cindy's world

Mr. W and I went to The Melting Pot for a fondue dinner on Sunday night.  As soon as we sat in our booth, we were able to very clearly hear the conversation at another booth diagonally across the aisle from us.  I soon realized this is because an 80+ year old man was having dinner with an early 20s woman, and the man was hard of hearing.  He’d ask her to repeat everything she said, and she spoke loudly and clearly to begin with.  I thought it was very sweet; she never lost patience with him, helped him with his fondue, introduced the various sauces to him, told him about some class she’s taking where she was hoping she could make up some hours for.  It looked like a busy college student took out some time to hang out with her grandfather for dinner.

After appetizers, the girl observed, “You look down today, Bob.  Are you still mad about lunch?  What did you have that was so bad, anyway?”  He replied that lunch was bad, but that wasn’t why he was upset.  He admitted that he was, indeed, upset, but it was because of HER.  She sounded surprised when she said, “Me?  What did I do?”

“You made it clear today that –”  I didn’t hear the rest, either because someone said something (possibly Mr. W, possibly the waitress) or because his voice faded off as he turned his head.  I did hear her response.

“That’s not fair, Bob.  Now I’M upset.”  She sounded indignant.

“Why are YOU upset?” he asked, almost incredulously chuckling.

“Well, because!  You make me think that that’s all a man wants.”  There was some talk that sounded like he wanted to drop it, regretting bringing it up, but she insisted she wanted to talk about it.  She finally agreed to let it go, but then made another comment about it.

“I don’t understand you, and you don’t understand me,” he said calmly but loudly, just because he has no idea how loud he is.  She did, though, as she said something discreetly to him that I couldn’t hear.  He couldn’t hear, either.  “What?  I can’t hear you.  You’re gonna have to speak up.”

She paused, then said more audibly, “Never mind, let’s talk about this later.  Let’s talk about it when we’re back in the car, so you can actually hear me better.”  He agreed, and she went back to helping him cut meat, spear raw food on the fondue picks, and putting them in the pot for him.  She asked him if he’d like some seasoning on his food.

He said suddenly, putting both palms down firmly on the table in front of him, “All I know is, you are the absolute most beautiful thing I had ever –” and his voice faded off again out of my hearing.

She handled it by chuckling and saying, “Now we know who’s blind.”

“WHAT?”

“I said, ‘NOW WE KNOW WHO’S BLIND.‘  Haha.”

The rest of the dinner was pretty peaceful between them, talking mostly of the delicious sauces, food, and her nursing assignment at the hospital for class.  When they were ready to leave, she paid the check (he griped about how much tip she gave and she had to explain that this is 2009, servers make next to nothing and depend on tips to survive, and she ALWAYS tips 20%), handed him his cane, came around his side of the booth, helped him up, let him lean heavily on her shoulder as she helped him walk slowly out of the restaurant.

There’s something oddly impressive about my husband to me.  He can’t remember our first weekend together in the detail I’d like, in his youth he was more interested in ditching class to find chicks, booze and other illegal stuff than in paving the way toward college, but at times like just now, he makes me look at him in scholastic awe.

He laid sunning in his hammock in the back yard, immersed in the shadow of a book he held over his head.  I curled up atop two deeply cushioned patio chairs, shriveling away from the sun toasting my bare leg skin golden brown, reading a book recommended to me by a bloggy friend.  Downing a huge glass of my favorite white wine, Caymus Vineyards’ Conundrum, I attempted to keep my mind in the first chapter of The Rule of Four.  Written by a Princeton University graduate in collaboration with a Harvard University graduate, this book had a few more SAT words in it than my previous reads, the four volumes of Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight.

“What’s a mason?” I asked abruptly.

My husband touched his finger to his place in his book and looked up.  “Mason?  As in the secret society, or as in people who builds brick walls?”

“Oh,” I said, and read on.  And then later, “What’s an albatross?”

“An albatross is a large sea bird,” he said and went on to describe the long beak, its hunting patterns in the sea. 

I watched him patiently.  When he was done, I asked, “Is there a second definition?”

“Yeah,” he said without a beat.  “In Greek mythology an albatross is a large thing hung around a person’s neck, something heavy, that keeps him from being able to move easily, like a punishment…”  He gestured around his neck.

“Like a ball and chain?” I asked.

