cindy's world

A major flaw with people, or with myself more specifically, is that bad stuff could drop me 10 notches whereas good stuff largely go by unnoticed. I think it’s also a woman thing to fixate on a negative thing or flaw, cuz we want so badly to fix it or to will it into oblivion. Nag it into oblivion, for some. But I like to try to notice the good stuff, stop myself from dismissing it, and give the good the proper weight it deserves.

I was having that crappy evening yesterday, and then I called Mr. W, who proved why he’s worthy of my dedicating the rest of my life to. Even though I didn’t tell him much except that I was in a foul mood, he was nice about it, didn’t pry, and said with a smile in his voice that I need to get my nightly dose of comedy. I realized then that I hadn’t had the TV on all evening, which is a rarity for me. But by the lateness of the hour, I’d already missed my favorite sit com of Two and a Half Men, and Friends and Will and Grace wouldn’t be on for another hour or so. There was a little silence, and then he did the closest thing he could to giving me my show: he sang the theme song of Two and a Half Men to me. “Men men men men, manly men men men…” I laughed and felt better instantly.

After we hung up cuz it was past Mr. W’s bedtime, I got online and saw that James was on. I IMed him and we chatted online for a bit, when I realized I’d forgotten to eat dinner and had only a smoothie for lunch. I did have birthday cake for breakfast, though. James said that if I wanted to go out and grab a bite, that he would pause his work and keep me company. “I could use a beer,” he said. I’d been wanting to hang out for days, but Dwaine’s been MIA so I’d just been moping at home. James and I hadn’t seen each other forever; he’d gotten busy picking up a contracted job on top of his regular job, I got busy with random stuff and stopped Zaino-ing my car, and hence went our regular contact. We looked online for nearby restaurant-bars open late, and decided on BJ’s. I got there first, and waited for James at the bar.

I hadn’t sat by myself at a bar during late night for a long time. I’d forgotten about the regulars, the drunks, the overly-dressy women, who hang there at weeknights hoping to catch some male attention. I remember Sandy saying that it’s pretty sad when we see women all decked out to go to a restaurant bar cuz that means this is the highlight of their social life. I had thrown on a fitted t-shirt and shorts and despite being seriously underdressed for the ridiculous crowd, still turned a few male heads. When James showed up, we had a nice chat over a thin-crust appetizer pizza (me), glass of Framboise Lambic (me) which is a raspberry ale off tap, and he had a Hefeweizen off tap. And then he ordered and we split a Pizookie, BJ’s specialty giant cookie fresh-baked into a tin and topped with vanilla bean ice cream. James told me that he’d thought about me recently in a personal problem he’d encountered, and remembered what I’d told him some time ago about how to address and resolve uncomfortable issues. He said he was going to let it fester and go, but actually evaluated the situation from the perspective I’d shown him before, and he addressed it the way that, according to him, I’d “taught” him. And it completely worked out and appears to have resolved everything. It was really nice of him to give me credit for an interpersonal success he’d accomplished, and I felt special that something I’d said to him or demonstrated on him before had been taken seriously, remembered, and adopted.

Definitely much better than feeling sensitive about some lame 4 minute phone call.

In keeping with my now crappy mood and old diary-reading, here’s something raw from several years ago. I haven’t had writing like this for a long time. That’s a testament to the wonderfulness of Mr. Wonderful. But JUST IN CASE you “don’t care to know” what’s in my past writings, you don’t have to click on the “more” below. (I’m not bitter.)
(more…)

Turns out that I may have as frail an ego now as I did a decade and a half ago, altho I’d like to think that I’ve grown up, mellowed out, and grew more centered in myself.

