. In this case, it was weird that I didn’t check my DSLR battery before leaving the house, weird that the battery was so dead the camera wouldn’t even stay on which renders the camera completely useless, weird that my kayak was the only one with a seatback that had a zippered pouch cuz otherwise my cell would’ve been sitting in the open on the back of the kayak (where my stuff usually goes). Lastly, it was weird and unusual that Mr. W insisted, before we set out, that I remove everything (my tank top, flip flops, beach towel) from the back of the kayak where I usually keep things, and leave them instead on shore next to the launching area. All those things ended up being VERY lucky things.

Still, it was a stupid, careless move on my part. I should’ve just sat back down, but I wanted to demonstrate just how stable a kayak wasn’t, I guess.

Yesterday evening, Mr. W and I met up with a couple of my coworkers in Seal Beach for another coffeehouse visit with our clairvoyant Rebecca. (If you want to read more on Rebecca, type her name in my “search” box in the sidebar to the right.) First we had a fun, delicious dinner at Cafe Lafayette. Their food is amazing, we happened to hit happy hour so we my raspberry Lambic was nearly 1/3 off, and I now have a new love for string bean fries. Wow, that batter, dipped in their garlic aioli…just, wow. There was something else in the aioli, too. I can’t recall what it was, but it made it kind of green. Curry? Some herb? I guess I’ll have to go back to make sure.

After dinner, we walked down Main Street past the bustling shops, cafes, and restaurant-bars to our little hole in the wall coffee house. The tiny place was ridiculously crowded last night, and there was standing room only inside soon after the four of us sat down. There were already other coworkers there, waiting for our time to take a peek through the veil. Soon Rebecca arrived.

Mr. W asked the question of where she sees us traveling on our upcoming vacation. We’d felt like we were all over the place, first thinking of going on an adventure trip to Australia, but then realizing how difficult that was to plan in our strict 2-week time off window. Rebecca closed her eyes and received information for what seemed like a long time, so of course I got excited. It wasn’t going to be something easy and unexciting like “Vegas again.” She opened her eyes and said, “I keep seeing Greece. If not that, then Europe. The reason I say that is because the two of you like something with more culture, and you seem to like water, something like Aruba, but you don’t like vacations where you just sit somewhere on a beach the whole time, that’s boring for you, and Greece and Europe has more history, there’s more culture and substance there.” We then told her that just earlier that day, we had changed gears and started looking up cruises in the Greek Isles, a dream of mine. We found a cruise that left from Venice to spend a week exploring the waters and islands of Greece, then returned to Venice, and we would still have a week left to discover Italy. We had only that day put Europe on the possibility list. This cruise and itinerary had fit our schedule perfectly (unlike the Aussie cruises we looked into first), but we hadn’t worked out the budget yet to see if it was realistic. As I told Rebecca about our research today, a heard a bunch of “awww”s around me. People approve of Greek Isle cruises, apparently! haha. I think the reason she saw Aruba is because of our recent French Polynesia trip, and Mr. W said earlier yesterday that if we could find another trip with the same cruiseline for that time period for Fiji or something, he’d jump at it. Rebecca then cited us to the crowd as an example of how easy it could be for her to receive specific information if people are open to her and trust her, and she thanked us for our faith in her.

Another spot I’m more and more interested in, but had done no research in, is Ireland. I’ve always kind of felt like I hadn’t been Asian before in a past life (at least not recently), but I had been European. I get overwhelming feelings of nostalgia when I see pictures of certain locations in Europe (strongly in parts of France — so strong I bought a painting when I found I couldn’t walk away from it, parts of Italy), even though with the memories of this life I am unable to identify those places as I have never been to Europe, and for the most post, don’t know much about Europe short of what we learn in a historical context from school. I feel like I was in the US for its Golden Age in the 40s and 50s, and Europe after the Renaissance. So I thought I’d ask. “Why do I feel so drawn to Ireland?” The answer was better than I’d expected with my writer’s heart.

