A Treatise on Travel Toileting

I suffer from terminal wanderlust. I rather enjoy the whole experience of traveling, from the butt indent in the front seat of the car down to the hotel soaps. Travel often gives us the opportunity to see things from a different perspective. Removed from our natural environment, familiar things become foreign, the commonplace transforms into the extraordinary. Some of these experiences are thrilling, others, horrifying.

I had one such experience the morning before last, Christmas Eve Eve. There I sat, in the Hampton hotel bathroom, in the process of conducting a "transaction," if you take my meaning. Take my meaning, please. Don't make me say it. That would be icky. I don't like icky.

Yes, anyway, so in the process of a transaction, when I look up, and there I am, in the mirror, with a perfect view of myself sitting on the toilet. I did a double take, quickly looking away after the first pass. There was, after all, a person on the crapper in the mirror. Somehow, it didn't seem polite to watch. And yet, inexplicably, after a moment, I discovered that again, I was looking at myself in the mirror, and yes, I found that I still sat on the toilet. Then of course began my neurotic fantasizing (this happens often, as you should well know.) The following is a conversation between MC - Mirror Cyndi and TC - Toilet Cyndi.

MC: "I say, you there. Would you mind awfully averting your eyes? I seem to be in a most compromising position here." *laughs nervously. (For some reason MC speaks in an English accent. Don't ask me why, I don't know. I'm going to blame the part in Mary Poppins where she speaks to her reflection in the mirror.)
TC: "Oh, yes. So sorry. *Looks down at the linoleum floor, notices a cobweb in the corner gathering hair, looks back at the mirror.
MC: "Em, I do hate to be a bother, but you seem to be looking again and I believe I just requested that you.."
TC: "Goodness, yes. I am aren't I? My apologies." *Looks towards the tub and notices a rather curly dark hair in the corner of the tub. Turns back to the mirror "Eeew! DO YOU SEE THAT! THAT'S A PUBE!"
MC: *Narrowing eyes "Yes, I could see how that would be rather disturbing, nevertheless, here I sit, attempting to have a private moment, and you insist on harrying me continually. I would greatly appreciate it if you would kindly..."
TC: "Oh, of course. So sorry. I'll uh, Ill just look over here instead. *Looks at towel rack by the mirror, thinks she sees a dark spot on her face, looks back at the mirror and wipes at cheek.
MC: "Alright then you bloody tosser! This is utterly ridiculous! I'm at the end of my tether Miss! If you can't be bloody bothered to look somewhere else for five rat-arsed minutes, then I'll not be finishing this transaction."
TC: "No! No no! I'll be good! I promise! Please, just go ahead."
MC: "No, it's no use now. My concentration's been broken. You'll just have to try again tomorrow."
TC: "Aww. Come on! I had an extra-strong cup of hotel room coffee and everything. I need to GO!"
MC: "Perhaps you should have thought about that before you started leering at me like a some peep-eyed lout then shouldn't you?"
TC: "Crap."
MC: "I'm afraid not for you. Ah ha ha ha. I do believe I've made a funny."
TC: "Jerk."

Yes, travel provides one with a wealth of opportunities for rich and engaging conversations. With oneself. About toileting. And watching it. In the mirror.

Cyndi

PS. Merry Christmas y'all!

A Practical Husband's Guide to Rabid Meyerism Survival

It's not often that I feel sorry for men. Comparatively speaking, it seems like men have it easy in a plethora of ways. They don't have to wear make-up, their pants size comes in inches and is generally consistent from brand to brand, and they never have to take trip down the "Masculine Needs" aisle of the supermarket. In fact, such an aisle does not exist. The refrigerated beer section is about as close as it comes.

But as I've observed the whole Twilight phenomenon (if you don't know what I'm talking about, you have a bigger problem. Like the fact that you live under a rock and lack a social security number and a belly button) I've come to feel bad for the men of the world. Edward and his hunky vampire pals done gone and upped the ante. What's a man to do when his wife becomes a screeching, teenage vampire-obsessed, "Team Edward" t-shirt wearing lunatic?

Well stress no more dudes. I'm here to help a brotha out. Ever hear the saying, if you can't beat 'em, join em? I find it practically sound, and if you follow my easy steps, you'll be on your way to winning back your wife. So without further adieu, here is Cyndi's guide to everything you need to know to become an honorary Meyerific vampire.