An old friend and I had been musing last week over how we met and became friends 14 years ago, and neither of us could remember how we exactly traded digits. Well, in my diary excavation last nite, I turned a page and there it was, right there. Down to the exact detail. I called him last nite kinda excitedly to share the story with him, but first I asked whether he was busy. He said he’d just gotten out of the shower. So I told him to go ahead and finish whatever post-shower routine he has and call me back. He agreed, but never called me back. 20 minutes ago, I thought I’d call him again, and he picked up as he was driving home from work. He apologized for not calling me back last nite, saying he has a lot on his plate with his new job, and I casually dismissed it, but he insisted on the apology. So we’re good, right? I told him all excitedly and laughing that I found my old diary from high school, and he said, “REALLY.” I told him I found out exactly how we started talking. Apparently I’d played a really lame prank on him and after doing so and kinda upsetting him, I’d felt bad so we traded pager #s and started talking. I’d kept laughing at myself and how idiotic I was back then, and said I don’t know how or why he’d ever put up with me, because even if he reads this diary now, he’d never speak to me again. He asked amusedly, “So what are you saying, I should just never speak to you again?”
I said, “No, just that you should never read this diary.”
He said, “Why would I?”
“Oh, no reason, just that sometimes people are curious what’s said about them if they know they’re mentioned.”
“I guess I’m just not that curious of a person.”
I flipped a few more pages and saw another amusing couple of lines about him, so I read it to him and laughed. There was only road noise on the other side of the line. And then he said, rather flatly, “I thought I’m not supposed to know the contents of your diary.”
I was still in an obliviously jolly mood, so I said, “Oh, you’re not getting much, just a couple snippets.”
From his end, more road noise. Then, “That’s okay. I really don’t care to know what’s in there.”
I finally heard the coldness in his tone, and inside I started backing up. “I just thought it was funny and that you’d be interested because we had been talking the other week about how we got here and neither of us could remember, so…”
There was a looooot of silence. So much so that I thought his phone went thru a bad reception area. I finally heard him say something I couldn’t really make out, and I asked, “Were you talking this whole time?” thinking that the silence I heard was really missed conversation.
He replied, “No.” And then said something else that I couldn’t really make out, but his continued cold disinterested tone was unmistakeable.
I asked, hating the small voice I heard, “Do you want to go so you can concentrate on driving?” Giving him an out.
“I’m almost home, just another light and around the corner and I’m there.”
What does that mean? That it’s okay to keep talking because he won’t be driving for long? Or that he’s almost home so he’d like to go? Whatever he intended, I knew what I wanted. “Your phone’s been going in and out and I can’t really hear you well, so I’m just gonna talk to you later.”
“Okay. Talk to you later, Cindy.”
“Bye.”

Why do I let people do this to me?! Now I feel like shit. And I feel stupid.

I dug out my old handwritten diaries from back in the day. It’s weird cuz just this week alone, I’d thought back to certain things that happened decades ago, and wondered why they happened. For example, I remembered a high school crush hanging out with bridesmaid Vicky and me at this guy Pete’s apartment our freshman year in college, and I’d wondered why he was with us since he didn’t know Pete. I also wondered whether he’d sat in the front seat or the back seat as I’m sure I drove to Pete’s house. (Pete, btw, is its own drama that became something of a triangle involving Vicky. I’d also thought about him recently. My proudest sting operation involving three-way calling and call-waiting was in exposing Pete.) In randomly flipping in this diary, I read about that exact incident. And it was way more embarrassing than I’d expected. I cringed reading it and remembered that Dwaine had said we’re programmed to forget things for our own psychological protection. To show that I am a good sport, I’m gonna let you guys in on what a spazz I used to be back in the day. Some background; the crush and I were insanely close at that time, we’d talk for hours on end on a nightly basis. Vicky had met him a couple of times through me, but as far as I knew they barely qualified as acquaintances. Usually they did not say kind things about each other to me.

“…After this, Vicky and I went to Burger King. Sitting there, I got a page from [crush], ‘hi-sis’. I was all excited, then I thought, ‘What’d he MEAN, “sis”?!’ Then I got sad. Immediately after Vicky’s pager went off. [Crush] paged her ‘miss-you.’ I got really upset. She later went to a pay phone and called him. I threw an attitude and refused to talk to him tho he kept asking for me. I just stood and watched Vicky flirt w/him. I was really sad, yet I stubbornly refused to talk to him. She said [to him as a suggestion that] he could page me w/a buncha’ sorries, but I turned off my pager on the spot. And he never knew why I was upset @ him.”

