cindy's world

It was just after midnight, some eight hours ago, when it occurred to me that I’m “supposed” to give birth to my first child within the next 20 days. I have proven wrong on all those lame little high school essays for which the topic was, “Describe how you see yourself in 10 years.” Could I have completely and irreversably missed the fork in the road of my life where I was supposed to turn onto Matrimony Road, cross the white picket fence to enter Blissful Family Manor, being greeted first by an excited dog bursting through the front doggie door, then cheering children as I open the door, then loving husband, patting Dodo’s meowing head as I cross the foyer? Have I forever missed the boat?

I quelled the bubbling internal panic by thinking of how I got on this alternative path. Times are a’changin’, I tell myself, agreeing with everyone else who have been telling me for the past 5 years that I’m a baby, I have time, no one gets married and has their kids in their late 20s anymore. Anyone whose education and career are worth a hoot do the fiscally responsible thing by setting themselves up first, preparing for their futures, BEFORE “tying down” their lives and finances with creating family, they tell me and I agree, mostly because I have to. Agree, that is. Oh yes, I’m like this by choice. Oh yes, I’m happy. Oh yes, the only guarantee I have is my own actions so it’s much better I rely only on myself and ensure my own future and make my own major purchases and select my own investments and pay my own bills. Yes, yes, there’s no guarantee a marriage would make me happy, that relying on a husband and having kids all with their own minds would provide any form of stability. I’m much better for having avoided major mistakes like marrying the wrong person.

But then I look at my parents, who see themselves as aging, reminding me that time ticks by. I hear my mother’s assumptions uttered so presumptively as I grew up that they had become my own assumptions. “I thought of having another child, but I thought forget it, I’ll just wait to hold my grandchildren.” “I’m saving this for your kids.” “I recorded these stories on cassette tape for you, when you no longer want to listen to them, save them; one day you can have your own children listen to their grandmother tell them stories when I’m too old to read the books these came from.” “Do you want your old storybooks? I have them in a box so you can read them to your kids one day.” “I packed all your childhood hair things. You’ll have it for your own daughter’s use.” “Haha, how’re you going to cook for your kids when you’re so impressed with this dish? Come over earlier so you can learn how to cook your favorite foods for your own family.” It is unnecessary for her to ask questions of my future, hinting that I should be getting my life “started” now; it’s not like I’d been pushing the issue back in my own head because I’m unaware it’s there. But she asks, and I push.

My life has been stagnant for the past 6 years, my last accomplishment being the purchase of this house. I don’t care to celebrate 31.

My cell phone keeps claiming to be low on memory, so it finally occurred to me to clean out my “sent messages” box. All the photos and multimedia I’d sent out are apparently stored in there sucking up space. In going through these things deleting one by one, I found this one sent to my cousin Jennifer on July 7, 2006. I remember I was in a movie theatre watching previews. The message reads:
“DUDE! Steven spielberg is doing a TRANSFORMERS movie, due out 7-4-07! We have got 2 see that. They’re MORE than meets the EYE!!”
I think I’d sent a similar message to Vanessa. But now it’s a nice reminder to myself, a year later. TRANSFORMERS! AUTOBOTS! DECEPTICONS! OPTIMUS PRIME! *in electronic voice* OO-OO-EE-EE-AH! Okay, you have to be a child of the 80s to get that. I’m not even sure I’m spelling the stuff right as I barely understood English when I was 6, 7 watching the cartoon.

My gym trainee and I were emailing about a phone call I had to handle yesterday with an irrate (and apparently deaf) litigant. After I described that I had done all I could reasonably do and the caller was still being, okay, I’ll say it, a bitch, the email thread turned into something like this:

