cindy's world

This post has no spunk. It’s just a list of things going on. Random stuff.

Yesterday, Mr. W got his ’07 Prius in silver metallic green. It’s a little freaky when the car switches from gas engine to electrical cuz it feels like the car just stalled. But Mr. W seems enamored with his new toy.

Mr. W’s gamer bro drives in from Vegas this afternoon to spend a week with him. It’s going to be a boys’ gaming week. I’ve been looking for other things to do with other people. 🙂 Maybe I’ll finally make it to my first jujitsu class this semester. Mr. W, however, speculates that he’ll be able to get me into the X-Men PS2 game. I should be better about playing with his hobbies the way he plays with mine. (Lucky for him, I don’t have any left.)

Today, we celebrated my court reporter’s birthday at work. I brought in an artisan dulce de leche caramel mousse cake and some specialty cheese (spicy jack, medium cheddar, Muenster, and provolone) and whole-wheat crackers. Everything was delicious and lots of people showed up to sing to her in our jury room. I took our wheelie chalkboard and wrote in big script “Happy 20th Birthday [her name]!” and drew confetti, balloons, cake and bday hat. People have been trickling by all day to nibble on the cheese and crackers. I guess that’s what it takes to see your coworkers — free food.

Dodo’s finally in his lambwool-lined catbed. It’s been cold here again, the low tomorrow is predicted to be in the 30s. He curls up in a circle in it and shoves his cone into the wall of the catbed, sealing off the opening. I wonder if it bothers him when his cone is cold from the weather. He was trying to scratch his right ear through his cone this morning so I dug around in there and used up 6 Q-tips.

I think I’m becoming more lactose-tolerant. I haven’t been too religious on the acidophilus use lately, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I had green tea ice cream for dessert at lunch after sushi. Not to talk about the caramel mousse cream in the cake and all the different cheeses.

I was just praising Mr. W for taking such good care of me, and he said I take good care of him, too. I said I don’t do anything; I just come over, eat, and then sleep. “Nuh-uh,” he said, “You keep me entertained and make me laugh.” I said, “A monkey can do that for you.” He said, “But monkeys are illegal.” “Not all monkeys are illegal,” I said, and just as he opened his mouth to protest, I defended my position with, “Sea monkeys are legal.” He said sea monkeys aren’t very entertaining. I said you can train them to do tricks, like flip in the water to get food. He doesn’t believe that brine shrimp are actually trainable.

And then there was this silence as I reminisced about my own sea monkeys back in the day.

I can’t believe my mom wouldn’t buy me a Peachy stationery set but she’d let me have sea monkeys.

*** Addendum ***
Mr. W just pointed out that it’s no longer “Saturday morning.” I looked at the time of the post. “Oh.” Time flies when you’re on vacation and sleep all day. He and I had that conversation earlier, too. I said that it doesn’t feel like we’ve been together 16 months, it feels more like 8. He said time flies when you’re having fun. I added, “And when you’re about to die.” There was a pause. He said, “Then I must be flying to my death, cuz time has been passing faster when I got older.” I said, “Or maybe I’m flying to MY death. Cuz time sped up when you and I got together.” He said, “Maybe your other relationships just passed slower.” What, like a kidney stone?

While I was screwing with one of my favorite photos, to turn this…

…into this…

…for this post (at Jordan’s request to be photoshopped into our fun), it turned out that the original photo got deleted out of my laptop. I just checked my home desktop and I don’t have a copy on here. I still have this photo on the image hosting website, but it’s small and won’t have the same resolution and print quality. 🙁 I checked with college roommie Diana and she didn’t have an original copy, either. I explained that I’d already deleted the memory card that had the photos in my camera. Her brilliant solution is:

diana: oh
i guess you will just have to come back to visit
and i” get phil
and we can take another

I hope Jordan’s happy. This just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. Hmmph.

