cindy's world

I was off after work to run an errand yesterday, which involved getting bad directions, getting lost, getting stuck in traffic, and fighting angry people (not literally). And that was just in getting there. I’d left the completed errand thinking I got the short end of the stick, but I just checked some sources and it turns out Lady Luck was really smiling down on me when it all went down, unbeknownst to me. Cuz the alternative, which I had chosen against and then bitterly regretted yesterday, turned out upon further examination today to be the worse choice BY FAR. I’m really happy and grateful.

I think I was 16 when I realized that Fate, Providence, my spirit guide, my guardian angel, God, Jesus, whomever is responsible for looking out for me and keeping me straight on my path, knows what they’re doing waaaay more than I do. I’m just blind and dumb stumbling around on Earth, trying to make sense out of something larger than me, for which I don’t have enough information to make sense of. That was when I trusted the higher power completely to arrange things that may not be my choice at the time, but ultimately always turns out better for me than what I would’ve chosen for myself in my ignorance. In other words, if I was upset that I didn’t get my wish, I later found out why and was grateful. At age 16, the issue was something as small as not being able to schedule my classes the way I wanted them so that I could be with the friends I wanted in my classes. But the way fate arranged my classes later proved to be more ideal than I could’ve figured, as more circumstances unfolded over time that would’ve made my personal choices bad for me. The effect of that realization is why even to now, each year I blow out my birthday candles, I don’t wish for anything specific. Instead, I defer the wish to my other-worldly guides to do with it as they see fit.

With the spiritual research I’d done since age 16, I’ve developed a larger understanding of the way things are, and I am completely comfortable with what I have learned, and I see it working every day in small miracles, too perfect and too many to be written off as coincidence.

So for the small blessing yesterday, I am humbled as I am shown once again, that I don’t necessarily know what’s best for me, that the Other Side does, and I am grateful that I am taken care of, even in the smallest of ways. I see You, Lord, and I thank You for always walking with me despite my too-often lapses into Earthly complaints.

Oh. And I also thank You for giving me Diana’s aid in my time of need yesterday. The timing, as with everything, was immaculate.

Amen.

I was talking to a friend about our childhood eating habits. She to this day will not drink milk nor eat chicken, because she has always despised the way they taste. She said that as a kid, her mom would make chicken and rice on the same day each week, and my friend ate rice and her brother ate chicken, so when Mom left the table, they’d switch plates and eat what the other won’t. Then her brother moved out and my friend would just sit and stare at the glass of milk on her table, and stare at the chicken, until one day her mom finally got the picture. I asked why she couldn’t have simply told her mom that she didn’t want the stuff. She said that in her household they couldn’t be picky and had to eat whatever was in front of them. When her brother left, she finally told her mom that she had never eaten the chicken.

I told her that in my house my dad always conned me into eating something I didn’t like by telling me some crazy story about how it’s magic or I’m creating a park in my stomach and the broccoli is the trees and the people would be sad if my park had no trees for them to sit under, the soup is the lake and I need to eat some duck to swim in the lake, and of course I need more rice so that the people can use it like bread to feed the ducks, I can’t very well let the poor duckies starve, etc.. (I blame my wild imagination and constant psychological guilt on my parents.)

My no-nonsense friend said, “That would never work at our house.”

Neither the TV in my bedroom nor the big screen TV in the living room has been on since I wrote that I would not turn them on. I’ve tried to fill my sleepless nights with either blogging (which leads to IMing, which has been extremely rewarding since it is still time spent communicating with my friends) or reading. The blogging is excellent for getting rid of nagging thoughts, as since childhood I was able to immediately quell mental hauntings by writing them down. Thus all the diaries, journals, elephant-memory. Reading is good for keeping a finally blank mind from wandering back into something self-destructive.

I’ve been trying to read the novel Sister of my Heart by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, which is a national bestseller about two cousins in India. Grace had mailed it to me a couple of years ago and she had written the inscription on the inside title page

Dear Cindy –
This is one of the best
books I’ve read in a while.
The author captures the love
between two sisters beautifully.
I hope you enjoy it as much as
I do.
Love,
Grace

I’ve tried to read it upon receipt, but could not get into it because it opens with too many things foreign to me.
They say in the old tales that the first night after a child is born, the Bidhata Purush comes down to earth himself to decide what its fortune is to be. That is why they bathe babies in sandalwood water and wrap them in soft red mamal, color of luck. That is why they leave sweetmeats by the cradle. Silver-leafed sandesh, dark pantuas floating in gold syrup, jilipis orange as the heart of a fire, glazed with honey-sugar. If the child is especially lucky, in the morning it will all be gone.
Thus reads the first paragraph of Book One, chapter 1.