About 3 or 4 lifetimes ago, I was Scottish (hey, like my cat, I just realized!) and there was an Irish man I was involved with. But because of the time period, the strife between Ireland and Scotland made this union very difficult. (When she told me this, I had no idea about any problems between Ireland and Scotland, and Mr. W had told me in the car, “Are you kidding? They had MAJOR problems with each other! That’s what the movie Braveheart was all about!” Well, I couldn’t watch Braveheart cuz I’d kept falling asleep during it. I don’t like violent films.) My love soon left to return to Ireland, and it was expected and talked about that he would come back for me. I waited expectantly; he never returned. I was drawn toward Ireland then, wanting to search it for him, and I am still drawn to Ireland now, although with no clue of what I’m looking for there.
I asked Rebecca when this was, if it was 3-4 lifetimes ago. Hundreds of years, then. She said, 1600s.
I told her I’d always pictured myself there around that time period, but didn’t know if it was just imagination. Thinking back now, it was played out in my little girl’s let’s pretend scenarios (minus the man), and my childhood drawings were full of women drawn from that time, in that period clothing and hairstyle. I guess I’d just assumed it was fairy tale emulation. But I was always more drawn to fairy tales than other girls. Rebecca confirmed that I have vague memories of being there at that time because I WAS there at that time.
I then thought to ask her whether this Irish guy is around me, spiritually or maybe on this plane. Turns out, she says he is. She first asked if I had a brother. I said no. She said he’s a relative with whom I have a sisterly-brotherly relationship. A cousin. He’s 4-5 years younger than me, and it’s someone I’ve had a sense of familiarity with and am comfortable around. She sees a relationship where we playfully kid with each other. I only have 1 younger male cousin. He lives in eastern Canada and we’ve only seen each other in person 3 or 4 times. The second time I met him, I’m not sure how old he was but I was 13. After his family visited us and returned to Canada, I was surprised when I started finding letters in the mailbox from him to me. I still have them somewhere; he was too little to coordinate the pen to paper, so he’d type out his letters to me — long rambling punctuation-less “sentences” mostly listing out the titles of all the Nintendo video games he had, his prized possessions. The envelope was also typed, clearly from a typewriter, so that it was legible for the postman. I’m sure I wrote back, and we were pen pals for awhile. I’d even then thought it strange that my little geek cousin could work a computer word processing program before he could write well, and use that to write to me, and it was also strange that I seem to be closer to him with our big age difference, than I am to his older brother, only a year younger than I am. We “found” each other again once emails and IMs became a regularly available medium, and clicked instantly. We discovered we had a lot of things in common, such as our love for Bill Watterson’s “Calvin & Hobbes.” I’d really enjoyed reminding him of my memories of him and our interactions when he was very young, which he has no memory of and had found to be hilarious. I was always the one who remembered stories to pass on, anyway. Although the regularity of our contact waned or intensified as we both felt the need for, we never really lost touch again. I was pleasantly surprised when years ago, he’d declared me his favorite cousin despite growing up with other cousins closer in proximity to him. I’m definitely most in touch with him than I am with other cousins who live near me and whom I grew up with.
I told Rebecca I could tell my cousin Mark about this and really freak him out. “He’ll think it’s the grossest thing ever,” I laughed. She said to wait a bit before telling him.

I’d always wondered whether relationships feel strange when people incarnate together and go from husband-wife to mother-son, or sister-brother to husband-wife. Now I know. The old relationship doesn’t carry anything with it except for the sense of bond and trust; none of the romantic ties or emotions follow through. I’m sure that would be a relief to Mark, as well. Since he sometimes visits this blog, I’ll let the universe determine whether this is something he should find out about. If he reads this, he does; if he doesn’t, I won’t bring it up. Yet. *snicker*

But, I’ve gotta check on our age difference. My sense is that it’s greater than the 4-5 years Rebecca said. I’ll post the result here in an update.

** Update: Okay, he’s almost exactly 7.5 yrs younger than me. That would make that first letter (the one listing all the video games) typed by a 5 yr old.