Gym Trainee: That’s when you pull out your magic wand. See if I had a magic wand my arm would be hurting, I would have waved so much already today. Several toads would be sitting at desk and on the counter.
Me: If I had a magic wand, it would have a star on the tip, just because it’s pretty. And you’ll start seeing LOTS and LOTS of people walking around with star-shaped bruises on their foreheads. That’s what I’d use my magic wand for. WAP! Just imagining that makes me feel better already.
Toads, eh? Hmmm. Maybe you can turn them into chocolate. The world could always use more chocolate.
Gym Trainee: ok, they will be chocolate toads with peanut butter filling. most will have marshmallow for brains. the wand can only transform so much, after that is what exists in the real world.
Me: We’re gonna get fat from eating the real-world toads!
Gym Trainee: I’m not crazy about marshmallow so I won’t be eating the brains cause there will be more marshmallow than peanut butter around.
Me: some will have lots of nuts in the peanut butter, too.
Gym Trainee: True, Hummm I didn’t think about that.
Me: you think some would have glass shards in them, too? That may be hard to swallow.
Gym Trainee: Well I can always wave my wand again and smash them. A thick Harry Potter wand so it won’t be too heavy for me to wave.
Me: maybe we can use a thin wand and use it to stab people. or feed the glass to other toads.
Gym Trainee: nope, if you can’t get it together while you’re a toad, you gotta go. I don’t want to overcrowd the toad population. I like rabbits so I thought about turning some into rabbits but, my rabbit is smart so many wouldn’t live up to his standards. So we’re back to toads.
Me: how about just some rocks? like Jordan almonds or something.
Gym Trainee: No, if I turn anybody into a rock it would be like coal, granite, marble, soapstone.
Me: we’ll turn everyone except ONE into coal, and we’ll leave one last person as a person, and we’ll take the coal and shove it up where the sun don’t shine, and get ourselves some diamonds!
Gym Trainee: [much later] I just finished waving my imaginary wand again. Will it ever end?
Me: it’ll end if you wap them on the heads with it. Some people are less annoying when they’re unconscious.
Gym Trainee: [today] that’s what the back of the wand is for. The front is for major change. I was just informed that [another clerk] is out next week. So on top of me waving my wand on her replacement I’ll be wearing a homemade purple heart from all the knife wounds in my back.

I hope I don’t get in trouble for “advocating violence in the workplace”. But I guess I can’t expect everyone to simply know what context to read things, especially things coming from me. My gym trainee apparently read it right, cuz this afternoon during trial, my courtroom door opened, she poked her head in, then silently and quickly shuffled over to my desk and stealthily plopped something down, and just as quickly she raced out again. It was this:

It’s a butterfly top with rotating flashing multi-colored lights, which would leave a prettier bruise than the star I’d originally had in mind. Is my gym trainee not hilarious?

I walked into my court reporter’s office for some coffee and saw her in tears standing in the middle of her office, staring into space. She’d been trying to write a thank-you note, she explained. Her daughter won the scholarship, and they’d attended the award ceremony recently. She said the giver of the scholarship, the mother of the deceased girl, deliberately did not attend that award ceremony because she didn’t feel she could hold up emotionally. The presenter talked about how my reporter’s daughter and the deceased girl had been close friends in parochial school, and my reporter’s heart broke listening to this speech. “I was trying to write the note to her [the mother] describing the look of happiness of my child’s face for the scholarship, but I just felt that she must be in so much pain, and I just couldn’t write, I didn’t know how to write it,” my reporter said, eyes misting up again.

Please drive carefully.

There I was, driving along the street with half a tank of gas still in my car, innocent, unsuspecting, calm, sleepy even. And then HOLY CRAP! A Chevron station on my left displayed that its premium gasoline is currently being sold at $3.37 a gallon! $3.37! A gallon! 91 grade! Chevron! My last fill-up was $3.49 a gallon at Mobil. I immediately pulled into the left turn lane and waited at the red light to turn into this gas station. I spent $28 on my half-tank and merrily went on my way.

