cindy's world

Sixteen months ago today, Mr. W challenged me to take our “friendship” up a notch to something less platonic. He asked me by maneuvering me (with dizzying speed) onto my back on the floor of his living room, pinning my wrists above my head, straddling my hips, and leaning into my face while breathing, “You sure you only wanna be ‘just friends’?” One of the hardest things I ever had to do was turn my head to the right and whimper, while cussing in my head, a pathetic sounding “Yes…?” Despite how unsure I sounded, after pausing for about 4 seconds to look carefully into my eyes while I tried to keep the blood away from my cheeks in defiance of my pounding heart, Mr. W good naturedly said, “Okay!”, grinned at me and rolled off of me. I still laid there a few seconds, panting for breath. As consistent as I remained right then to the “there’s too much on my plate right now, I can’t handle anything more than just being friends” talk I gave him at BJs Pizzeria the afternoon before, I knew that everything would change that night. Mr. W would tell you, however, that he knew we wouldn’t stay platonic long from the very beginning, “as soon as you figured out what was good for you,” he’d once said to me facetiously.

I’ve been smiling and giggling ever since. Despite the occasional (okay, monthly) ironing-out-compatibility bicker seshes.

I tried to psychoanalyze myself last nite, which just led to more tears as I realized the only friend I have who majored in Psychology is Grace. Not that she did much with that, as she ended up in Finance, working for Merrill Lynch in New York, doing something related to stocks. Why had I never asked her what her job was? All I knew was that when the stock market reposed for the evening, she could, too.

I get that it’s unreasonable the extent to which linkages from Mr. W to his past relationships bother me. A hypothetical he raised yesterday, in his argument about how ridiculous I was, was “If I drink mojitos now because a past girlfriend had introduced me to it, and then I get you into mojitos, but you find out later that the interest came from an ex-girlfriend, are you gonna get mad and not drink mojitos anymore?” The honest gut response is, yeah, I wouldn’t drink mojitos anymore. If I liked them, I’d drink it with my friends, but I would not order one with Mr. W anymore. And every time I saw him drink one, I’d feel bitter. YES, I KNOW THAT’S STUPID. But even as I imagine myself in this scenario he made up, I feel the disgust in my chest for mojitos. (Thank goodness I had my first mojito with college roommie Diana from my bday last year. I would hate that mojitos be ruined for me.) Mr. W feels that he’s gypped of the connection to me because he has to hold back personal information on his background, and that he’s not free to be himself. I can understand that, I can sympathize with that, and I would love it if his past didn’t bother me, the way my past doesn’t bother him. But how do I get there???

Mr. W doesn’t feel any sympathy for what I go through on this TMI thing, because, he says, he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand why I feel a gut resentment for anything positive he tells me about his experiences with exes. Why, if he told me that a particular restaurant had great carne asada and he used to go all the time with his ex, that I’d never want to set foot in that place with him. He doesn’t understand why any experience from his past, or the sharing of any such information, makes me uncomfortable at best, bitter more of the time. And because he questioned it, I did, too. For the first time.

A particular ex used to tell me all sorts of unnecessary crap. Now those were really TMI, overly detailed sex acts including the who, the where, the when, the how it felt. And I’d taken it as information, nothing personal. It didn’t get truly bothersome until, come to find out, all these exes he reminisced about, were still in his life. And then the resentment set in. It didn’t help that he liked to brag about how all his exes want him back and call him relentlessly to that end. (It also didn’t help that he cheated on me.) I guess the resentment with anything related to his exes is understandable in that situation, but that’s not my situation now, and I’m still resentful. Mr. W doesn’t give me any reason to doubt his trust, and I’ve seen how he handles other females’ advances — he nips them in the bud and tells them happily, politely, about something we did or are doing together — so it’s not a problem of feeling threatened by women from his past.

He says anything I did before him has an unrelated distance in his head. I suppose it probably feels like he’s hearing about somebody else, because his Cindy is the girl in front of him, who’s with him and only him. The Cindy who may have shlupped other men is somebody he doesn’t know, a whole separate entity. And that’s really cool, because honestly, I can tell him about what an amazing time I had doing a particular sex act with a particular person in a particular unusual location, and he’d be interested in the information as I was telling it for almost personal research reasons, and then he’d simply move on. For me, I want to burn out the part of my brain that holds that overly-detailed image of him with someone else. I did feel bad last nite that I couldn’t give him that freedom to disclose, which he gives me, because it truly is a wonderful thing. It feels great. But I can’t handle it (anymore?) and the only way I know how to not have these sickening mental images hanging over me is to not have knowledge of the images to begin with.

