cindy's world

My coworker’s mother’s funeral this morning was a very nice Catholic mass service, complete with the counting of the rosary as an opening. Having virtually no Catholic exposure, I was surprised that the rosary went on that long, cuz I’d always thought when priests told sinners to say 3 “Hail Marys” to forgive sins (like in jokes), it was simply “Hail Mary, hail Mary, hail Mary. Yay, I’m forgiven.” Sitting through the very ritualistic practices of mass, I was aware that orthodox Catholics would find it a huge trespass for me to have sinful thoughts or participate in disrespectful behavior, especially while I sat there as a guest in the House of God. And of course, my brain (because it is, after all, MY brain) displayed a most unorthodox image in my head during all the sitting and standing then sitting then standing prayers and responses. When the priest said after a prayer, “You may sit,” and the congregation backed their bodies down onto the wooden bench, I pictured myself sitting on a large phallic protrusion coming out the center of my seat so that it strategically would create a huge sin. As soon as the absurd image entered my mind’s eye, I shoved it out in horror. “What is WRONG with you?!” I chastised my rebellious brain.

After the service was over, I stood with some coworkers and my judge. My judge revealed that as a boy, he’d attended a private Catholic school and the service today took him back to memories of that childhood, when he was always terrified of accidentally having an impure thought while in the church and going straight to hell. So it’s not just me. There’s something about what you’re not allowed to do, that makes human nature just do it. Or at least think about it. Well, if I can’t control my thoughts, at least I can control my actions. I would’ve knocked that phallus away from me, dirty unwanted thing! Yeah.

I was at the trendy surfer clothing shop Tilly’s a little earlier today. Mr. W was trying on some hideous plaid shorts in the dressing room, and I was wandering the bikini section alone. I wore no makeup, hair down, fitted red camisole tanktop, low-riding Roxy board shorts, and flip flops. And a teenage girl salesclerk walked up to me and said, “Scuse me, ma’am? Are you finding everything okay?” Ma’am?! Do I look THAT much older than her? It wasn’t even 6 months ago that I was mistaken by some judges at a high school singing competition for one of the competitors. Ptth.

All around me, are women who I admire, who are older than me and are therefore living proof that age is nothing but a number, and that there’s hope after birthdays. I am grateful to…
…my court reporter, who shows me that health, athleticism, and being in great physical shape is achievable in one’s 40s;
…my mother, who shows me that age can mellow someone out, make a person more open-minded and able to enjoy life (man, talk about high-strung in her 30s, phew! haha);
…Jordan, who shows me that someone in her late 30s *ahem* can be fun, beautiful, and young.

Speaking of Jordan, I happened on a birthday card she sent me last year the other day. It’s one of those overly-verbose inspirational cards, and it hit the spot this year. “Whenever we become discouraged, let us close our eyes and remember a time when we were not afraid to dream… When we were small, we were all great artists, graceful dancers, storytellers. We composed songs, created paintings, and imagined great adventures. We didn’t think about it too much — we just made things up as we went along, improvising whenever we got stuck… And I want to remind you that even though you’re a “grown-up” now, you are still a creator at heart, an improvisor, an inventor who can make beautiful things out of whatever life hands you. Whatever you dream, whatever you hope to achieve in your life, all you have to do is remember to trust your heart… and trust that the answers have been a part of you all along.”

And speaking of birthday cards, I’m also grateful for two more out of many…
…one from Mr. W’s mom and dad, which had a $20 bill in it, because it made me feel like a kid; and
…Flat Coke & Flies’ card, which she signed off with “Love, [Flat Coke] and Elvis, apparently.” Huh? And then I saw that the inside spine of the card had a different handwriting in one line all up the fold, and it read, “Bet you’ve never had your cracked signed before. -Elvis”. Because that made me laugh (thanks, Bat), and gave me material to steal for when I sign other people’s joint birthday cards.

Early this morning, Mr. W sang happy birthday to me. I participated. It went something like this:
Mr. W: Happy birthday to you
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday to you
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday dear love
Me: [whimper]
Mr. W: Happy birthday to youuuuu!
Me: [burying head under pillow]
Mr. W: You’re in your 30s now!
Me: [popping head out] I am NOT! Not until like 5:30!

Driving this morning before work, I thought about what’s so special about 31 that has me so bummed out. Because this is where the old life ends, and you get new life by starting a new phase, like adulthood — family and kids — and I don’t have that, my brain thought. I can’t be a caterpillar my whole life, I need to come out of the coccoon and be a butterfly, be the adult insect. And I cried the rest of the drive. As much as I’d been declaring war on birthdays for the past 5 or so years, this is the first one where I’ve actually shed tears.