This morning, I dropped Mr. W off at work, then drove his car to get an oil change. I brought along a 815-page hardback cover book, Lin Yutang’s Moment in Peking: A Chinese Novel. My mom had read it in its Chinese translation, then loaned it to my aunt Jessica, and they both have been looking for it in its original English to get me and my cousins to read it. After years of searching, my mom found this ratty well-loved copy from an online bookstore that exchanged used and out-of-print books. My mom also printed out a 3-page Wikipedia quick-biography on the author and put it in the book. (I honestly don’t know when my mom got so internet-savvy.) This was back in October, and she’d been asking me during my weekly visits whether I’d read the book yet. My answer was always a sheepish no.

Truth is, it’s hard for me to crack open a Chinese historic novel because it makes me feel guilty that I haven’t written one. Plus, I haven’t read a book for months, not since I read, for no good reason, three or four women’s erotica short-story collections within a few weeks’ time. I actually do miss reading. I miss the excitement I used to feel as a 10-year-old entering a library and seeing the shelves and shelves of great stories just waiting for me to bring them to life, to dance within my imagination.

Being stranded as a car went through servicing, while being on vacation from work, I have run out of excuses. I hugged the heavy volume to my chest, walked into the little waiting office, selected a chair, and settled in to read. What caught my eye before even opening my book, however, was a current Premiere magazine with Will Smith on the cover. It was an interview about his new movie, Pursuit of Happyness, which I really want to see. So I picked that up. It’s a 2-3 page article, shouldn’t take me too long to go through before I cracked open the serious novel. Half a page into the article, I saw a tow truck driving up outside the window. I saw a teal bumper of the car being towed. I thought about how it looked like my high school friend Edgar’s high school car. And then I saw Edgar’s mom come out of the towtruck. Oh no! I walked outside to see if everyone was all right. I hadn’t seen Edgar’s parents for years. After the usual greetings and comments of how I’ve grown, and the ubiquitous critiques and reviews of how I look now with respect to my skin, my hair, my makeup, and of course, my weight, I found out that there was no accident. The “check engine” light had gone on, so rather than risk breakdown, Edgar’s mom simply had the car towed in to the shop. About 15 minutes later, they left. I went back to the article. And then the mechanic came back with the car keys and a bill.

Oh well. I guess I’ll have to find another opportunity to crack open the book. Right now it’s resting under my left elbow as I type like an armrest. It is a useful little book.

After commenting about sweet dreams and blogging in the last post, I immediately went to bed to dream that I was indeed blogging, except the keyboard was so cool that it sort of did an osmosis thing such that the information travels above the keyboard in a white cloud and goes in its own organized way into the computer and appears on the monitor. Upon awakening, of course, I realize it’s not that different from a wire connecting the keyboard to the computer, but in the dream, I was all impressed by how high-tech this keyboard relays information. And then the dream went through several other humorous courses that ended with me actually laughing so hard at a sarcastic joke I made myself that I woke myself up snorting. Laughter in the dream translated itself into two bedridden snorts/snores in real life. In the darkness of the wee hours, I remembered the dream in such detail upon waking that I wanted to go straight to the computer to blog it, but I couldn’t find my glasses so instead I just peed and went back to sleep. You guys missed out. Sorry.

Mr. W, I’m proud to report, actually stayed up to midnight this year. It took hours and hours of playing “Guitar Hero,” though. I think I’m all guitar heroed out now. It’s not as much fun when you realize each stage you unlock still has no songs that you know. We rang in the new year with some sparkling pomegranate juice watching, from the warm safety of the couch, the crystal ball drop on the Times Square mob along with 3+ tons of paper confetti. I’m not exaggerating on the record tonage of crap the New York sanitation guys had to clean up as their first job of the year. I hope they recycle. Mr. W saw on the news, as we were approaching the countdown, some self-proclaimed “confetti disbursers” sitting at the highest buildings over the Square, ready with business-card sized squares of confetti that they were just going to hurl by the handfuls down into the crowd to herald the new year. I wanna know, how do we get THAT job? You get to hang out at the party without being trampled by the drunken crowd, watch the goings on from a great vantage point, and you get to throw crap right on people’s heads below, and everyone cheers instead of calls the cops!