I’m not particularly a fan of political correctness. I’ve said more than a few times over the years that this PC movement is overboard and the popular thought in our country is overly feminist, overly minority-coddling, wussified to the point of reverse discrimination. Come on, we’re in a war, toughen up, people! Let the kids run and play tag in school! If they don’t put out enough effort, fail them! Stop being afraid of them and their “self-esteem.” People are not that delicate! Rub some dirt on it and walk it off! And public assistance should be for those disabled, down on their luck, etc., not a permanent crutch for lazy people and for shrewd social-conscience-less people to take advantage of. So there. I’ve said some unpopular stuff. Gasp gasp, she’s turning into a conservative. Whatever, I don’t disagree with that. I pay my taxes.

But it wasn’t until recently that I saw close-to-home pendulum swings in the other direction. Not just un-PC, but stuff that shocked me for how much it seems to set society back. Are we in the McCarthy era again? Are we gonna intern Americans with 1/16th Japanese blood? And we’re now gonna make laws against religious “sins”? What happened to the separation of church and state? What happened to the big strides toward equality and tolerance? Just today, I had to be a part of this online…

On a social networking site friend’s status message: “If you think that putting up a Mosque 600 ft. from Ground Zero is immoral, inhuman, shows a complete lack of respect for the memories of all that perished on that day and their survivors, that politicians are doing a grave injustice to the fallen heroes, their families and all the people of New York City, THEN PLEASE COPY AND PASTE THIS TO YOUR WALL…”
This friend’s friend: “I think it is highly inappropriate and disrespectful of the men and women, not to mention the families of the victims, who lost their lives on that day.”
Me: “Well, on the one hand, it’s not the religion that killed people; it’s those misguided extremist idiots who got brainwashed through generations of more idiocy. Islam, when practiced purely, is not a violent religion.”
Another friend, whose daughter practices Islam: “just ask my daughter…”
Friend who posted the status message: “Correct. But when the results are this we have to take a stand!!”
Me: “no, I totally agree. but a stand against the terrorists, not the entire religion.”
Me: “I think that’s one of the beauties of what we teach in this country: we tolerate different races, backgrounds, cultures, unlike the extremist groups who think of an entire religion or race as something they need to exterminate, without exception, without free thought. An American ideal is that we’ll accept everyone and let the individual characters speak for themselves. A little bit of this sentiment is on Lady Liberty’s inscription, and continues through the famous words of MLK, Jr.”

I’m as patriotic as the next person. But I want to be clear-headed about who our enemies actually are. There are plenty of Muslims who are American, who were horrified and ashamed of the terrorists’ actions, who know their religion does not sanction such criminal inhuman actions. Yeah, it sucks that when these suicide bombers strike, they take down their entire religion along with the innocent victims when they say something bullcrappish like “We do this for Allah!” I bet they’re in for a rude awakening when they realize they’ve died for their sick cause and what’s this? They’re NOT sitting in heaven surrounded by 80-some virgins? If we condemn an entire religion based on the activities of these [some appropriate cuss word]s, we’re doing what they’re doing: attacking an entire category of people they don’t know, don’t understand, but just “believe” without proper justification is wrong or evil. We all know we don’t understand the laws of God enough to judge others in His name. We should know better. (And I’m not even religious in the traditional sense.)

**Addendum on 8-19-10
I was talking to a friend about this and he sent me a video clip of a show saying President Obama was contradicting himself on the issue because he first said pretty much exactly what I said: “I understand the emotions that this issue engenders, and Ground Zero is indeed hallowed ground. But let me be clear, as a citizen and as president: I believe that muslims have a right to practice their religion as everyone else in this country.” Then another clip of the president at another location and time, saying, “I was not commenting and I will not comment on the wisdom of the decision to put a mosque there.” He was immediately mocked for his position being wavering and unclear.
My response: “I totally agree with Obama. I get him, because I had thought the same thing myself.
As a country, we shouldn’t disallow this mosque because of everything I had stated. However, the people who proposed the mosque at that location are likely either political pot-stirrers, or very unwise. They should expect this backlash reaction. I feel horrible that we give that backlash and I think we shouldn’t, but it’s hardly surprising. For the safety of the mosque’s expected attendees, this was a very unwise location.”
So there, some balance… I didn’t mean to say last night in this post that I don’t understand the position of the opposers. I’m saying it’s not “immoral” or “inhuman,” and it would be hypocritical to oppose the religion based on the actions of a few. If I think the hate just needs to be put out with a water hose of tolerance and love, instead of with a battle axe of revenge or getting even, does that make me a hippy? I mean, if we attack with attacks, doesn’t that just perpetuate the attacking? But if we quash, then we’re done faster, right?