At work, I got plenty to cheer me up. Lots of presents, coworker friends, song, and this beautiful delicious artisan mocha cake with cinnamon and brown sugar “sand” and white chocolate and edible glitter “seashells”:

The text messages, emails, cards and e-cards were pouring in, and I especially felt better when I read this little text message gem from Mr. W’s daughter:
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY CINDY! YOU ARE STILL SO MUCH YOUNGER THAN MY DAD :] HAHA I LOVE YOU!”

And then came my mom’s happy birthday email. It was just this portion that got me crashing back down again:
“WELL, CINDY , IT’S ABOUT TIME TO PLAN YOUR FUTURE, YOU DON’T WANT END UP JUST YOURSELF TO THE END, IT’S KIND GOOD THING TO HAVE A FAMILY, CHILDREN, SOMEONE TO SHARE YOUR LIFE. [Mr. W] IS A NICE PERSON, BUT IF [Mr. W] IS NOT THE ONE TO HAVE FAMILY WITH, YOU KNOW I MEANT… ”
She doesn’t know that I torture myself with this on a daily basis, because I’ve made it seem like I nonchalantly disregard any consideration about my future or childbearing, stuff like that. I don’t think I’m ready to have kids right now, but I don’t know that I won’t want them in another few years. All I know is that presently, kids in general annoy me. I want nothing to do with them. I make the occasional exception for the occasionally exceptional kid, but those kids are few and far in between. (By kids I mean ages 4-12.) I watch Mr. W’s daughter patiently play with and talk to other people’s kids, and I shake my head in amazement. I don’t have that in me. But will I ever?

Mr. W said that life isn’t about overhauling phases, it’s one long and gradual process. To him, there’s no such thing as going from child to teen overnight, from teen to young adult overnight, and from young adult to family-producing grownup overnight. I think he feels I’d be shortchanging myself if I force myself into expected traditional roles at expected traditional ages, instead of being as my bailiff was telling me earlier, “true to myself.”

So I emailed my mom back, pensively, with, “I think I deserve to just enjoy being happy with my life right now.” Her response came back after lunch and I was almost too scared to open it. When I did, it said simply, “OKAY, BE HAPPY!”

Maybe this is all really in MY head.

The weekend went too fast! Where’d it go? On Sunday, I sat there and had to really think about whether the next day was Monday. When I found the answer, I was deeply disappointed.

Friday evening, Mr. W and I met up with my parents and maternal grandmother for dinner. My grandmother wanted to treat me and my mom to dinner, since Friday was my mom’s birthday and this Friday is mine. *panic* OH my GAWD, I did not realize that I have to flip the number up by one on Friday!!! Holy crap, where did the time go? Soon every time I enter my age on the cardio machines and on the digital scales, I’ll have to put…31! AAACK!! *hyperventillating* So anyway, my grandma gave me a cute little handbag with some Lancome eyeshadow and Victoria’s Secret “Love Spell” body spray, lotion and bath gel. That’s my favorite toiletry scent! What a koinkidink. My parents gave me a tiny golden dragon (my zodiac sign) encased in a small display stand shaped like a rickshaw, and a little glass horse figurine to put at the front of the rickshaw to pull the dragon around. It’s sooo cute. I had fun playing with it as if I were 5 years old. And of course, from both my parents and grandma, the much coveted, omnipresent gift among Chinese circles: red envelopes. My grandma’s contained $60, and my parents’ contained $160, which I was a bit distressed about, because that means they returned every bit of the money I spent on them for running shoes the weekend before.

On Saturday, Mr. W and I took a long walk to go errand shopping. He bought nylon rope to retie his hammock and the Tanita scale, and I bought a larger pot and potting soil for my little avocado tree. Ya know, that’s all I remember about that day. Hmm. Wow. I don’t even recall eating.