The next day:
“This afternoon @ 12:48p, [crush] paged me, ‘5748801217.’ Then @ 12:56p, ‘1-177155-400.’ [I miss you] I couldn’t figure out what the 1st one was, so when I got it (@ 1:30 or so cuz I was at L.A. Fitness w/o my pager), I called and asked what it said. He said it said ‘stubborn.’ That was dating back to yesterday when I refused to talk to him. I kinda gave him the cold shoulder in the 3 mins I talked. He said he didn’t go to church today (yesterday Vicky tried to get him to go out w/us today, and he kept saying he has church till 3,no promises, he’ll ‘try’ to call, page, etc.) I called him back later and told him to come over. He kept asking why, I said no reason. He wouldn’t believe me, saying I always have a reason for everything, and I said I just wanted to see him. He came over. We sat around as I finished the last of my packing, and Vicky talked to Pete on the phone. [Crush] said he was gonna bring me a pic, but forgot it @ home. After awhile, we all went down to Pete’s apartment in Pomona and kicked it there for like 2 1/2, 3 hrs. At first, [crush] seemed kinda bored, but he loosened up and told some of his adventurous stories & everyone loved him (except Vicky, who flirts w/him in person but disses him behind his back). Then when we parted, he gave me a hug in front of Pete (Pete looked really surprised) and went to his car. My mom said to leave for LA today @ 5-6p, and we were giving Henry a ride, so I told him that, too. But since I didn’t want to leave (leave [crush], perhaps), I didn’t say anything and we didn’t leave Pete’s till 6p. [Crush] had an engagement too, he was supposed to take some Vivian Choe [a popular Chinese singer at the time] look-alike out for ice cream, and @ first, he kept looking @ his pager for time, and he sat, then stood, then sat, and didn’t leave either till she paged him again. Pete asked if he wanted to use the phone to call her, and he said ‘No, it’s all right.’ Heehee. Anyway, @ 7:32p, I was in the car on the way to LA, and I got this page: ‘44177-177155-400-999.’ I couldn’t read it, and Henry read it. It’s ‘will miss you-[crush].’ Then when I started writing this entry, he paged ‘Ring me’ @ 10:10p. I happily obliged and we talked till now, about 1 hour…”

This entire diary is scandalous with the different guys I gushed about on every page. And the way I behaved around these guys!!! I do remember the incident described in the diary entry above, and some years later I’d gotten back in touch with then-crush, and we’d caught up on people we knew in common, and then Vicky’s name came up. He said, “That girl never liked me. Hmmph.” But I had TOTALLY forgotten that APPARENTLY, they were FRIENDLY and it appears, even PAGED each other little affectionate pages! I should call him now and demand what the hell had been going on between him and Vicky.

But that’d be the old Cindy.

When I was a junior in high school, my English class crush told me, “I wish I were depressed.”
“Why?!”
“Because. It’s so artistic.”

Okay, so Sylvia Plath in her emotional cage and John Keats in his widower mourning wrote some pretty amazing stuff. Even my own poetry that bled out during the periods of deepest adolescent gloom were the most poignant and raw. But to wish for depression for the sake of artistic creation? Even if you’re getting a B in English, that’s not a worthwhile cause. B-, maybe. Depending on how Asian you and your parents are. Har.

Of the many voices I write with, two that I think are very prominent on this blog are 1) goofy tongue-in-cheek bordering on absurdity, and 2) a sort of struggling pain, a muffled cry trying to make sense of events and recover. In looking back I find that in 2005, I tried to stay optimistic while I struggled, then I went through a phase of euphoria when I broke free of previous emotional shackles, and then there was Mr. W whose appearance in my life added a calm stability that made most of my posts either dully reporting or if you’re lucky, somewhat anecdotally amusing.