Mr. W and I got home about half an hour ago, and as we drove up to our house, Mr. W saw neighbor A. sitting in his front yard and the two waved at each other. I didn’t wave, not because I was being a disgruntled biatch, but because by the time I turned to see what he was waving at, we’d passed the neighbor. After coming home, Mr. W grabbed a UPS packaged we’d received earlier in the week addressed to some unknown but with our address, and said, “Ugh, I hate to have to do this, but I’m gonna go talk to him and see if he knows who this is.” Neighbor A. does know everybody, he’d lived in that house since it was built, as he’d told us several times.
I said, “And when he asks whether you’re coming to his BBQ, you tell him you invited your old boss to go to the concert with us. Leave me out of it when he calls you pussywhipped.”
Mr. W skulked off and came back 20 minutes later. “He apologizes for what he said that day,” Mr. W told me.
I was surprised, because altho I expected some conversation about the BBQ, I didn’t expect the conversation to be about what was said that day on our driveway. “Did you tell him something? Why was that brought up?”
Mr. W said that he’d brought up the BBQ by jokingly chiding, “What’s up with you having your BBQ on the day of The Doors concert? I had invited some friends to go to the concert. I’m going to the concert!” Neighbor A. had said that yeah, he hadn’t realized it, and a bunch of people were giving him a hard time about it saying they’d rather go to the concert so he’s considering canceling the BBQ since HE wants to see the concert, too. And then he said he wants to apologize for what he said the other day, and that he shouldn’t have said that in front of me. (I have an issue with that it was said at all, but anyway…) A. said that another neighbor, Darryl, was at the mailbox and had overheard some of what was said. (I remember seeing Darryl, an athletic looking Harley-riding tough guy, walking from his house to the mailbox, and I know Darryl was also a named person that was attending the sausagefest. I had wondered whether A. got Darryl to attend by playing the pussywhipped card, too.) So apparently, Darryl went over to A.’s house and “smacked him up the head,” and said he shouldn’t have said that, and what’s wrong with him, not only calling Mr. W pussywhipped, but to say it in front of his wife? Supposedly, Darryl reamed him good about it. A. said he was kind of drunk and it must’ve been his Navy side coming out, and he apologizes for it.

I suddenly *really* like Darryl. I wonder if it’s a race thing (he’s also black, like Dwaine) that he did exactly what Dwaine had thought to do, which was march over there and set A. straight. I do think different cultures have different behavioral “codes” for social situations. This could be an interesting sociology study. I think my race, the guy would just tell his wife to chill and ignore it, who cares what the guy says.

But thanks, Darryl! You’ll never read this blog, but I send my gratitude out there for you.

Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger, the keyboardist and guitarist of legendary Jim Morrison’s band The Doors, are coming to our lake for a private concert. Commenter Maggie is a friend and former coworker of Mr. W’s, and he thought this is the type of music Maggie and her husband Tom would enjoy. I extended the invitation to Maggie, she and her husband excitedly accepted. We’ll try to fit some kayaking on the Lake in there before the concert, and we’ll do a wine and food picnic for the sunset concert. It should be a great time.

I just checked the dates, and turns out, this event will take place on the same day, same time as my chauvinistic neighbor’s BBQ! And we didn’t even plan it that way. I guess Mr. W did get his wish to be “busy.” I just sent Maggie a little note earlier alerting her to this:

I just checked dates… concert day is the same day as “douchebag neighbor’s” sausagefest BBQ. He may come by and yell at [Mr. W] from the front yard again to abandon us women and join him at his house. Bring a rolling pin, cuz I only have one.

Maggie’s more on top of it than I am, because she responded:

Yeah, that actually occurred to me when you reset the date. I’ll fling my Harley helmet at him!