“Sort of.  Like a burden.  What’s the context?”

I read, ” ‘I have a peculiar middle name, which for parts of my childhood I carred like an albatross around my neck.’ ”

I love walking Wikipedias.

He said: It would never happen again.  It was doomed to die anyway.

She said: If she’d known then what she knows now, she would’ve never let it happen to begin with.

His friends said: Nothing’s happening!  Nothing’s happening!

He said: Everything’s wrong with her.

My friend said: You think it will recur if you look away, but it won’t; he doesn’t want it anymore.

They were all wrong.

And I am still more beautiful than that.

Having “discovered” John Mayer’s blog the other day through Mel’s blog, I read him and was intrigued, impressed, and tickled enough by who he is to want to give his songs a better listen.  Surprisingly, I found a new favorite song, “Back to You” (click for YouTube video).  It also sounds like something Mr. W would like, so I excitedly ran outside to the back yard to share the news with him, and to convince him to come in for a listen.

All I found outside was this:

…
Want a better look?

Oh my God, there’s a naked husband running around somewhere!!!

I’d expected my weight to go up a bit when I started hitting the weights again, but holy crapola, it went up almost 5 pounds this year!  And I’ve been hitting the gym consistently, too.  I am now terrified I’m gonna get into the next “tens” on the scale.  That is simply NOT acceptable. 

I assume what happened is that as I stopped working out, the weight didn’t go up significantly because more horrifically, my body was losing its heavier muscle and gaining lighter fat pounds.  My inches increased without the scale budging much.  Now that I’m putting the muscle back on, they’ll  need more time to start burning off the new fat, so I’ll be heavier with the increased fat and increased muscle until the proportions tip over the other way, and then my fat percentage will drop more quickly.

I haven’t been eating poorly, so all I can think to do is increase my cardio.

I’m also clinging desperately to the hope that I’m just bloated right now due to “that time.”  My boobs certainly feel tender, rounder and heavier.  (Sorry for the TMI, but that’s my hormone litmus test: grabbing my boobs.)  I hope the pounds will fall off the scale in another week or so.

***

But I would be SO HOT in Mississippi.  Where does your state rank in the Fattest States of 2008?

There was an article in a local Las Vegas newspaper that gives an in-depth look of how the prostitution “industry” in the area has been impacted by the plummeting economy. Normally during downturned economic times, the porn, gambling, drinking, and prostitution businesses increase as people turn to them as an escape. But THIS time, the porn industry took a 20%-30% decline in sales, AND mid-range prostitutes have had to add sex acts that they’d previously forbidden, AND lower their rates. (What is this world COMING to?!) Based on an interview of a mid-range prostitute, she used to charge $450 per date, and now has had to drop her rates to $300 per date, and make available things she previously would refuse to do for fear of losing more customers to the competition who WOULD do those acts and charge less, too. Despite that, her personal economics have suffered 50%, she claims, because used to make $6K a week and she’d save $1000 a week and spend the rest, but now she’s no longer able to put away the weekly $1K savings.

So at this point I’m going, “I don’t have $5K of expenses a week! If I had her job, I’d be filthy rich in a few months!” And I had to kick myself mentally.

The reporter then interviews a high-level call-girl and it turns out, she says the high-level people haven’t been impacted by the economy at all, because the wealthy clients who pay $2000 an hour STILL have enough money to keep paying $2000 an hour.

And then I wondered, what qualifies a girl into the high-level hooker classification? The interviewee is a former finance director. So I assume she’s smart. Maybe when one’s clientele are dignitaries, they really want an “escort” on their arm who could pull off the upper crust mingling, the political savvy and social refine to appear like, “I’m not a hooker. I’m Mr. Foreign Dignitary’s intelligent, rich and well-connected date and I just so happen to be extremely hot and unfathomably attracted to him.” And I thought, “I can act.” So I had to kick myself again.

The article’s interviews with lower-level prostitutes reveal that the typically substance-addicted bottom-dwellers of the profession’s heirarchy aren’t negatively impacted by the economy, either. They still get their usual $200-$300 a pop (har) rate, and business goes on as usual. It seems that a concern of the writer is that when mid-range prostitutes drop their rates to the area of low-range prostitutes, they also expose themselves to (har) a lower, scummier clientele base. This, coupled with the addition of sex acts that they really don’t want to do, make for an unpleasant career experience. The writer recommends that instead of compromising themselves ( :/ ), mid-range hookers should advertise more broadly and creatively, such as going online, placing internet ads, and starting online blogs.

