cindy's world

One of those strange things about existing in today’s technology generation, is that etiquette rules haven’t caught up to technology yet. We have ground-breaking case-law written all the time in court (such as a motion asking the Court for permission to confiscate an employee’s computer to recover deleted e-mail files in defending a sexual harassment lawsuit — what are the privacy issues in this regard, if she used a personal email account?), but who’s writing the etiquette rules? College roommie Diana had called me some years ago on a debate that she and her then-boyfriend had about whether it would be okay to do wedding invitations by E-Vite. Wilco and his fiance are doing wedding RSVPs through their online wedding site as opposed to going through the hassle of mailing, stamping, and making their guests mail back reply cards in the mail.

That being said, I feel a little sheepish that instead of calling all my close friends and family to make some personal announcement about the state of my relationship (which call I’d received from many engaged and now-married friends, which adds to my feeling of sheepishness), my first “official” mention of it is on an online blog, despite the vagueness of its mention.

But because I am the queen of justification, I call on the loophole that despite the fact that I was there when the subject jewelry was purchased on July 20, and despite the fact that I was there when my parents gave their permission on July 29, that I don’t have an “announcement” to make as Mr. W has not proposed and I am therefore not engaged, so this isn’t “the” announcement and I reserve the right to make personal phone calls later upon my actual engagement.

Okay, at your request for photos:

(It’s the “crown”, not the “earring”.)

I don’t like the way I look in this photo, but the professional photographer did a better shot of the ring than I did. And it IS this ring in the picture. It’s weird to walk around knowing I have the advertised item I’m seeing everywhere; the saleslady who helped us said she had to turn away 3 people after us who wanted to see the ring in the ads and brochures, and she had to tell them it’s been sold.

Rest mouse pointers over photos for captions (as usual).

Here’s a nice shot of the Queen Mary through the Queen Mary Lounge on our ship, the Carnival Paradise:

If you’ve ever sailed on a cruiseship, you’ll remember the mandatory pre-sailing orientation/enactment/drill in case of an abandon ship order.

You know how so many people think I look like Sandra Oh, and how I didn’t think I did? Well, check out who *I* think looks like Sandra Oh, at the very next table:


I had been wondering whether I’d meet another Jordan on this cruise. If you’ve been reading my blog for some time (and/or Jordan’s), you’ll know I met our dear Jordana Banana on my first cruise. We hit it off, I gave her my blog addy, she checked it out after returning home to Florida, we started emailing and communicating thru my blog, I convinced her to start a blog “for therapy”, she did, and the rest is history. I didn’t meet another Jordana Banana, but we did hit it off pretty well with this couple. Steve and Sally are therapists the next city over from my work, turned out my courthouse refers people over to their counseling services all the time, both in criminal matters (drug/alcohol outpatient counseling) and in family law (family/marriage counseling). Steve is sort of like Jordan, but Sally is more like the other girl Nadia that Jordan and I met on our cruise. She’ll know what I mean.

Steve, by the way, worked some therapist diagnostic magic on me and dropped my jaw during our last dinner together. See, I thought I was pretty introspective and psychologically keen, but he made a connection that I never saw, in regards to certain childhood experiences involving my mother’s behavior toward me and my worst adult fears today. How cliche, huh? haha.

This is a blowhole called La Bufadora in Ensenada, Mexico. Apparently it’s “the” thing to visit in Ensenada. Our tourguide equated not seeing it to going to Paris and not visiting the Eiffel Tower. The four of us talked over dinner (me, Mr. W, Steve, Sally), and concluded that we were not that impressed. Mr. W said the blowhole in Poipu, Kauai (Hawaii) was far grander of a sight. I didn’t actually see the blowhole at La Bufadora, because I didn’t want to fight the 5-layers thick crowd of people, so I stood back and let Mr. W climb an overhang and take the photos. I just got occasionally misted with seawater when the spray floated up every 5 minutes or so. Oh, and we also concluded it was probably low-tide.

You guys can click on this video if you’re bored, or want to be as (un)excited as I was.

This is the obligatory posing-like-the-towel-bunny shot in our cabin.

Just to compare, here’s the one from my prior cruise, the one with Jordana Banana, in February of ’06.

We had Friday off and got to the cruiseship before noon for an early boarding. We had to walk across this high bridge from the big dome in Long Beach that used to house the Spruce Goose:

Ever seen a ghost ship? Most people hadn’t boarded for the 6pm sailing, so we got to walk around and take pictures of the empty rooms. This was pretty much the only time the ship was people-less that weekend.

What, you were hoping for photos with PEOPLE in ’em? Well, those are in Mr. W’s camera. I’ll post some when he downloads them off his camera. Meanwhile, you can rest your mouse pointer over these photos for captions and pretend that people are in them talking to you.