(I had originally given her the wrong date that Mr. W had thought the concert was, and then emailed her back to tell her the correct date)

The beauty of this, aside from the fact that it worked out without my (intentional) doing, is that the neighbor can’t say I forbade Mr. W to attend his sausagefest; this is a Lake concert that the neighbor is aware of because we’re in the same association, these are Mr. W’s friends, and who can blame a guy for choosing to go with his wife and friends to a pseudo-Doors sunset concert on a lake instead of a neighbor’s BBQ in which women were expressly forbidden? Right?!

Proposition 8 banning gay marriage was repealed by court decision yesterday. Of course the social networking sites are abuzz with the debate. I’d stated my position long ago. Due to these debates, I did so again. Because one of the greatest things about this country is the people’s right to disagree on issues, I wanted to record these very awesome debates.
(more…)

If you’ve been a long-time follower of this blog, or if you know me in real life, you know who Grace is. She walked into my life freshman year of high school where I saw her at the school bus stop for the first time. She swore I gave her a dirty look, but I give everyone dirty looks, so I don’t remember this. She insisted over a decade later that at the time she’d first met me, given how I looked at her she never would’ve thought in a million years that we’d be the close friends we were then. So since our graduation in 1994, she went on to college at UC Berkeley and I went to UCLA, and if possible, I think we got even closer. I flew up to visit her a few times and attended her graduation there. The she moved to New York for work. While there, she met the love of her life, who lived in London, so the plan was that after their long-distance relationship, she’d move to London after marrying him. I complained about her moving farther and farther away, from 5 houses away in high school to the planned move out of the country. The last part never came to fruition, however, because she died from complications of leukemia. She did marry her man in secret in New York, although her actual wedding ceremony was planned for later in the year. I was to be one of her bridesmaids. On the day of her funeral I hand-carried her bridal bouquet, made by the florist she’d selected and designed it with that morning before my flight, to New York and her husband placed the arrangement in her hands at the wake. That’s the Cliffs Notes version, which leaves so, so much untold.

I attended our clairvoyant Rebecca at the coffeehouse workshop last nite (with Mr. W in attendance for the first time). I asked what my friend Grace was up to. Because Rebecca first picked up on the wrong Grace, she went through a few verification details next to make sure we had the right one. She started by saying she sees a “2″ and a “6.” I drew a blank. She asked how long it’d been since Grace had passed, and I quickly added 10 years to the year we graduated high school and said, “2004.”

Aside: In late 2003 or early 2004, Grace and I had been musing about attending our 10-year high school reunion together. She’d said she would only go if I go, too. When her leukemia relapsed, I had said sadly to my then-boyfriend that I didn’t think she and I would be going to our 10-year reunion together. “I have a feeling that instead of being at the reunion, I would be attending her funeral.” I had hoped to be wrong and it seemed I would be granted the gift of inaccuracy when she found a bone marrow donor match and was prepared for transplant. She and her (secret) husband made plans for after her new “birthday,” including the adoption of a child (leukemia had rendered her infertile, over which she had cried bitterly). Before new marrow can be infused, the old sick marrow had to be completely destroyed so as not to infect new marrow, and this is done by nearly lethal amounts of radiation, after which treatment the patient will have no immune system until the new marrow “takes.” Grace did not survive the process; the radiation virtually dissolved her lower intestines and she ended up with a massive infection that her body was unable to fight off before the new marrow could take root. I will never forget that phone call. On the day of our 10-year reunion, I was in New York at Grace’s funeral.