I’ve read posts of others who are struggling, bleeding artists. The writing is beautiful and inspires me to want to write with the same honest emotion. But I don’t have any of those emotions and most of my prior wounds have healed. I *almost* want a little turmoil to add some flavor to my writing, except that I also recall a time when I’d thought all my posts were too depressing and wished for the emotional soundness to write the happy-go-lucky feel-good posts I’d read on other blogs at the time.

I think the moral is to embrace whatever state of mind you’re currently in, because it is human and beautiful in its own way. But I bet you’re thinking that the real moral is, I’m never satisfied, though I try. What color is YOUR grass?

*peeking over the fence into your yard*

Mr. W and I had our engagement photo shoot today. It was at a makeup/photography studio that also rents and sells wedding and special occasion clothing and accessories. I had so much fun! The hair/makeup lady is the woman I’d already booked my wedding day hair and makeup with for both myself and my bridesmaids. She looked at my face and said that she feels I’d look great in the newest trendy “funky” messy updo. What she did was reserve some hair in front for long side-split bangs, and the rest were knotted up in sections with the ends sticking out like a little fobby singer. She’d left a few thick curls on the bottom like in the Victorian days for the evening gown and bridal dress shots but put everything up for the traditional Chinese dress shots. The below isn’t a great depiction but it’s the best I can find online.

My mom and her good friend, our realtor’s wife, came directly from Tai Chi to watch us take photos. The photographer and makeup lady (who are husband and wife) were very sensitive to Asian parental interference. The makeup lady asked me discreetly whether having my mom in the photo studio with me during the photo shoot would distract or bother me. I told her it’s fine. Mr. W said that he saw both the photographer and makeup lady put their fingers to their lips, signaling to my mom and her friend that they are not to butt in or criticize. I think it went well, with minimal criticisms from my mom.

The first dress I put on was an incredible spaghetti strap corset-top ballerina dress I saw on a mannequin. It looked kinda like this but with vertical corset panels and pink accents. I asked if I could try that one, and the makeup lady said thoughtfully, “I think it will fit.” It fit to a never-before-experienced T. The waist was narrow enough for me but still accomodated my bust and usually the two are never right on the same outfit. The shoulder straps were the perfect length when usually they’d be too long since I have a short torso, and the side panel was high enough to go right under my armpits without cutting off and creating armpit fat like so many sleeveless tops do to me. My mom was even agape when I walked out with that dress on. Mr. W winked at me. “You’re the first to ever wear this one for a photo shoot,” the makeup lady said. With my odd proportions, I’ll bet that if it fits me this precisely (and the fabric and style did not have much give), it doesn’t fit many other people. Seeing that I was aglow in this dress, the photographer took extra photos of me wearing it. Mr. W was my accessory in a handsome classic black tux.

Next was the classic white wedding gown with a giant ornate train. My real gown does not have a train, so it’s nice to have these photos. This off-the-shoulder dress was wide for me in the middle, but they must’ve sensed it because they mostly had me standing with my side toward the camera, or sitting in this dress. It was ai’ight. The cut was something like this, but beaded and not corset-top. Mr. W decorated these poses by changing to a red bowtie and cummerbund.

The last outfit was the classic overly sequined traditional Chinese dress. It’s cut similar to this, but pink and beaded to death. It was SO beaded that not only can you not see fabric, but it hurt to put my arms down. If I hugged someone wearing that and pulled away kinda fast, the huggee would be shredded into ribbons. No one would ever be successfully raped wearing that dress. It took two tries to find this dress in a size that fit me. The first one that the makeup lady brought to me fit so baggily that the sleeveless part hung over my shoulders and looked like cap sleeves. I walked out and said that I think this dress is too loose. My mom looked at it and said, “It IS?” I pulled three inches of excess fabric out from my side. She said, “Oh. And I told her when she brought that dress out that it would be too small on you.” Of course she did. Mom looked at me again. “Did you lose weight?” she asked.
“No. I’m just not as fat as you always think I am.” My mom looked a little hurt yet thoughtful, but any further discussion was squelched as the makeup lady brought me the same dress in a smaller size and pulled the curtain closed, separating us. This second dress was skin tight, hugged every curve and had the leg slits cut scandalously high, but my mom kindly only said complimentary things as I walked out in it. Mr. W was already changed to a grey old-fashioned tux with a tail, looking pretty swanky. Together we looked like East meets West 1920s.