Last nite, I had a dream. I don’t recall much detail about the dream, something happened when I was in a car, and after it happened, I actually thought this whilst in my dream: “That’s funny. I’m gonna blog that.” I think I even said it aloud to someone in the dream. But upon awakening, I forgot what was so funny that I wanted to blog. Am I the only blogger who dreams of blogging?

I was watching president Gerald Ford’s state funeral yesterday evening when I was doing cardio at the gym. Betty Ford stood there bravely with a stoic tight-lipped smile facing a procession of national dignitaries as they marched past her. Some of the men gave her a very slight nod, some didn’t make eye contact with her as they walked by. She stood, looking frail and small despite holding her head high, her hand tucked into the crook of Major General Guy Swan’s uniformed elbow. I forget what military position Swan held, but it’s his place to escort the wife of a deceased president during the funeral. Betty didn’t even come up to his shoulder. When the last man in the line walked past her, I watched Betty’s face crumple slightly and she shook in what appeared to be a sob. Swan, looking properly straight ahead, reached over discreetly with his free hand and patted Betty’s old wrinkled hand on his right elbow comfortingly, perhaps having heard her light sob or felt her shaking. It was only momentary as she regained her composure mere seconds after. But in that second, my heart broke with her. If the elliptical trainer didn’t have arm rails, I probably would’ve fallen off that thing sideways. Betty had such a long, close marriage with her husband. When his job put in in the White House, she and their kids moved in there with him. It was their home, not just his office as it is to our politicians these days. I think Arnold Schwarzenegger’s family still lives somewhere fairly local in Southern California, and he comes and goes, spending a few days here and then in Sacramento. Betty was right by Ford’s side through his long life. I can’t imagine how difficult it is to know your husband’s health is failing for the last few months, and then instead of taking as long as you need to mourn privately, you have to follow a scripted protocol for a televised international funeral. I didn’t realize this until the cameras closed in on her face, but as brave as she was sometimes standing by Swan, at other times escorted by vice president Cheney, the lower third of Betty’s clear eyes were always swimming in tears. What was she thinking, standing there for hours like that, and in Statuary Hall? Was she remembering how her own children had run around with Johnson’s children playing hide and seek around the statues? Was she remembering visiting her husband as he sat behind the large desk in the Oval Office for 2.5 years? Was she thinking about how wonderful the Navy choir sounded, and how straight and still the uniformed pallbearers stood, in order to keep her mind off the reason they were all there? I hope her heart (having gone through a quadruple bypass in ’87) heals quickly, surrounded by her children and their family this new year.

A few Saturdays ago, Mr. W’s ex-wife, the mom of his kids, graduated from nursing school. I give her lots of credit for changing careers in mid-life, going back to school, and actually completing the education and training in an entirely different (and noble) career. That’s a lot of juggling time, money, kids, job, with your eye on the dream at all costs. We all went to her graduation. Also present was her friend, whose name I can’t spell, I only know it’s pronounced something like “Naughty.” Haha, how appropriate.

Some history on Naughty:
The first time I met Naughty almost half a year ago, Mr. W and I had gone over to ex-wife’s house to pick up the kids. Naughty and her daughter were there, hanging out with ex-wife. The ex-wife, as usual, was pleasant with me and chit-chatted a bit. I said hello to Naughty & Daughter, they both look at me, turned back to each other, and continued their conversation in Spanish. Mr. W whispered to me that the two women are known bitches and to not worry about it. A few minutes later, Mr. W and ex-wife went somewhere to get something in another room, and it was me alone with these two women in the kitchen. I made another pleasantry comment. They paused their conversation, and then turned back to each other after ignoring me and kept up the Spanish. It was absolutely rude. But MAYBE they didn’t speak enough English to be cordial, I dunno.