Added weird stuff? 1.) Let’s say that I’ve “banned,” to use Jordan’s word, certain events, locations, foods from the relationship. I’d still be okay to partake in the banned stuff with friends, or with a future relationship. 2.) In talking to other men I’ve dated after I got screwed in the relationship I’d described in the 4th paragraph of this post, I really was okay hearing TMI stuff. I even listened with interest, which surprised me at the time that I was totally emotionally unaffected by the information. Come to find out, it’s only okay before I fall in love.

I know this isn’t new or groundbreaking stuff. Lots of people (I think women, especially) can relate to my feelings surrounding TMI. I know it makes no intellectual logical sense to feel this in my situation. I agree with Mr. W on that. But emotions are not ruled by intellect. So how do I get there? Does it come with the mellowing out of aging?

The perspective: “You did this with someone I don’t like/your ex? Then I designate it as ‘you guys’s’ thing and I want no part of it.”
Forgivable application of the perspective: Details of how they used to love each other, have sex with each other, any ‘best time of my life’ information if it was with someone else.
Unreasonable application of the perspective: Not wanting any part of a city/ state/ country on vacation because he’d already taken the ex there; not wanting to experience any restaurant/event that was a favorite of a past relationship.
So far, I have the unreasonable applications, I admit that. I also admit it sucks, for Mr. W. But I can’t figure out the why. Why does it bother me so much to know these things, that I’d just rather not know?

I got super-annoyed with Mr. W yesterday when he mindlessly told me, in not so many words, that he used to screw some chick(s?) with a specific Enigma song playing, which song happened to be playing right then on the radio. Mr. W got super-annoyed with me today when he learned that instead of going to the doctor in the morning, I came to work and didn’t even leave early at lunch to see the doctor.

But then, if these are the worst of our problems after 1+ year together — too much information about his past for my taste and his worrying about my health so much as to be angry that I’m not being taken care of — I consider myself severely lucky, indeed.

By the way, I skipped the gym at lunchtime today and did go see the specialist, so it’s all good.

*** Addendum 12-28-06 ***
Mr. W feels he was misrepresented in this post, and I can see how it looks a certain way because I told it “in a nutshell” as opposed to telling exactly how the conversation happened, so here’s how it actually came about (but still nut-shell-ized):
*song plays*
Mr. W: I like this song. I have the CD. It has a good rhythm to have sex to.
Me: Ew! Why would you tell me something like that?
Mr. W: Why?
Me: Because the fact that you HAVE the CD and you said it’s a good rhythm to have sex to means that you’re speaking from personal experience!
Mr. W: *not denying it; it comes out later that his ex girlfriend said it’s a good song to have sex to, then bought him the CD, and then they had sex to it.*

My gym trainee gave me my xmas present yesterday. She’d bought me a white belly dancing outfit (halter and hip scarf), jingling with coins. It’s really cute, except that the hip scarf, even tied all the way in as far as the embroidery and coins hanging off of it allow me, is too big. I jingle a little bit, do a few hip lifts, and it falls down. That reminded me of another piece of clothing she picked up for me some time ago. Everyone knows I’m a huge fan of Happy Bunny. So she picked up a t-shirt with Happy Bunny in front saying, “Okay, I’m perfect. Stop staring.” It’s a funny shirt, but I’ve never worn it. I’ve worn many other Happy Bunny things, a tanktop Vanessa got me that says “Makeover? You need to be run over.” (I didn’t really get the meaning until it hit me at the end of the day in Disneyland when I’d been wearing it all day.) My Happy Bunny keychain says “Me. Just like you. Only better.” I have a long-sleeved hoodie where he says “Please make the stupid people shut up.” But I can’t bring myself to wear the “I’m perfect” t-shirt because, well, I’m afraid that people would judge me. Like, they’d look at the shirt, then look at me, and snort, “Perfect? Pshh, she’s fat and ugly.” Whereas if I weren’t wearing an obnoxious shirt, they may think I’m kinda cute. It’s kinda like if you drove up behind a car that had a license plate frame that says, “My other ride is your boyfriend,” or “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” or “The queen as arrived,” or “Hot Chick”, you wanna drive up and look in the window, and then you have this elevated expectation of the person’s hotness and you’re always disappointed, right?

Am I crazy?

Mr. W told me earlier that his daughter went home from school early today. She caught the stomach flu that her brother and school friends had last week, and she threw up in science class today.
“She threw up in the science class?” I asked. Apparently she did.

I bet most of you normal people, in your head just now, went, “Aww.”
Some of you who are less paternally- or maternally-inclined may have just thought to yourselves, “Ew. Well, that sucks.”
Here was my immediate reaction. I said, “Oh, that’s cool! Cuz then the other kids can take a sample, put it on a slide, and look at it under their microscope.” I mean, it was in science class.