The photographer and makeup lady consistently complimented us throughout the shoot, telling us we’re naturals, that they got perfect shots in the first try and hence didn’t have to reshoot the same pose or take multiple shots, raving about my great smile and great teeth. I think my mom was impressed at the shots, too. The photographer kept running back to my mom and her friend and showing them the digital image he’d just taken on his camera, involving them enough to make the shoot interesting for them. I would’ve liked to take shots where my expressions were different, but they just kept telling me to do my teethy smile, which they loved. There was one pose where they had Mr. W on his knee offering me flowers and jewelry, and I jokingly did an eye-rolling “not good enough” expression with my hands on my hips, followed by a Southern belle swoon with the back of my right hand on my forehead as if he were offering me the prize of a lifetime, and everyone laughed, but the shot the photographer took was one of my peering over my shoulder at the jewelry box with a happy smile. Mr. W said that the guy’s used to taking photos that you’d want to pay extra to blow up and have on display, and goofy shots don’t sell in the same way. I guess that’s true; I wouldn’t blow up and frame a giant photo me looking like a greedy gold-digger to hang over the fireplace mantle of our new home, and it wouldn’t be an appropriate engagement photo for display at the wedding venue.

…or WOULDn’t it be just so ME to have untraditional goofy shots?!

I took the afternoon off on Friday and hit the gym pretty hard for a couple of hours. It was only my second workout of the week! Gym Trainee sprained both her ligament and tendon in her right foot, so she’s hobbling along unable to put weight on her foot. I’ve known for awhile now that any motivation I have for gymming, I’ve borrowed from her, and without her, I am less than uninspired. But my afternoon off wasn’t just for the pleasant task of toning up my sleeping muscles.

I had an appointment for my 6-month pap smear. Why’s it called a pap, anyway? That term makes the procedure sound way cuter than it actually is. It should be called the foreign-object-vaginal-insertion-and-extraction-by-stranger smear. Yeah. I think that’s pretty accurate. I had the same doctor who did my biopsy and LEEP procedure last year. As he peered in between my spread stirruped legs and spread speculumed vagina, he said, “You know, the human body is so amazing. Your cervix healed so beautifully from the LEEP procedure. In fact, it looks better now than it did before the procedure. They should make LEEPs a mandatory procedure for cosmetic reasons.”
I said, “But you guys would be the only ones who could see it.”
His head poked out from behind the sheet covering my thighs. “And we don’t count? Okay, I’m gonna call the mechanic out there and have him come in to admire this. ‘Hey, c’mere, look in here and check out my beautiful work!’ ”
“I think I saw a plumber outside when I came in. Let’s get him in here to admire your work, too.”
“Good idea, let’s get ’em all in here!”
What a goofball.
Despite his running an hour behind schedule, my portion of the visit was through in less than 5 minutes. That was the quickest pap smear I’d ever been involved in. He told me he’d email me the lab results in about a week. Let’s hope all the precancer cells and bad abnormal stuff really ARE gone…

(written earlier this morning; borrowing a coworker’s internet access to post)

It’s 9:05a and I’m already having a wonderful day! I started the morning in a great mood because the meeting with the management company last nite went extremely well. This is a godsent company, which is not only professional with unprecedented response time in my couple days of dealing with them, but the CEO I spoke with was pleasant, had all the answers I needed and wanted to hear, was chock-full of experience, and was extremely flexible. The company also had tremendous resources. They can strip my bathroom wallpaper, retexture and paint, clean, replace blinds, etc. at a fraction of the time and expense for me to do it myself. They already have an interested renter in my place! So they’ll do all the applications, pull credit reports and background records on potentials. If an eviction is necessary, they’ll handle all that, too! I don’t even have to be there. They’ll pay the monthly bills and send me accounting at the end of the month. And they’re cheaper than any other management company I’ve heard of. Woohoo!