At ex-wife’s graduation on the Saturday in question, we were seated with Mr. W on my left, and Mr. W’s daughter on my right. Naughty arrived prior to the commencement of the ceremony, walked behind us, and Mr. W’s daughter turned around. “Hi, Naughty! How are you doing?” she said. Naughty said, in slightly accented but otherwise perfect English, “Hi, good! You look so pretty!” Daughter said, “Thanks,” and they had a few more sentences exchanged. I turned to Mr. W, who was clearly grimacing from even having to be around this woman, and I said, “Oh, so she does speak English!” Naughty unfortunately sat on the other side of daughter, but I figured I’d given her enough of a chance from before and was through offering the first olive branch.

After the ceremony, people stood around taking photos. I wasn’t part of most of the photos, so I sat to the side. Naughty tried to insert herself in the family photos of ex-wife and her kids. Mr. W, designated photographer for the event, later showed me the photos. Naughty was either completely or half cut out of the frame of the photos. I felt a little bad for her. Until dinner.

Dinner was at a local restaurant. Ex-wife had invited so many friends, family and coworkers that the restaurant arranged 5 long tables in a “T” shape for the party to sit around. Naughty was at the upper right corner of the “T” shape, Mr. W and I were at the bottom base of the “T”, and ex-wife was in the middle. When I would look up toward ex-wife, like when she was opening her graduation presents or telling a story, I’d see Naughty in the background, glaring at me. Even when there was nothing going on and I’d look in that direction, it seemed she was always glaring at me. Then, at the end of dinner, when we stood and walked around to ex-wife to say our goodbyes, ex-wife gave Mr. W a hug and thanked him for bringing the kids and for being photographer, then she hugged me and thanked me for coming, and I said, “Wow, two years, and you did it! How does it feel?” So we were in mid-conversation and I swear, I was in mid-sentence when Naughty came up on ex-wife’s right, grabbed her arm and pulled her away from me, and said something to her in Spanish. Oookay…that was rude. Two minutes later, ex-wife returned, laughing. She said, “Naughty’s all concerned about me being polite. She said, ‘Make sure you hug [Mr. W] and thank him for taking photos for you today! Give him a hug right now!’ and I told her, ‘I already did, and I thanked him.’ ” She laughed that off and continued her conversation with me. But I’m thinking, the witch (Naughty, not ex-wife) is trying to make waves! She’s trying to get ex-wife to embrace her ex-husband in front of his current girlfriend, to tick me off! What is her PROBLEM? Of course, first of all she underestimated how UNcatty I am, because that wouldn’t have upset me. She also underestimated the friendly nature of my and ex-wife’s relationship, and the trust between Mr. W and me.

The stupid thing is, why is she trying to mess with me?! I don’t know her. I guess I’d understand if ex-wife and I hated each 0ther, so as ex-wife’s friend, Naughty’s trying to make a point of supporting ex-wife by being a bitch to me. But don’t you take the cue from your friend, and when you see her getting along with the new girlfriend, why do you think it’s your business to shake that?! No wonder Mr. W hates her.

Dear late president Ford:

I’m sorry that this morning, when I was told you had passed away, I said nonchalantly, “So did James Brown.” That was irreverent of me. Like any US citizen, I am grateful for your restoration of a post-war nation in the short time during your administration. Thanks.

Dear Mr. Brown:

I’m sorry that yesterday morning, when I was told you had passed away, I said nonchalantly, “So that line in the song James Brown…is dead is true now.” That was rude of me. Like any American, I am grateful for your contributions to the Americana music scene. Thanks.

There. Now don’t anybody say I don’t write right my wrongs.

This isn’t my Christmas story, per se. It’s just my Christmas Story post. I may yet post one of the anecdotes I had in mind, or maybe I’ll save it for next year. But I received this via email and it was too good not to give it a little cyber home on here, as a featurette:

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. “No Santa Claus?” She snorted. “Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”
“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun. “Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. “Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.
I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s grade-two class.
Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough; he didn’t have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.” The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it. Grandma said that Santa always relied on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa’s helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.” I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.
Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker’s bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.
I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

May you always have LOVE to share, HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care….And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!

(Cindy’s note: Isn’t it amazing how different things were 50 years ago? If the speaker’s story is 50 years old, and the speaker was 8 at the time, and assuming that the story was written this year, the setting of the story was 1952.)