On Sunday, Mr. W and I got up bright and early and hit up Disneyland. This would mark our 2nd attempt to go on the new “Finding Nemo” submarine ride. The park opened at 8am, we were there right about that time, and the line for that ride was already 2 hours long. What the heck!! No ride could be THAT good. We decided again to skip it and instead, hopped on the virtually line-free “Indiana Jones Adventure” and “Pirates of the Carribbean” rides. Then we got back to his house, changed and got prettied up and went to his male best friend’s hosted buffet brunch in honor of their son’s high school graduation. I didn’t know that El Torito had buffet brunches, and was pleasantly surprised to find pretty delicious food. Mr. W’s daughter was already at the restaurant when we got there; we hadn’t seen her since his son’s graduation since both kids had been at their mom’s house since. We hugged each other and she exclaimed how pretty I looked, and I told her it’s weird without her around, the house is so quiet. I think I may have accidentally guilted her into coming back home with us that night. So Sunday night, the three of us watched Norbit (it’s sub-par even as a rental, despite the many stars) and ate popcorn after taking Daughter out to practice driving. This was our first time having her drive, and she did pretty well. I’m impressed that Mr. W didn’t yell or cuss, and no one lost their tempers. I’d left 5 or 6 belts on Daughter’s bed from the 80s that had been hiding in my closets so long that they actually came back in style. I’d told her that I was going to donate them along with the rest of the crap I’d cleaned out from my closets unless she wanted them, and she wanted them all. It’s really nice to have a little sister to pass stuff down to.

This thing always happens to me when I peruse other people’s blogs. I look at their photos and I think, “Wow, that’s a really nice photo. I wonder if it’s really a photo of the blogger.” And I’d admire the composition of the portrait, and the clever poses and outfits, the beautiful figures and skin, and I’d think, “I wanna post a photo of me like that.” But I don’t have any. I wish I just had a recent nice pretty photo of myself. Something I’d look at and feel good about. Where some huge flaw wouldn’t wave at me, like maybe my thighs look huge, or I look midgety, or my face is pudgy, or my skin is horrid, or my upper arms look obese, or I look pregnant. It’s been awhile since I’d been pleasantly surprised by a photo of myself. Just now, I looked in the China photo collection, and what kind of photos did I take? Crap like this:

Times like this, I’m inspired to draw the way I wish I looked. Beautiful, slim, dreamily gazing into the distance of some beautiful horizon, hair long and floating around me, tall with slender (but toned) limbs, nice perky butt and boobs. Sigh…

Like, what happened to THESE days?…



These photos are from LAST YEAR!

We’re in the midst of jury selection for a criminal murder trial. About 15 minutes ago at the end of a break, the judge directed me to let our prospective jurors in from the outside hallway; breaktime’s over, and we’re going to dive back into jury selection. I opened the door, announced, “Okay jurors, you know the drill!” and they chuckled and filed into the courtroom. After I entered, the bailiff and I kept counting the jurors over and over and we kept coming up one juror short. So I took roll and discovered the name of the missing juror. One juror sitting in the jury box raised his hand. “Excuse me,” he said, “He might be outside in the hallway sleeping.” What?! I started walking back out toward the courtroom front doors again, passing by a DA who was visiting. The DA said discreetly to me, “Yeah, there’s a dude out there who’s asleep on a bench.”

I walked out, looked down the hall, and sure enough, there’s a youngish guy sitting upright on the bench, leaning his back and head against the wall behind him, eyes closed. All by himself. I walked up to him, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floors and echoing down the hall. He didn’t wake up. I stood over him, touched him lightly on the shoulder, saying, “Sir?” No response. I shook him again, harder. “Sir?” No response. I looked up in bewilderment. Oh crap. What if he had a heart attack or a stroke? Do I take his pulse? Should I shake him harder? Looking around, I saw a coworker who happened to pass through an adjoining hallway. He’d seen me talking to the guy, and I threw up my hands in a shrug with my eyes wide, like, “I don’t know what to do!” I walked up to the coworker and pleaded, “He’s not responding! I’m freaking out. Can you come with me just as a witness?” He kindly walked with me over to the guy, and as I approached again, the juror (thank GOD) groggily opened his eyes. “Are you a juror in our case?” I asked him.
He sat up suddenly. “Oh yes. Oh! I’m SO sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay, come on back in,” I said lightly leading him back down the hallway, thanking my coworker, who left us.
“I’m sooo sorry,” the juror said again, and we came back into the courtroom, he took a seat in the audience, and the judge resumed jury selection as usual.

Nobody knew that I practically wet myself out in the hall earlier, which would not have been a good thing, cuz I was wearing a skirt.

Despite my insistence that I don’t want to celebrate my birthday this year, and that all I want as a gift is a new pair of workout gloves, Mr. W booked a 3-day cruise yesterday as his gift to me. It leaves Long Beach port Friday evening, July 20th (easiest day for me to take off because my judge will be on vacation anyway), and returns the following Monday morning. Because Mr. W made these arrangements over the phone, I don’t know the information or itinerary for the trip, except that it’s supposed to go to Ensenada, Mexico and dock there all of Saturday. Yay, I get to have cheap Mexican lobster! (*watching Jordan wipe drool off her chin*)

I am feeling guilty that Mr. W is doing something so big for li’l ol’ me. But maybe it just goes to show, if you’ve been very very good, and you wish and pray very very hard, life will take care of you very very well. 😀

P.S. Does this mean I’ll have to get my own pair of workout gloves?