When I finally got my outfit put together for work, I had a strange “first” for me. I looked strangely “too” skinny in the mirror. I don’t get it; I looked chunky naked, I could see gross fat, but when I put my clothes on, they fit too loosely to look good. So I had to change the shirt a few times to go with the narrow short skort I put on (which I couldn’t get into comfortably for a LONG time). The shirt I ended up wearing was fitted across the shoulders and chest, but loose from the ribs down. Really, really odd. But it’ll have to do, so I left the house. I hummed along with my MP3s playing in my car in the drive to work, had a decent drive without hitting my usual 27 straight red lights, and as I walked from the parking lot to the building, I was aware that the skort was so roomy around the waist that it was actually riding up and getting even shorter at the leg. Good thing there’s shorts under the skirt part, but from outside it still looks like I’m wearing an extremely short skirt that’s growing shorter with each step. Oh well, I’m still a bit late, so I keep walking. As I walked through the metal detectors and collected my purse at the other side, a suited tall gentleman in front of me, who had turned to face me, said, “Hello.”
Thinking it was someone I knew, like a DA or private attorney, I replied pleasantly, “Hi!” Then I looked up to realize that this isn’t someone I knew, altho he looked familiar so I’m sure he’s a regularly returning attorney. Probably in his late 30s or early 40s, well-dressed.
“You are so pretty,” he said discreetly to me. Is this sexual harassment? I looked down and realized I am indeed wearing my employee badge, so he knew he was talking to court personnel.
“Thanks!” I smiled at him trying not to look as taken aback as I felt, pulling my purse strap over my shoulder and walking around the detector to get to the employee elevator.
“You’re welcome. You are so pretty.”
“Thank you, you’ve made my day,” I said nicely.
“Well, have a very nice day,” he waved and was off.
It must be because I only put on 2 layers of my BareMinerals foundation instead of my usual 3 as per Anny’s advice on the phone last night. Wow, she was right. Haha.

Going into the employee elevator, I was stuck with a floating court reporter who had sought me out in a stalkerish way earlier in the week. On Monday or Tuesday, I accidentally ran into him in the crowded elevator after lunch, and he followed me out on my floor then waited outside in the employee hallway for me in a very obvious way as I dodged out into my court reporter’s office to stall and wait for him to go away. But he didn’t. And I turned the corner on my way back to see him and pretended not to see him but he blatantly called me out so I had to stand there and make uncomfortable smalltalk for 20 minutes as nobody came to rescue me and he refused to take my body language hints of leaning into my door trying to get inside and not inviting him and not divulging personal information despite his prying and not looking him in the eyes. My supervisor even walked by a couple times and I’d taken the opportunity to tell the reporter, “Why does he always catch me when I’m not working?!” but the reporter didn’t take that hint to let me get back to work, either. When I finally ended the conversation after blaming my judge for a stack of imaginary work, I returned to my desk to email my supervisor that we need a secret code word when I’m stuck in a conversation I didn’t want to be in. My supervisor wrote back that henceforth the “secret word” shall be, “May I ask you a question about the death penalty case that we’re doing?” and he’ll rescue me. If you asked why I didn’t tell this reporter guy that I’m engaged, I DID. He went back and harped on that but did not leave me alone. And this morning, he gabbed with me for a bit, and then called me from his courtroom 15 minutes later to finish gabbing. And then he asked me if I had any single Asian friends. Like I would subject any one I cared about to this boredom! In the words of my gym trainee, he’s a total dork. But luckily I was able to be honest when I told him that each Asian female I know or am related to is in a relationship currently or married. He went thru his dating resume (stable job, nice guy, has a condo…) and asked me to keep him in mind as he’s currently looking for a girlfriend-slash-relationship. I agreed. Uh, any single Asian chicks out there wanna date a tall Korean court reporter, stable job, not dangerous personality, appears to be pretty educated, non-fobby, 34 years old? Leave a comment.