I hadn’t realized that it had been 6 years since Grace’s passing, but that would explain the “6.” I wasn’t sure what the “2″ meant, and Rebecca moved on. She covered her abdomen with both hands and says she feels pressure there. Lower area. She asked what Grace died from. I said “massive bowel rupture.” We had the right girl. Rebecca said Grace is a funny person; she’d be quiet for awhile but when she said something it was meaningful and usually funny. I have clear memories of Grace on a couch or in my room, silent in a conversation with others, and then at the right time, coming in with a hilarious (often sarcastic) comment. She got funnier as she got older. Rebecca said that at the point of passing, Grace had been in a lot of pain. (True; I had even forgotten until now that the doctors induced a coma in an effort to make her more comfortable, but she still hung on for a day. It took Grace’s mom and husband, each holding a hand with her as she lay supposedly unconscious, saying to her over and over again that it was okay to let go, they’d be fine, she can go to the light, it’s okay, until Grace finally released. A friend said the mother saw one tear slide down Grace’s cheek as she left.) According to Rebecca, despite the obvious good lack of pain upon Grace’s passing, when she did finally leave her body she had thought, “That’s all? This is it? It’s over?” She couldn’t believe that her life was really over and that she wouldn’t get to go back and finish the plans she’d made. This made me sad, because I know she never gave up fighting. Rebecca said that Grace does like where she is now, however. “She says everything they say about this place is true. She keeps showing me these beautiful flowers she’s surrounded by. Really vibrant colors, red, blue, yellow…” I totally pictured the introduction of Robin Williams’ character to the Other Side in “What Dreams May Come.” Rebecca quieted and seemed to be receiving more information, and then she chuckled. “She knows about your situation at work,” Rebecca started off explaining, as I thought, What situation? “She says…[Rebecca stops and laughs then composes herself to imitate Grace's indignant tone]…’Who IS that woman?!’ ” I drew another blank. Rebecca asked me on her own this time, “Do you know what woman? She’s with you at work, and she says, ‘Who IS that woman?!’ ” Rebecca may have said something about a “large woman,” but I can’t be sure. It suddenly struck me Grace is talking about a new addition to my work life who drives me insane with the most incredible common-senseless acts, jaw-dropping ineptitude and lack of evidence of brain presence. As I exclaimed “OH MY GAWD!” and turned to my court reporter, who happened to be there last nite, and whispered the name to her, Rebecca was saying, “She says, ‘How can you deal with that?’ Haha! But she says it’ll get better.” Which is exactly the kind of thing Grace would say if she were around in person to hear all my gripes or see this for herself. At another coworker’s strong suggestion, I had started a log a couple of weeks ago recording events in case my supervisor wanted specifics when I finally lost it. Rebecca said that Grace keeps showing her these vibrant flowers, red and blue and yellow. She says they look round, similar to carnations. I had no idea what she was talking about; Grace’s bouquet was lavender roses and babies’ breath with green belles of Ireland. Rebecca says Grace is very insistent on her telling me about these flowers to the point where Rebecca’s getting chills from the image. She almost urgently described them over and over, balling up her hands to show me size, pointing to a powder-blue purse on the table and saying the blue was a little darker than that. *blink blink* Rebecca said to tell her when I figured out what that means.

As the readings moved on to other people, I thought to pull out Grace’s funeral card that I always carried in my purse. I flipped it to the back to see the date of her passing. October *2*, 2004. There’s the “2″ involved with her passing. Now, to figure out the flowers…

I have a male neighbor who I always had the sense was kinda, um, chauvinistic. For example, he talked to Mr. W in front of me many times without acknowledging me or looking at me, and when other (male) neighbors stopped by while we were all together talking, he’d introduce Mr. W but not me. It was a long time before he’d even thought to ask my name.