And here again I think, this time aloud, “I already have a blog. How easy would it be for me to just convert into prostitution?” I received a snort from Mr. W.

The Santa Ana winds came back last night. Each new gust would start as distant rustling, like a forest of leaves moving around. Then, in seconds, it reaches us in a whoosh and roar and the house would rattle in response. A high-pitch whistling also accompanies the sounds, along with clunks, rattling, sounds of scraping as people’s outdoor belongings fly around the street as if caught up in the dance of a tornado. I stumbled down at 3am to rescue my little avocado tree, which had indeed fallen over at the front door. It’s just inside our front door now.

This pretty and bright morning proved a great day to not go to work. I left the house about 8:15a and drove almost 2 hours to Pasadena for my 10am appointment with Dentist Andy. I made sure to bring a box of assorted glamour cookies for him and his staff, because the crazy guy is working today on his 34th birthday. We hugged hello, chatted a bit about his recent vacation to our homeland in Asia, and made plans for a group brunch this weekend in one of his favorite restaurants. “Gotta warn you though, the food is really good, but pretty rich.”
I hesitated just a moment and then resolved the internal conflict with, “That’s okay, I’ll just run my 6 miles beforehand.”
Almost 20 minutes later while he was working on my teeth, he said, as if it just hit him, “Do you really run 6 miles?!”
I just said “Ah-hah” which is the best I could do since sharp things were in my mouth preventing me from explaining that I used to run way more than that and am working my way up to it again. Besides, I’ve run 5K twice last week; nothing says I can’t do a 10K by the weekend.

The 50+ mile drive back home was only an hour long, now that I was past the morning traffic rush. I think I tanned, sitting in the car that long in 86-degree sun. Now that I’m home, I’ve cut up some carrots, onions, mushrooms and beef to throw in the slow cooker, and was going to use red potatoes but realized that their normal storage spot on top of the fridge (thanks to Mr. W) has been conducive to sprouting. Very, very conducive. So now I’m online researching how toxic sprouted potatoes are, before I ruin an entire pot of stew. (I learn that the sprouts are poisonous, but not the potato itself. I’ll know I didn’t successfully cut out all the sprouts if Mr. W gets headache, nausea, fatigue, vomiting, abdominal pain, and diarrhea. Stay tuned! >:) )

My immediate future plans: get the stew going, hit the gym, come home when Mr. W arrives from work, have stew. If I can get all those things done I’d feel productive today.

Yesterday in the Southland it was a skin-burning 80+ degrees in the sun, so Mr. W wanted to visit a beach. We decided to explore a new one for us, San Clemente Beach. This is San Clemente Beach Pier.

This is the clock tower to the right of the pier, where the Amtrak train makes its scenic tour.

Of course when I took these cameraphone photos, I had to immediately send the first one to people in colder weather to make them jealous. Flat Coke texted back that her area’s upcoming weather prediction is 7 degrees with a chance of snow. Wow, what’s THAT like? We had lunch at the outdoor patio of a pier restaurant overlooking the sand, seagulls, and surfers, and my right side facing the sun was PAINFULLY heated.
Before we left, we heard the clanging of the railroad bells announcing the Surfliner’s approach.

What a pretty train ride this would be. Mr. W simply loved that this train is named so aptly.

And then we went home and watched TV all night. The end.

On Saturday, my mom’s morning phone call inviting us to lunch was a little unusual, because our normal visiting day is Sunday. She explained that she and my dad had just purchased a new TV for my grandmother and were at my grandmother’s home right now. The TV is a birthday present, and I’d already agreed to go in on it with my parents. So off we went on the looong drive. We passed Angel Stadium.

We passed a guy riding an odd but loud 3-wheeled bike of some sort.

In her next phone call, we found my mom’s ulterior motive. My dad couldn’t get both the video AND the sound of the DVD player to work, he was getting either one or the other, so they needed Mr. W. By the time we arrived, however, 2 hours later, my dad got everything working, so I just wrote my mom a check for half the cost of the TV and it was the most brainless present ever. Because my dad’s birthday is a few days away, my grandma treated us to lunch, and then a dessert coffee and tea cakes at a nearby French cafe.