I hadn’t seen Vanessa since before my birthday, which I didn’t realize until she brought me my birthday present last nite. I’d gone home right after work to pack for the weekend cruise, and Vanessa and I had talked ab0ut watching Transformers, so she drove down after I got done packing. We met up with James at The Yard House in Brea and I was handed two compact packages which unraveled to become this:

That little gift bag spewed Happy Bunny (TM) products! Vanessa must be Jim Benton‘s new best friend! I hadn’t gone to the Happy Bunny website in awhile and I did not know there was all this new stuff out there. Lollipops, candles in tins (at least that’s what we believe is in the tin that none of us were able to open), license plate frames, keyboard stickers, keychains, stationery, metal thermos, just to name a few. To even out the karmically-questionable Happy Bunny vibes, she included a pendulum kit for getting in touch with my inner Ethereal Cindy and/or the Other Side. Vanessa always knows just what to get to make someone feel like she was paying attention. Thanks, Vanessa! Everyone got me such great stuff this year, I’m spoiled sick.

Vanessa also treated me to the Transformers movie, for which I had yet to find a negative review from anyone I know who’s seen it, all of whom were in my Transformers TV cartoons generation. I remember the days when I would watch G.I. Joe and then Transformers right after that. Speaking of those two cartoons, the Transformers movie was actually like G.I. Joe meets Transformers. Meets The Iron Giant (which was a better movie). But as I was saying earlier, I have yet to read a negative review, so I won’t write my own. Maybe I’ll like it better the second time around, when I re-watch it with Mr. W.

Last Saturday morning, Mr. W and I were out of the house at 7:30a to go line up for the 9:15a showing of Harry Potter in 3D at the Imax. I didn’t have expectations of the movie going in and I thought the movie was quite good (I like the young man that Harry is growing into, aesthetically speaking), but Mr. W and his female best friend (whom we met up with there along with her girlfriend) are Harry Potter fanatics and loved every minute. Of course they’d already read the books and couldn’t help commenting and revealing plot lines as the story unfolded on the 7-story high-def screen. The 3D effects were good; they did a solid 15 minute segment of a battle scene in 3D. Pretty neat experience.

After the movie, the four of us had lunch at P.F. Chang’s China Bistro, a first for me. I’d heard rave reviews of the place but had always been skeptical because it didn’t seem like it would be “real” Chinese to me. After eating there, my general impression of the place is that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, but the food tended to be over-seasoned (i.e., salty), but that the sea bass was one of the best I’d ever eaten. Plus, I got to use the $30 giftcard to the restaurant that my previous bailiff had given me for Christmas last year. I’ve been burning giftcards left and right after realizing my purse lining was about to explode with them.

Between the movie and lunch, I ran across some upcoming The Simpsons Movie publicity props, and was initiated into the Simpson family. See for yourself:

I’m learning to be like Jordan and whipping out the cameraphone everywhere I go.

College roommie Diana joined the 30S today! Hippo birdie, Diana! You’re in good company! Diana flew down from Northern Cal on business yesterday and joined her high school/college friends Ansen, Sabrina, Sabrina’s fiance Jon (who just HAPPENS to be my friend James’ coworker, and altho James says they sit diagonal cubes from each other, they have never actually seen each other), Mr. W and me for dinner at a new bar/lounge/restaurant in Costa Mesa called Mesa. Now THAT…is a really swanky place and was buzzing even at only 3 weeks old. They’ve had no advertising, no website, not even a sign outside the building to announce its infant arrival, and it was good enough through word-of-mouth alone to draw in Germaine Jackson who was there with his wife celebrating her birthday last nite. The only reason we knew about it was cuz Jon is a partial investor in the restaurant. We all ordered the 4-course prix fixe summer tasting menu, which started with a complimentary basil/cucumber/nut bisque soup to whet the appetite (not normally included but we got special treatment because of Jon), then came course #1, an angel hair pasta in a brown truffle cream sauce over an easy poached egg which, when the waiters brought our bowls out, they shaved whole truffle coins over (I’ve never seen the elusive expensive truffle served in that quantity before). Course #2 was seared halibut (?) cheek topped with veal-stuffed raviolis. Course #3, I actually got a picture of because it was too pretty not to whip out the cameraphone for, except the photo didn’t do it nearly enough justice due to the dark lighting of the place:

This is foie gras and mushroom topped with a puff pastry, on the side of a New York steak topped with beignets of battered fried garlic whips. If you’ve never heard of garlic whips, don’t feel bad because last night was all of our first times, too. It’s apparently a mushroom that looks like an asparagus sprig, that tastes like garlic. Course #4 is dessert, chocolate mousse with a center of whipped peanut creme, topped with chocolate and a crispy peanut butter “brittle” made from carmelized peanut sauce. It was served alongside an espresso-sized cup of chocolate malt shake (it ain’t McDonald’s shake!) decorated with a tiny sugar spiral that looks like a spring sitting across the top of the cup, with a mint leaf caught in the coil. In between the malt cup and mousse was a cluster of brown syrupy sauce which we tasted with the tips of our forks and were all surprised to find it on the salty side. It had what seemed like coarse grains of salt with grated peanuts. After our inquiry, we learned that it is indeed sea salt, but really exclusive expensive sea salt that is made from the misty brine of ocean that floats through the air and collects on the nearby ocean plants and leaves, and then it’s collected, after it’s dried, grain by grain from the leaves by hand. (Doesn’t this sound like a Grimm fairy tale?) It was great to offset the sweetness of the shake and mousse and give the two smooth items some texture.
Overall, regarding the chef, I have never tasted such richness in so many different courses of food collectively at one time in one place. The guy is a culinary genius. Here’s another guy’s review on the place, the only one we could find on the internet, but this guy seems to know his food better than me.
The location was very cool, a former pool hall now completely rebuilt into a restaurant lounge divided into three sections: upon entry past the foyer, the left side of the large square room is an eclectic lounge sitting area with two cushion-surrounded fireplaces and the most amazing thing of all, you look up and see straight into the night sky with the glass ceiling panels folded aside like giant horizontal shutters; the center is the double-sided bar with a cocktail and wine list so varied and unique you’d want to try it all (I ordered a Bourbon & Cherries, made from bourbon, muddled cherries and mint, sweetened with grenadine); and the right side is the split-level restaurant area with two lengths of tables and large semi-circular padded booths along the wall so the patrons eat facing all the action in the room. The restrooms were also something to behold. There’s no “restroom;” instead you walk into a restroom area behind the open lounge area, and are confronted with two rows of four or five doors facing each other, like you’re in a broad hallway of a hotel. Each of these rooms is a restroom with its own sink, mirror, toilet. You know which “room” is free by a strip of light over each door; green is vacant, red is occupied. Music was as eclectic as the different heights of chairs and tables in the bar lounge, going from techno rave to orchestral to old style blues. It may have influenced our dinner table conversation to meander in the diverse way it did going from Transformers and 80s childhood cartoons to socio-political reform to healthcare in various socialist countries to ethics on wedding attendance and vacation spots.

To make myself feel better, I’m gonna say that our night was a microcosm sampling of who we are, people with a broad spectrum of interests, accomplishments, opinions, tastes and friends, all developed painstakingly through our last 30+ years of life.

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.

My dad did some investigative work with his friend Alex, who is the owner of the established avocado tree that my dad offered to give me a graft from. The conversation continued today via email:

Dad:
DEAR CINDY:

AFTER ASKING ALEX THE ANSWER IS YOU MAY HAVE AVOCADO IN THE POT. THE TREE HAD A TYPE AND B TYPE IF YOU WANT ALEX MAY CRAFT HIS TREE TO YOUR TREE TO MAKE SURE YOU WL HAVE AVOCADO. THE NURSURY SALE THE TREE IS AFTER CRAFT A AND B TOGETHER SO ONCE YOU BUY WL HAVE LOT’S AVOCADO.

Me:
yeah, someone already told me that yesterday. but I can have avocados grow with the tree in a pot?!

Dad:
YOU NEED TO DO PUT POLLEN ON PISTILS BY YOURSELF. CAUSE THERE ARE NO BEE IN YOUR ROOM.

Me:
so I CAN have my own avocados in a pot as soon as it flowers?

Dad:
IF YOU DO IT RIGHT. I THINK SO.

Me:
Yay!

Do you guys know what this MEANS?! I can artifically sex up my avocado (“do it right,” as my dad put it), never plant it in the ground, and STILL have avocados to eat! It’s like a metaphor for ME! No home, no roots, artificial insemination… But, hold on…I won’t be having avocados without grafting if my boy turns out to be a boy, tho. Hmm. Oh, poo.

Speaking of me, Mr. W had this delivered to my courtroom today:

It came with a card that reads, “Cindy, You are the most special person in my life. I hope you enjoy these roses. I love you, always! [Mr. W]”
I think this means my bday week has officially begun.

The judge took half an hour away from us for lunch to cram in more time for jury selection, so I was unable to go to the gym. Instead, I kept busy with something else…look who got a new little house!

It’s my big boy! The “little” avocado tree! My dad told me recently that an avocado tree has to be “mated”, male and female, to bear fruit, and asked if I wanted to graft his friend’s avocado tree into mine to take care of that. I told him I already knew that there has to be 2 trees together and that I’d already taken care of that by growing my little avocado tree a wife:

And then I found out from my dad that you can’t tell whether an avocado tree is male or female before it flowers for the first time. What?! It has DESIGNATED gender, like a human? I did not know that. I just figured you put 2 different trees together and they’ll straighten themselves out. So now it’s possible I may be raising a little gay or lesbian avocado couple. But 2 out of 4 courtroom personnel in here agree, the little avocado tree has a definite male presence. And the new seedling in the plastic cup took her sweet time springing out roots and a little stem as everyone waited, so it seems female to me!
For prior photos and a little avocado history, click here.

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!