And it didn’t occur to me until now, almost 2 hours later, that my reaction wasn’t probably the most normal or thoughtful one.

So what’s it mean if I dreamt that I’m trying to stuff a sack full of cat hair up my vagina, and the background music in the dream is Lynard Skynard’s “Freebird”? I think I’m playing too much “Guitar Hero.”

I am in materialism heaven.

Mr. W wanted to celebrate Christmas early this year due to varying schedules, so tonight was that night. We (Mr. W’s two teens and us) had salad with bleu cheese vinaigrette dressing, lasagne, garlic bread, sherbet punch (mine and Mr. W’s spiked with vodka), and then we each decorated our own giant gingerbread man with frosting and candy.

As we waited for our frosting to harden, we gathered in the living room and opened presents, each of us with a wineglass of sparkling pomegranate juice. Mr. W orchestrated the opening ceremoniously so we could all bask in each other’s joy as we opened our loot, and he could take pictures. He’d hand one to one person, the person would read the clue on the label and try to guess what was inside, and then open it to see if they’re right. And then play would move to the left. I got Mr. W a membership to 24 Hour Fitness, first 3 years prepaid, which he’s been using since November since I gave it to him early. I’ve created a gym rat who wants to go twice a day and try out all the different clubs! Tonight I handed him his other present, a replica of the DaVinci Code cryptex complete with the rosewood box. The code was the same as in Dan Brown’s novel: apple.

Here’s the list of what he got me, in the order handed to me and opened.
Clue: “To keep the little piggies hidden from the big bad wolf!”
Present: a 3-pack of super-soft slipper socks

Clue: “So shoot me.” (I first thought he bought me a DVD season of “Just Shoot Me” cuz the size of the box is right, and then I thought he bought me a gun, but it was too light.)
Present: an Ultra Compact 5x Zoom All-Weather 7.1 Megapixel Olympus Stylus 740 digital camera with 5x Digital Image Stabilization!!! Holy crap!!! The guilt was instant. The camera was also asymmetric, which he pointed out right away, which was the winning factor in his selection of this camera when it was down to 2 models, that and a Canon. He knows me; I love asymmetry!

Clue: “Beware the windstorm!”
Present: (I knew this one, he’d accidentally given it away last week without realizing it, but I’d really wanted it. I’ve even blogged about it in the past.) A little stuffed hamster (life size!) inside a hamster wheel that plugs into your USB port, so that the faster you type, the faster the hamster runs on the wheel! I’m a pretty swift typist, hence the clue.

Clue: “Some ‘juice’ to call me!”
Present: cell phone charger, because my phone has been dying every few days lately. “Why don’t you charge it?” he would ask. “Because my charger’s at home!” I would declare.

Clue: “You are It is music to my your ears!”
Present: a tiny little flat white iPod Shuffle! I’ve never even heard of this model. It’s the size of a large postage stamp, and the back is just a clip that clamps it to your shirt. It came with a printed card that read “Merry Christmas Cindy! I love you, always, [Mr. W]”. And then I looked closer at the tiny little 1 gig player. In tiny print toward the upper edge is engraved “[Mr. W] loves Cindy.” I started laughing. It’s so cute, it should be carved on an apple tree or something! He must’ve had it specially ordered. “Listen to it, I’ve already pre-loaded a song on it!” he said, pulling the included earbuds out of the plastic wrapper. I put on the earbuds and pushed the playback button. Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable” played in stereo sound. I started laughing again. As I type this I’m smiling and laughing, feeling silly as Mr. W lays behind me. “I’m reliving it,” I explained to him.

Last but definitely not least…
Clue: “To put on your toast? …” (I joked, “You got me butter? And had it laying out all this time?”)
Present: 5 years’ worth supply of Body Butter. I’d just run out of the tub he got me last year, and was sad about that! He remembered! This time it’s a tub each of coconut, olive, white chocolate, mango and raspberry n’ black currant scents.

The photos on here are taken with my new camera. 😀

I’m so spoiled sick. SICK!

While driving on the freeway this morning, I saw a large wooden spool with wires or cables wound around it. It was rolling across the freeway. I was in the left-most lane, and the spool rolled from the dividing wall across my lane without being hit by the car in front of me, and I thought, “Whew, I’m safe.” It rolled into the lane to my right, and the moron drove right into it. I watched it break and ricochet in a diagonal beeline directly at my car! There was no avoiding it. I cringed as I heard the “BADA-CLUNK!” I don’t know how many pieces of it hit the right front of my car, or what happened to it after it hit. But I was pissed. I wasn’t going to get out to check my car, so I finished the 35 minute drive home and dreadingly came out to look after I’d parked in the garage.