We left and got detoured to childhood friend Sandy’s parents’ house, because Sandy was struggling to get their TV to work in conjunction with a satellite dish AND a cable box. She got them both hooked up, but her parents were pulling their hair out over annoying horizontal interference lines when they watched satellite. Mr. W redid some of the setup behind the TV and then found Animal Planet for them, which turns out is the only reason they’re paying $100/month for a cable box to begin with. They had sought for the channel unsuccessfully until Mr. W just stumbled upon it during a channel scroll. They were so grateful they kept us for dinner, with promises to treat us to a future dinner. It was fun hanging out with Sandy and her parents, it’d been awhile. I also found out that my mom’s former death scare is no longer an issue, but that she’d totally neglected to tell me that! Sandy’s dad, a physician, checked my mom’s tests and reports and apparently found nothing alarming on it. No wonder my mom seemed to have taken a mood 180 many months ago! “She didn’t TELL you?” Sandy mom asked in surprise. I’m sure she deliberately didn’t tell me so she could keep holding the guilt stuff over my head! Isn’t that such an Asian mom. Even last week she wrote me an email starting off with “I’m not sure how many more years I can remind you of your dad’s and your grandma’s birthdays…”

While hanging out with Sandy and her family, I also found out that her brother, my Dentist Andy’s, birthday is tomorrow. I have an appointment with him tomorrow! I can’t believe he’s working on his birthday. I just spoke to his office a little while ago and asked if they were going to do anything for him, because if they didn’t have anything planned I was going to bring in a little cake or something like that.

My mom also called yesterday to tell me that since my dad celebrates his birthday on the lunar calendar, it falls on a different day each other, and this year it happens to fall on his good friend’s birthday. This good friend is our realtor. I wonder if they’re gonna do anything to celebrate together.

This is probably the most boring post ever. Sorry. But lemme tell you about my Sunday!

I CAN post about my weekend along with photos, but this other thing is weighing more heavily (and uncomfortably), so I’ll blog it and get rid of its pressing nature.

I learned in a college psychology class that the motivation for suicide is commonly, if not mostly, selfish. “I’ll show you. I’m gonna kill myself and THEN you’ll all be sorry.” There’s all these superstitions or etiquette rules that deters one from speaking ill of the dead, but I’m gonna go ahead and spit some stuff out at the risk of sounding insensitive.

A coworker fairly recently, after her only child got married and moved out of the house, started renting out a room in her home to a man. She is a single mom and the extra income helped. Plus I believe she felt pretty alone in her home. I think the man was a stranger to her until she accepted him into her home, but either way, it doesn’t make this more f’ed up.

Last week she returned to her painstakingly put-together and decorated, remodeled home and ended up being barricaded out of her house the entire night as police documented her home as a possible crime scene. Her renter had killed himself in her home.

At first I of course thought, “Oh, no, how tragic!” but immediately after I thought, “He had to leave a mess before he died? For someone else to clean up? Why should this be her problem? And now she’ll have to disclose this suicide in all future real estate sales because it’s required by law and this’ll wreck her home’s value. Who the hell does that?! Why take down another person who’s doing you a favor to let you live in her home?!”

Other information came through that he was a gay man. I think the implication is that he may have been prone to being overdramatic, but I don’t think any official word has come down about his actual “logic” for suicide, if something like this could be logical.

I was just really ticked off for my coworker. She’s had to go through a lot in her life and she’s a genuinely good person; she recently spent a ton of money completely redoing Gym Trainee’s office as a surprise when Gym Trainee was off on vacation last week because she thought it’d be nice for Gym Trainee, who gets pretty screwed by administration around the building and gets kicked out of her offices a lot for someone else with squeakier wheels wanting an office space, to finally have a claimed space of her own, no matter how temporary it may be. Gym Trainee’s first day back is today and she was bowled over at all the personal touches and the amount of labor involved. That office is nicer than my entire house now, and the coworker made an appearance also as we all hung out in the office earlier, and never mentioned her home tragedy. I wanted to ask if she’s okay going into her home living alone now, whether she had to do physical cleanup alone, if there were something I could do, but of course it wasn’t the time or place during this morning’s happy occasion.

This is probably going to be the ugliest statement yet, but even dogs and cats run away into the wild to die, to avoid dying at home around loved ones.