Anyway, on Monday evening after Mr. W retrieved our trash bins from the sidewalk, he went in the house into the restroom as I walked out the front door, as we were on our way to meet Claudio to get our whitewater rafting photo DVDs. This neighbor, whom I’ll refer to as A., came walking up across our front lawn smelling of the fat half-smoked cigar in his hand. “Is your better half here? I want to speak to him,” he said not unpleasantly as I ignored the “better half” comment. I answered that he’s inside in the restroom. A. pulled back a little and looked hard at me. “Really,” he said skeptically. “I JUST saw him out here pulling in the trash cans. How can he be in the restroom?”
“He was in the restroom when I just walked by him to come out here,” I answered lightly. Like I was HIDING my husband? A. started yelling Mr. W’s name from our front porch toward the house, and adding, “MARINE! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU, SIR!”
I said I don’t think Mr. W could hear him from inside the bathroom. I had even left the front door open about 1/3 of the way so as not to appear to close communication between the two.
A. kept going anyway. “I WANT TO INVITE YOU TO A MAN’S OUTING!”
I looked inside at the silent empty living room, again said that Mr. W’s likely not able to hear him from inside the restroom. A. finally relented, “Probably not,” then mentioned that he knows we do things on weekends and asked what we’d been doing. I said pleasantly that we had just come back from whitewater rafting this past weekend, and are attending a friend’s wedding this coming weekend.
When Mr. W eventually walked out, the neighbor asked him in front of me, “What are you doing August 21st?” Mr. W doesn’t keep track of schedules, obligations, events, birthdays of his relatives, etc., and had always deferred to the planner I kept in my purse. So now, Mr. W chuckled incredulously at the random date thrown at him by this neighbor and looked to me and said he didn’t know.
The neighbor A. said without ever turning to look at me, “I’m not asking what SHE says you’re doing, I’m asking YOU. What do YOU have planned for August 21?” I bit my tongue, and thought I’d just watch this play out.
Mr. W answered between chuckles that he doesn’t know what he’s doing day to day, doesn’t remember what he did even the night before, and that I’m his “secretary” and I keep track of events and what’s going on.
A. invited him to his house for a 5pm BBQ for that day, named a bunch of people who were gonna be there, some neighbors, some former army friends, some guys in some military position I didn’t catch “and you KNOW these guys took care of you in the service,” jabbing his finger in the air toward Mr. W in an attempt to guilt him into attendance. Emphasized this is a man’s event.
Mr. W was just nodding along, but making his way gradually to the car.
A. said repeatedly he wants to see Mr. W there and he wants to introduce Mr. W to these people, and then after dinner guys who play poker will play poker and the rest of them will “shoot the shit” into the night. I know my husband doesn’t want to meet a bunch of chauvinistic strangers and shoot shit; he’s not particularly interested in socializing with other people as it is, and now he’s gonna have to do it alone. Mr. W looked to me in a quick sideglance, and in a lull of conversation, I still managed to say pleasantly, “And if you drink, you only need to walk a few houses back home so that’ll be easy.” Mr. W said noncommitally that he’s not sure if we’re doing anything that weekend. A. insisted that Mr. W attend his BBQ, and added that if Mr. W doesn’t show up, then they’ll all know he’s “pussywhipped.” I’m not sure if Mr. W responded with something else noncommital or if A. just kept going, because I was too busy forcing my lips closed. A. continued, “Cuz some guys are, you know. They’re pussywhipped and they can’t leave their women behind. So leave your woman behind and be with men for a night. Don’t be pussywhipped.”
We were all walking away from our front porch toward the driveway where Mr. W’s car was parked; A. had his back turned to me the entire time, and I can deal with being invisible and I’m not particularly a feminist, but in this instance was irritated and offended.
As Mr. W walked to the driver’s side of the car and A. started to walk down our driveway to leave, I said, “That is NOT COOL how you put that. I don’t know why you have to say something like that.”
A. said, walking away, “Cuz you know some guys won’t go to something like that, that’s when you know they’re pussywhipped. If we don’t see you there, [Mr. W], we’ll all know you’re one of those guys.”
I called over my shoulder, back to A., “No, some people are just BUSY.”
He said dismissively without turning, “I know, I know, you guys are busy” as he walked off.

WTF. If A. could just leave it on the peaceful note of, “If you’re free, come by, we’d love to see you,” it’s fine and drama-free. But putting it like THAT to make it a challenge on me and insult, it was such an asshole thing to do. Was it really necessary to “call out” Mr. W? There was no indication that I wore the pants in the relationship, or that I would have a problem with this stupid outing. If A. thought he was pre-empting a control battle, did he actually think that creating conflict between a couple was going to HELP a guy get out of the house? He’d get farther by being nice so that the wife would be comfortable letting her husband go hang out with him, assuming that there actually were a tug-of-war of power between a couple to begin with. Now why the hell would a possessive wife (which his rhetoric seems designed to combat) be okay with the way he put that? It’s just causing conflict.

In the car, Mr. W said he didn’t care to spend an evening choking on cigar smoke with this odd neighbor, and he also doesn’t play poker, and asked me to “come up with something for that weekend” so that he’d have a legitimate reason to not attend. I’m thinking Mr. W should make an appearance to shut the neighbor up and leave early, and then he’d never have to go to another thing by this guy again.