I had an awful night’s sleep last nite. I awoke at like 3:30 a.m. from a sickening dream that made me afraid to go back to sleep.

I dreamt that I woke up in the middle of the night next to Mr. W, but that I’d lost all attraction for him and desire to be with him, so I got out of bed and despite his protests, left.
Somehow I ended up in bed, in a hotel room, lying on the dark-haired chest of someone else, filled with the cozy ease that only being secure about our future could bring. I looked up and it was the cheating ex I was lying with. I sat up in confusion. Was I back together with him? Why would I do that? Slowly, my senses came back to me and I “realized” that I was in a Vegas hotel room suite that somehow he and I had arranged to meet at. I told him that I’m too conflicted and confused right now to be there or to pursue anything with him and that I was leaving. He angrily packed up his stuff as well, even tho I thought it was his room and he was there for his own reasons. I picked up my things, came back to the bedroom area to get other things, and saw that he’d passive-aggressively put a photo of me on the coffee table that he was apparently leaving behind, as well as a piece of paper that he’d scrawled some lines of poetry on. The poetry was to the effect of how happy he was, how unbelievable it was, that the time for our reconciliation had arrived. He’d apparently written that when we made our plans to meet up, which event was not in my dream. Anyway, I left the room, he left behind me, and I exited into a parking garage. An Asian girl, one of his optometry school friends, I assumed, was coming up to meet up with him to hang out. I said hello and apologized for not being able to hang out with them as planned and bolted. I ran down three flights of spiral parking garage stairs but the ex and his friend, coming down a more direct side stair that I hadn’t noticed was there, ended up right next to me on the ground floor. I kept trying to run from them, to create a larger distance (even tho they were not chasing me), but I moved so slowly, as if I was chest-deep in a swimming pool. I realized the most effective way to move faster was to kick off against the ground at a diagonal, just like in water. So I did that and struggled my way into what appeared to be a restaurant.
Now I was attending a dinner party in a casual bar-type restaurant with long cafeteria-style tables. Our party took up three tables one in front of the other; I was in the front table. Childhood friend Vicky was across from me, her sister Karen was a few people away to my right. I wondered whether I was even invited to this thing as, looking around, I didn’t see any of my regular hang-out friends altho I did recognize some people from James’ BBS from back in ’93 and some of Vicky’s pharmacy school friends. The guys around me were dorky geeky fobby types that I would not consider dating. All of a sudden, as if agreed upon and on cue, three such dorky guys sitting behind me turned at the same time and started trying to chat us up. Instantly, Vicky, Karen and I got up to leave. We refused to be picked up on by these guys. And then I woke up.

I laid there in the dark, trying to interpret the dream. Okay, so my impression of Mr. W and the ex in the dream was that Mr. W was lightness, and the ex was darkness. So they must be flip sides of a coin, two polar opposite men that I was going back and forth between. So that conflict represented light: a relationship I was in most ways absolutely happy and carefree about, except that it doesn’t offer me a future I’d originally expected of myself; and dark: a problematic painful relationship that did offer me the traditional future. Neither is ideal and the conflict comes from my internal current conflict regarding what kind of future I can live with and what I’m willing to sacrifice. The dinner party is my fear that if I leave the current relationship, there will be no good guys on the market that I’d want to date, which is also a very real fear in my head.

I eventually fell back asleep after 5am and dreamt that I was being sent off with some friends to boot camp, apparently having enlisted and been accepted into some branch of the armed forces. My parents gave me a warm send-off. My mother, to my surprise, wasn’t heart-broken and was rather jovial about it. As I stepped onto the bus, I was very aware that I really didn’t want to go, and I asked a friend behind me in the bus line whether it’s possible to drop out after boot camp. She was dubious about that. And then I woke up again. I wonder what THAT dream meant. That I should do what I want and not worry about my parents, they’ll be fine? But I hadn’t WANTED to enlist.

This is the latest installment in the ongoing saga that is Mr. W’s life with his kids. They gave him a folded-up piece of scratch paper yesterday with this written on it:

HAPPY FATHERS DAY!
Since we were in Vegas we didn’t really have time to get you anything, but when we come back we are going to spend some time together and give you our gift. We love you. Thank you for this weekend.

And then there’s a heart and the son and daughter’s names under that.

I said, “Aww, they THANKED you for the WEEKEND in Vegas!”

I think I may have been more excited about this than Mr. W was.