For the next 3 miles as I drove to James’s house (to pick up stuff to mail to Jordan), I kept freaking out looking at other gas stations’ posted prices. “Oh my GAWD!! Arco’s premium gas is $3.35! I just paid more than that when I didn’t even need gas!” (Buyer’s remorse.)
James, who was on the phone with me and kept getting all his sentences interrupted with my exclamations like this, said, “Okay, but do you really want Arco gas?” True. I moved on. He started saying something about work or his car or something, I wasn’t listening, because, “DUDE!!! The Mobil station HERE is $3.25!!! WHAT the HELL!!”
James paused and said, “$3.25? Really? For premium grade?”
I looked again. “Oh, nevermind. It’s 87 gas. Whew! So what’s your gateway entry code again?”
Before James could even tell me, this shot out of my mouth: “The Chevron HERE has premium gas at $3.45! Premium! Chevron!”
James said, with saintlike patience, “But you got it for less than that, didn’t you? Yeah, you paid $3.37, right?”
“Did I? Oh yeah, I did! Oh, okay then.”
*pause*
James said, “You know you’re getting all worked up over 10 cents, right? You only saved like a dime!”

Argh. What has the rip-off gasoline industry DONE to me?!

I think I’m gonna do it. Do what? Well, this. Cuz the more I thought of it, the more I liked the idea of reclaiming my childhood playground games. So once a week, for 10 weeks, $200 buckaroos. I’ll write it off as exercise.

The friend who invited me apparently spontaneously decided to go check out the studio yesterday and didn’t tell me, but she said everyone liked it and surprise, TurboTiger was right — they teach pole, standard, AND wall techniques. What the hell is a wall technique? I guess I’ll know when class starts.

uncrowded Disneyland
spontaneous attendance with Mr. W
free entry (with annual passes)
exploring caves, crawling in stone crevices, fake-spelunking
giant turkey leg
eating with fingers like a caveman
Thrifty’s mint chip ice cream cone
finding ultra-comfortable microfiber thongs that are also affordable (Costco)
falling asleep reading What Dreams May Come

me: I wanna go to Disneyland after work!
They changed Tom Sawyer’s Island into Pirates Island!!
[My bailiff] brought back a treasure map. He was there yesterday.
Mr. W: oh
me: oh?
Mr. W: k?
me: eh?
Mr. W: Oh-K
me: YAY!!

~ * ~

Vanessa (via e-mail): Just a reminder…boot camp tonight! Hope to see you there!
Me: I think I might go to Disneyland instead. They changed Tom Sawyer’s Island to a Pirates of the Carribean island, totally interactive, with pirates in character (including Captain Sparrow) roaming the island!!
Vanessa: The happiest place on earth??? Well.. I think that will be more enjoyable then boot camp. HAHAHAHA! Ok… if you change your mind, just head on down!

Tough choice. Haha!

Vanessa came by Saturday morning to drop off some delectations that will soon be on their way to Flat Coke’s residence. The three of us (plus Mr. W) donned our teeny weeny swimsuits and trekked to the pool and whirlpools. Mr. W took a flying dive into the pool as I was running up to him to push him in, but since I didn’t get to push him, Vanessa said I could push her. So I did. She popped out of the water clinging onto her arms with teeth chattering as she claimed the water was not that cold. Whatever. I decided to ease in from the shallow end, taking one little step at a time. I was up to my upper thighs when Mr. W, this evil grin on his face, walked to me from the deep end of the pool and as I whimpered, he threw his arms around my waist and slowly (slow for him, too fast for me) walked back to the deep end. I got about rib-deep, mock-crying over his shoulder, when Vanessa finally said that it was indeed too cold and that she was going to go in the jacuzzi. That saved me as I was released and I leapt out of the pool and ran for the jacuzzi as well. Ahhh, hot bubbling water!