Now that Grace is gone, I am determined to get through this novel. I found the book on my bookshelf a few days ago in passing and read her inscription first. I gingerly passed my fingertip along the edge of her words, handwritten in blue ink, softly lest I unknowingly wipe away some of the essence that she left on those very pages she touched. I turned the inscription page and tilted the back of that page to the light. By studying the lifted lines left by the differing pressure of her pen strokes, I could almost relive her writing those words to me. The heavier downstroke of the D in “Dear” and the L in “Love.” I’d like to think that those letters were pressed more firmly because they bore more weight in her head as she wrote them.

She had thought of me when she read these very pages. I’d like to know why she felt this book was appropriate for me. There’s only one way to find out.

Off I go to read in my bed, as I had done in childhood, and prior to the days of falling asleep to the sound of sit com laugh tracks.

Well, if it ain’t PMS then I don’t know how else to explain it.

I was trying to get back into the old Cindy this weekend, slept in till almost noon, then I got up and got dressed to go to the gym for a couple of hours. Going downstairs in itself was depressing. The house was in disarray, and there’s nothing I can do about much without a vacuum cleaner. I’m not going to fight the “black Friday” shopping crowd, so I’ll have go to w/o a vacuum for a few more days. There are papers on the dining table of things that needed something to be done — opening an ING account online, ordering additional checks, calling my retirement plan and asking why they show me under Plan E when I clearly switched over to Plan D 6 years ago… There was cat hair on my couch so the cat has been taking advantage of my being home less by doing what he knows he’s not allowed to. I felt like I’d let everything slide and get away from me and I’m completely overwhelmed. The neighbor across the driveway from me again had their friend park on the driveway instead of on the street despite all the tow-away signs posted, and I’m blocked from being able to back my car out of my garage. My fat percentage is as high as it’s ever been, I need to vacuum the cat area, the cat’s all sheddy and I need to brush him, I wish I could cure his corneal ulcer problem and finally get him out of his cone, there’s a huge black spider up over the fireplace that I can’t reach without a vacuum cleaner extension hose, there are paid bills that need to be sorted through and filed away and laundry to be done… It was overwhelming me until I was interrupted by the beeping of my cell phone, signalling that I’ve just received a text message.

I eagerly went to check it, and I didn’t realize how much I miss Mr. W until the disappointment of seeing it’s not from him nearly made me want to drop to the floor in exhaustion — if the carpet weren’t so dirty from cat hairs. Then I thought, there’s nothing wrong with my calling him. It’s not like he’s out in Vegas partying with the guys and doing things I’m not supposed to know about so that I can’t call him cuz he wouldn’t pick up and would only accuse me of “checking up” on him. Mr. W doesn’t do crap like that. So I called. He picked up and upon hearing his voice, I almost cried.

***
I remember how hard first grade was. Strange new country, mean racist kids, language barrier, different rules. I’d thought I was doing pretty well, holding it together. The class was walked over to another classroom in a portable building for an hour of games and crafts. Like sheep or lemming, we allowed ourselves to be herded into the classroom where different tables were set up with a parent volunteer at each station, each teaching a different activity. To my absolute shock, my mother was at one of these tables and she waved happily at me. She had never looked so beautiful. All my control evaporated and I started bawling. She walked over toward me as I yelled, “Ma!”, broke from the line of kids and threw my little arms around her waist and I just sobbed and sobbed, like a shipwrecked passenger who had been clinging to driftwood for days, listless and hopeless, when a sudden rescue snaps the passenger out of a state of shock. I remember a part of me skeptically saying to myself, “What’s your problem? Why’re you clinging to your mom like that? Why’re you crying? There’s nothing wrong. You’re embarrassing yourself.” But I didn’t care, I told the voice. Everything was so hard, and this is the one thing I knew. My mother.
***

Wow, I’ve th0ught of that event before, but it never made me cry like I just did. So anyway, Mr. W is with his parents and his daughter, his dad driving them to a pizzeria that Mr. W had been craving forever, where they supposedly make authentic Chicago-style pizza because the Chicago-based chain ships ingredients out to the Vegas branch. (Mr. W grew up in Chicago.) After that they’re going to see an enclosed residential community that turns its frozen lake into an ice skating rink and the European style villas do an artificial snow show. I’m glad he’s enjoying himself. He needs to see his parents more often, and they’re only in the next state. He told me yesterday that his dad asked him to convince me to go, and he’d told his dad he already tried. Today, I asked him to tell everyone hello for me and sorry I couldn’t make it.

*Sigh* I’m gonna have to get over my retarded emotions and make a dent in the crap downstairs. Good grief, what is wrong with me? Just because this is the first weekend we’re going to spend apart since we started dating? It’s only been a few months!