I got a call from my realtor today. I’m not sure if I’ve ever said it on this blog, but I know I’ve said even recently in real life, that I hope the 2nd house’s 50%-down offer falls thru and they come crawling back to us but WE won’t be available anymore, and that’d serve them right for their underhanded dealings and lies.

So my realtor said that he got a call from another realtor from the same office of the one he’d dealt with in House #2, and this realtor said that the guy who’d offered 50% down hasn’t given them the documentation that he has the cash to back up his offer, and wanted to know if we were still interested in House #2. Are you freaking kidding me?! After they LIED to us about how if we go in at the price we offered, we’d be immediately accepted and then go into Escrow, and THEN when we did exactly as they said, we were jerked around for a week until our offer for House #1 expired altho House #2’s agent kept saying, “Tomorrow, you’ll get an answer tomorrow,” and tomorrow didn’t come for a week, and THEN they gave the house to someone else who didn’t even make an offer until ours sat and got stale that entire time?! F them! I was happy to learn our agent already told them off and asked how could his clients (us) trust them, after the experience we’d had with them? They have no credibility with us now. That agent said, “I understand, but you can trust me.” WHATEVER. They didn’t say they terminated the offer with the guy who offered 50% down. They just said he wasn’t showing documentation and that they were frustrated with him. I can totally see that they’d make us pull out of Escrow with House #1, lose our deposit there, then tell the 50% down guy that they have another buyer lined up to pressure him, and then he’d say, “Oh, sorry, here’s my 50% right here!” and they’d give the house to him AGAIN and screw us AGAIN. Forget that! It was not going to happen. I believe a touch of fate exists in househunting, and EVERYTHING points to House #1 as The House and House #2 as The Distractor. And we already learned that lesson. I doubt House #1 would take us back again if we left them hanging a second time, and I wouldn’t blame them. They’ve been nothing but patient and forthright with us, which is the exact opposite of the people involved in House #2.

Mr. W is mad about the whole thing cuz he still prefers House #2, but my message to House #2 is merely, “PPPPTTTTTTHHHHHHHH!!!” I hope they end up stuck on the market for a long time, and finally sell to someone who gives them like 5% down. HA!

On another good note, I found a freaking INCREDIBLE rental management company that I’m gonna retain to lease out my place. They’re affordable, they do all the work, have great references and experience, and even go above and beyond MY expectations and hopes in their services. They can find renters for my place way more quickly than I can. I have an appointment with them to come see my place tomorrow evening. OH, and they even have an in-house team who’ll do home repairs and renovations more inexpensively than my hiring an outside contractor to fix my ceiling (from the leaks earlier in the year) and get rid of my bathroom wallpaper. Just like that, all my rental headaches solved!

Well, I didn’t eat the giant chocolate chip cookie last nite. At about 11:30p I turned off the big screen satellite TV downstairs and went to watch the tiny static-y analog TV upstairs in my bedroom to remove myself from temptation. And promptly fell asleep. Disaster averted. Or rather, postponed.

What did I do with my first day of food freedom? The cupcake was still there in the courtroom when I walked in. I ignored it. For about an hour and a half. And then I thought about this poor loner cupcake sitting by itself, unwanted, and felt so bad for it that I ate it. But just as a public service. I did not enjoy it. I had instant reflux very quickly after the cupcake so I thought I’d even out the sugar with a cup of fresh coffee, no sugar, just unsweetened soy milk. And then I realized that coffee is acidic, and wondered what the hell I was doing to myself. I had a few animal crackers the remainder of the day and that’s it. When I got home I ate the giant chocolate chip cookie which was not that good, either. OH, and I was on a giant caffeine kick, all jittery and crazy the rest of the day from the coffee.

I think I’m over the junk food now.