After getting enough heat, the three of us laid out on the poolside lounge chairs to air dry. Then I decided I wanted to rinse the chlorine off, so I went to the pool showers. Vanessa joined me in a few minutes offering soap. So we showered together (enjoy that image, guys) while she told me about how she lost her “Sexy Challenge” bet to a coworker who claimed to have spent 90 hours at the gym in May, to her 78. We agreed he must be lying. (I told Diana about this on Saturday evening, and she thought he was lying, too.) 90 hours at the gym means 3 hours a day with no days off, plus full-time work, and Vanessa said he used to be a couch potato before that. How is this possible that you can work out for 3 hours and not be burnt out, especially when your body’s not used to that much activity? Plus, who gets a perfectly round number like 90? Of course, I calculated my average gym time and I sheepishly note that in May, I clocked approximately 10 hours to Vanessa’s 78. I can usually get in more than 30 mins at lunch, but since we’d been in trial the last 3 weeks, the judge has been running late into lunch but starting on time, so I had to either go late or not go at all. This weekend, however, Mr. W and I hit the gym both Saturday and Sunday, I did some pretty hardcore exercises that left me sore today, so I more than made up for not going last Thursday and Friday.

A note: here’s how spoiled I am. I called my parents Sunday after the gym, and asked if they’d had dinner yet. They had not. I said we were on our way over there, and to not eat until we got there cuz I was starving. I was thinking I could take my parents and Mr. W to dinner, but my mom instead cooked a nice 5-course homemade meal which was waiting for us on the dinner table when we got there, despite my parents not being hungry enough from their late lunch to eat yet. So Mr. W and I ravaged the food while my parents watched some teapot Chinese soap opera in the living room.

Oh yeah. Forgot to mention. After lounging by the pool, we introduced Vanessa to the Curry House and she really liked it, and also enjoyed the tofu cheesecake we got in the end. Yum.

College roommie Diana is in town for a week on business-related matters, and we’d planned to hit up Sushi Wasabi for a super duper yummirific expensive meal, but when I called to make reservations on Friday, I got a pre-recorded message that said they were under construction or something like that until June 14. “Oh yeah!” James said when I cried to him via IM, “I remember seeing that notice posted when I took Vanessa there. He’s on vacation in Japan.” So instead, I drove up to LA, collected my former college roommate, then we headed to Killer Shrimp in Marina Del Ray. I made sure to work out really hard before going because I knew I was going to suck up a lo-hot of buttery Cajun sauce on French bread with the big shrimp. And I did. Every available drop. Afterwards, at the recommendation of the hostess, we drove a few miles away to a local hoppin’ street and dropped in on a few bars and clubs. We didn’t actually go clubbing, but she and I were simply walking down the sidewalk when the corporeal bouncer waved us over and offered us free entry all night. It was hip hop night, so we figured we may as well get stamped just in case. It was a small club but very cool, with exotic burgundy chiffon swags draped in dramatic Middle Eastern decor. Think “Arabian Nights.” I believe this club is called “Mor”? We got to catch up over a few drinks at another bar that had an outdoor patio lounge area with light-lined trees, a separate indoor-patio stone wall, walk and fireplace section where we sat, and a swanky long indoor bar area. I think this place was called “World” something. (I’m sure Diana would have the information on her blog post.) The unlimited-entry stamps on our wrists for the club came in handy before we left for home, as we breezed through the club to use their restroom. While in there, Diana noted a publicity poster advertising a new book that’s somehow related to Greg Behrendt’s best-selling self-help book, He’s Just Not That Into You, and a blonde stranger in the restroom suddenly turned to us and insisted she “had to” tell us a story about that book. Apparently, her husband came back one day and gave that book to her. She has no idea to this day what he meant by that gesture, but they’re divorced now.

3 – drinks consumed between the two of us at the nice “World” bar
325 – pounds on the woman sitting behind Diana who was loud and drunk and dropped her drink, shattering the glass
11:48 – pm turning to go onto the freeway to return Diana to her hotel
3 – number of lanes on the section of freeway we were on
1 – number of lanes available, as the two RIGHT lanes were coned off for “construction” that we never saw, such that we could not even exit the freeway
0-1 – mph of the entire length of freeway before we were able to get off 4 exits down and 50 minutes later
3 – number of car accidents on the freeway we were on contributing to the Sig Alert caused by invisible construction
1:10 – am arrival time at Diana’s hotel
16 – miles traveled between 11:48p and 1:10a
5 – hours spent hanging out
2 – hours of which were in my car
2 – am arrival time back to Mr. W’s
100 – percent chance we’d do it again and enjoy it all