The damage is small chips into the paint in the right corner bumper, as if someone jabbed a metal pen into it repeatedly, and a scrape around the corner of the bumper. Most of the scrape wiped off, but some light scratches remain. ARGH! I guess I’ll be Zaino-ing my car this weekend with Z5 scratch remover! I hope it comes out!! At least it was in the corner where it could do the least damage. If I had sped up, it would’ve hit the side of my car and probably dented it and left a longer scratch. If I’d slowed down, it would’ve hit across the front of my car and scraped up the length of the front bumper, or worse, bounced up and hit my hood and windshield. So thank heavens for mitigating blessings.

I think the most interesting thing in all this is what happened in my mind as soon as I got over the shock of the impact. I immediately thought to call Mr. W, but I realized my purse was in the back seat so I dropped that idea. Then I thought, “I’m gonna blog this.” Some years ago, when I was having a very rough breakup, I had no energy to go to the gym or to go out and socialize at lunchtime, so I just sat in my car in the parking structure to be alone. Next thing I knew, a public defender getting into his SUV parked to my right opened his door into my car so hard that it shook my car for several seconds. Incredulous, I stepped out of my car and walked around it to him. He looked up at me. “You know you just hit my car, right?” I said, forcing a calmness that was very apparently…well…forced. He played dumb. I almost lost it. I didn’t speak to that public defender for almost a year afterwards. But my point is that after this happened and he pulled out and left to lunch, I sat back in my car and the same thoughts ran through my mind. I wanted to call my significant other and tell him about this. But we were breaking up. So I couldn’t. And the helplessness of not having someone to help shoulder my emotional burden just cracked me and I sat there and cried. That was, of course, before I had a blog.

The house is vibrating with Mr. W’s operation of a red plastic guitar as he strums to Playstation 2’s “Guitar Hero 2.” Yes, he bought the game. Why am I not playing? Because I have gone blind from passing the game on Medium level. Yes! I passed the game. The secret super duper bonus when you get to the end is an encore with the classic Lynard Skynard hit, “Freebird.” Cool! That’s, like, the only song I know in the whole game since I don’t listen to punk or hard core rock.

My head and fingertips hurt.

*listening to Mr. W play a slowed-down practice session on Easy Mode*

Baileys! I need Baileys!

I am so unmotivated to work out. I didn’t eat breakfast and only had lunch less than half the time in the past 2 weeks, so my anorexia kicked in and I gained 3 pounds, despite all the gymming and cardio I’d been doing. So now I’m discouraged. I actually stayed in and worked through lunch today rather than go to the gym. And even tho Mr. W was kindly offering gymming to me this evening, I couldn’t lift my fat ass off the couch, or my eyes from the scrolling TV screen, since my fingers had cellularly bonded to the Guitar Hero guitar buttons. When I finally looked up again the TV and its surroundings were wavy, which I knew to be an optical illusion because of the constant staring at the dropping notes playing the game. It’s the same effect after running on the treadmill, when things seem to fly by you faster after you stop. And since the effect of this game was so similar to the treadmill, I consider myself to have worked out and am going to bed.

Baileys! Hello!! Or maybe a Frangelico. I’m not picky!

I was sending on a feel-good holiday perspective email, and as I’m going through my email addy book selecting recipients, I decided to simultaneously do some housecleaning. I deleted the emails of people in my past who have not proven to be worth the “friend” or even “acquaintance” label; I deleted old friends who have chosen to abandon me when I parted ways with people who were bad for me; I deleted friends-of-friends who were involved in past email strings but whom I wouldn’t email on my own; I deleted my friends’ exes and my own exes. (Well, except for the ex who got me the car hookup; we’re cool.) What I could not bring myself to delete, were all of Grace’s email addresses. I think of her daily when I’m at my desk and I see the photo of her arm around me at her wedding shower, and when I scroll through my email address book and see the various places where her addresses, sorted alphabetically, pop up. More than a few times I’d wanted to double-click her email to include her on the forward list of something I’d expect her to enjoy. I’ve never done it, because I’m scared to see the mail get returned back to me with something about an unknown recipient, or worse, if the address had “permanent fatal errors.” I think it was a permanent fatal error that she’s no longer here. But anyway, life and death have their own rhymes and reasons.

I thought about her husband, Justin, on what would’ve been her 31st birthday October 21st, and my heart went out to him as I know that somewhere in the cold state of New York, a loving, amazing man is going to be hit with the anniversaries of the birth of his wife, of her death, of the date he proposed, of Christmas, of New Year’s, and of Valentine’s Day, all within 4 months. I also think of Grace’s parents in Diamond Bar, five houses up the street from my parents, and of Grace’s younger sister, who will be celebrating the holidays soon, with one less girl to shop for.

I’d felt a little better, more at peace, after my little email cleaning. Life’s too short to waste on losers. Please be careful out there, you guys.