There were lots of lions on our trip to SF last weekend. It started with the National Geographic magazine that Mr. W bought at the airport, which features the magazine’s 100 favorite or best photos they’d ever had in print. There was a beautiful photo of a male lion walking, and the photographer had written that the lion was majestic, powerful and completely indifferent to him. Typical cat. Looking at that photo, I wanted to sink my hand into the dense lion mane, touch a fingertip to the flame-shaped tuft of fur at the tip of his tail. Of course there were stone lions all over Chinatown, guarding front doors, keeping the evil spirits out. We had also seen a framed closeup painting or photo of a lion’s face somewhere, and I remember saying I wanted a lion. Riding to work on a lion would ensure that nobody messed with me. Talk crap behind my back? My lion will eat you. Or at least bat you around. It’s funny to imagine some catty chick giving me the once-over and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, this huge paw smacks her upside the head.

One morning last weekend I woke up from a dream that I was hanging out with lions, playing with one’s gigantic paw, curling up against another one in a vast plain. When I opened my eyes I was in the San Francisco hotel room with an already-awake Mr. W. “I dreamt I had a lion,” I said sleepily, still disoriented and rather disappointed that there was no lion next to me. He smiled his boyish dimpled smile and said, “Well, how about a Leo?” I’ll take it.

My first Halloween was in 1982, 4 months after I immigrated to this country from Asia. I remember just hating makeup, and was pissy that my aunt (Cousin Jen and Cousin Diana’s mom, whom we were residing with at the time) made me wear some as part of my costume. My other aunt had sewn costumes for Diana, Jennifer and me. We were traditional Chinese girls (how far from traditional Chinese girls the three of us are now, haha).

Altho Diana and Jennifer didn’t care for makeup either and I remember that the lipsticky feel bothered them, they were better sports about that than me. In the photo, from left to right are Diana, me, Jeannie, Jennifer and Kai. I can’t believe Jeannie and Kai are MARRIED now.

I didn’t understand the concept of Halloween at the time. We go door to door, say some odd little phrase, and the residents must give us free candy or else we would do mean things to them? That’s how my aunt explained the phrase “trick or treat” to me. Give us a treat or we’ll play a trick on you, we threaten. I received a tutorial on how to say these magical candy-producing words, and we started our trek around the neighborhood.

I do not like Halloween. People in America are mean! They run out of bushes and chase you around their yard, roaring and growling at you. This is not worth the meager bits of candy that we received, which we weren’t allowed to eat anyway because our parents threw away everything that wasn’t in a sealed wrapper for fear that we’d eat poison or hidden razor blades. And what’s up with people handing out 5 pennies taped together in a makeshift roll? The hell were we gonna do with those?!

I’m standing on the bridge
I’m waiting in the dark
I thought that you’d be here by now
There’s nothing but the rain
No footsteps on the ground
I’m listening but there’s no sound

Why is everything so confusing
Maybe I’m just out of my mind

Thus goes the first half of Avril Lavigne’s “I’m With You,” pouring out of my work computer speakers as I try to get rid of another month’s worth of divorce files. But the song takes me back to another time so vividly that I had to stop and let it drown me.

2 or 3am. Weeknight. I’m driving south on Beach Blvd toward the ocean, tears blinding my vision, sobs drowning out portions of this song. The empty front passenger seat is littered with wadded up Kleenex tissues. It’s amazing how one can be in what feels like a constant state of lowness and anguish, and then there’d still be a jolt that drops you even lower. I am lost in my emotions and my hurt. Nothing makes sense, all I know is that I am swirling in emptiness and disappointment, that after I gave all of myself over and over, I am still met with cruel disregard and abandonment. I don’t even want answers anymore. I have no hopes for resolution or recovery. I just want it to be over. I just want the numbness to come and take me over. If the coldness of the ocean doesn’t end it, it may never end. This is hell.

Poor little girl. As much as I can cry for her now, want to take her in my arms and warm her cold, wet, sandy body, she feels so distant from me. Like a sad made-up story, something I can’t relate to. But that was me, in the beginning of the end, March 2004.

The mess of that night would never have believed me if I told her that in 17 months, her biggest concern would be to get the month’s worth of family law cases reviewed so that she can leave to go home, eat her diet dinner, then run off to spend some time with a great guy whom she won’t get to see all next week because she’ll be in sunny Cancun with her college roommate.

Actually, processing family law divorces isn’t so bad with a great playlist pouring out of the computer. I dug out a CD Rom of MP3s from the crevices of my desk and couldn’t remember what’s on it. So far I’m on the subfolder entitled “HS”, which turns out to be songs that totally took me back to high school. Driving in my first car to school at the buttcrack of dawn, listening to hip hop on my pull-out radio; driving to West Covina Mall after school w/my friend Nina in the passenger seat; sitting in the back of Edgar’s car going to school before I got my license, with Grace in the front seat and Brian to my left. Driving w/Ling to UCLA to visit some friends on a weekend. House parties in people’s backyards. International Club socials where I had to beg Eric to be our DJ. Sitting in Geometry watching Jon stomp and clap out the bass rhythm of “The Ditty.” On our hands and knees (w/Grace, Vivien, Bonny, Christine, Kenny, Ronnie, Tina) painting props and backgrounds for International Club events and plays. And yes, sitting on front of the computer all summer 1993 BBSing on my super-fast, super-compact 386 with a whole 8MB of RAM. Haha, those user meets were something else! Each song has tied to it memories of sound, feel, thoughts, sight, even scent. Even which songs were associated w/which crushes. *blush*

So far:
* The Ditty – Paperboy
* Daisy Dukes – 69 Boyz
* Mr. Wendall – Arrested Development
* Very Special – Big Daddy Kane f/Spinderella
* This or That – Blacksheep
* I’ll Make Love to You – Boyz II Men
* Knockin Boots – Candyman
* Fantastic Voyage – Coolio
* Rebirth of Slick – Digable Planets
* Humpty Dance – Digital Underground
* Kiss You Back – Digital Underground
* Knockin da Boots – H-Town

I wonder if I knew as I was listening to these songs in HS that they would be the magic peephole into the past, the time-defying vortex, in my future. I wonder what current songs in my life now would cause me, in 10 years, to squeal in nostalgic delight and dance in place as my heart soars as high as my smiles turn up my lips and brighten my entire composure.

My coworker and I have started this little game. Last Tuesday, I entered my courtroom to find a Hawaiian flower resting on my keyboard. I was gonna top it by leaving 2 wallet-sized “modeling” photos of me at age 21 (2 outfits he said were his “favorites” out of the tons of shots I took in that photoshoot and showed him for amusement purposes) in his desk drawer, and then calling him and saying something like, “Hey, I hear you’re a pervert and have photos of little 21 yr old girls in your drawer.” Unfortunately, he was there when I snuck up there so I just handed him the photos. =P Failed topper.

Today, when I walked in, on my desk were two gummy bloodshot EYEBALLS (one green, one blue) with the note “MY SMILIN’ EYES… ONLY THEY ARE TIRED…And different colors. : )” Who puts dismembered EYEBALLS on a desk? I got a good laugh, and vowed to top that one. My wheels in the brain are turning on their rusty axels.

When I lived with my friend Brian for 6 months in 2003, he and I had this “hide-the-alien” game. I have a foot-tall inflatable silver alien that’s positioned to hug things, like a koala bear. He and I had opposite work schedules, so we’d each arrive home and find the alien in a different spot of ours and rehide it in a spot of theirs. He placed the alien so that only his silver head popped up in the midst of my stuffed animals. I put it under his comforter and pillow so that when he pulled it back at nite, an alien squeaked at him. He put it hugging my TV antenna in my bedroom. I put it hugging his jacket arm in his closet. He put it hanging off the caddy in my shower. I deflated it and put it inside his bathroom medicine cabinet. I’d wanted to drain the water from the toilet and place it inside so that when he lifted the lid and the seat (we keep both down because my cat would drink toilet water otherwise), he’d be looking at an alien. But I was afraid he’d use the bathroom in a groggy state in the middle of the night and do something to it that would cause me to throw it away and deal with it nevermore.

me and Grace at her bridal shower, April 10, 2004

I was doing a massive digital photo review last nite, and for the first time, opened the CD case that contained a CD-Rom of Grace’s photos. Upon Grace’s passing last October, her uncle had collected photos from all stages of her life and put together a memorial book for her. I’d also loaned my entire photo album collections from high school to her uncle for this purpose. The rough photos and completed pages, along with other miscellaneous things related to Grace (poems, etc) were in the CD-Rom.

I thought I’d dealt with Grace’s passing fairly stoically, but I could never bring myself to view the CD-Rom. I’d always attributed it to laziness. However, with someone very supportive “with” me via IM, I popped the CD in… and cried my eyes out. One of the most significant things to me was the digital image of the back of a photo Grace had given me (which I’d forgotten about), on which she’d written:

The funny thing is now, 12 years later, I still change my outgoing message regularly, altho now it’s a cell phone instead of an answering machine (currently it says “Hi, I’m out hunting buffalo. Leave a message!”) And she advised me about men unworthy of me all the way thru to the last time I saw her alive.

It was a good cathartic release, and I was given great support and comfort as I shared Grace and Justin (her husband)’s story and some of their photos. Thanks, Kevin.