1. Brooding - Now that you are a vampire, attitude is everything. You must remember, you are deep, you are soulful, you are conflicted. You are powerful, yet sensitive. Cunning, yet vulnerable. You want to impress your lady love but you must, no matter how tempting it is, MUST resist the urge to tear her throat out. Are you feeling conflicted yet? Is your soul torn with anguish? No? Perhaps you should practice in front of a mirror. Repeat after me. Brooding is all in the eyebrows.* Practice lowering those brows. Loooower. Good. Now draw them together, and remember, you are deep in thought, your inner struggle must be made manifest. Smiling of any kind is strictly forbidden. Who has time to smile? Certainly not an immortal. Earl the tax accountant perhaps. Earl the tax accountant who will lose his wife if he can't get his damnable eyebrows to sing with inner sorrow and pain.
(*Author's note: Not all eyebrows are created equal. A thick, bushy brow is a must for that extra-tormented brooding look. If your brows are sparse, you might consider filling them in with your wife's eyebrow pencil, or perhaps supplementing with the application of a little spirit gum and furs snipped from junior's teddy bear.)

2. Aggressive carnivore-ism - You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs, and you can't be a vampire without rending some flesh. It's the way of the world folks. However, in the Twilight series, one of the elements that distinguishes the Cullens from other blood-suckers is their oh-so-gentile refusal to gnaw on humans. Instead, the hunt down Bambi and his friends. Chances are you don't have a steady supply of deer, wildcats, or rabbits to lustily masticate in front of your wife, so you'll have to use your imagination.* Go ahead, go crazy, tear into a raw steak with your teeth. Be an animal. Growl! This is your marriage we're talking about here.
(*Author's note - Though this would seem to be a great opportunity to rid yourself of your wife's irritating Persian, hunting of household pets is generally to be avoided. No one is going to think you are a bad ass for taking a bite out of Muffy the hamster.)

3. Pasty/Sparkly/Cold skin - As a vampire, you are immortal, and have therefore done away with such archaic concepts as a circulatory system. Therefore you are pale, you are cold, you are marble. There are several good cosmetics on the market that can help you achieve that bloodless look. Any sort of commercially available foundation in Ivory (this is the industry equivalent of ass-that-has-never-seen-the-sun white) should suffice. But instead of pressed powder to set your look, opt for pure talcum powder, you know, the kind you puff sprinkle liberally onto a baby's bottom. But for those on a budget, a sparing application of certain household items is acceptable, including but not limited to: Desitin, powdered sugar, corn starch, or cream of tartar.
To achieve that ever-so-impressive sparkling skin in the sun look, you should keep a pot of Bonne Bell body glitter gel on hand at all times. A stealthy application of this behind the porta potty, and your gleaming skin will be the envy of all your wife's friends.
For the requisite cold and clammy feeling, wear a hoody at all times and keep a bottle of frozen water in your hoody pouch. You can keep your hands on it until it's time to give the wife a little accidental brush with your chilly fingers. She can the gasp in true Bella style and marvel at your frigid temperature.

4. Super fast movement - Vampires are fast and agile creatures. To be a vampire, you need to be fast as well, or at least give the illusion of being fast. To give the impression of extraordinary speed, I recommend wearing roller blades or skates to zip from room to room. These can be deftly hidden by wearing extra-long and baggy pants. (This manner of concealment provides the added benefit of helping you appear taller. All the better to loom ominously over the shoulder of your beloved while brooding. The brooding is vitally important people. I cannot emphasize this enough.) In addition, whispering a "whoosh" sound as you pass might help create the illusion of excessive speed.
*Author's note - I do not recommend hooking your belt to your brother Bubba's trailer hitch with fishing wire and having him take off down the street in third gear whenever you need to leave the room. Preliminary experiments with this method proved to be hazardous. And also somewhat inconvenient during hunting season when Bubba was not readily available.

5. Poofy vampire hair - When you are a vampire, even your hair must say, "Don't mess with me, I'm volatile, I'm broody, I cannot be tamed, and I'll cut you if must." In order to communicate this, your hair must achieve the proper verticality so it may properly look down its nose at smaller, less beautiful hair. In order to achieve this look, first, hang upside down from a sturdy curtain rod to get gravity working for you. Now that your hair is standing on end, apply a generous layer of shellac and dry thoroughly with a hair dryer. Not only will your hair be formidably tall and intimidating, it will also be waterproof - very important when you are brooding in the rain. And you should be.

6. Eyes that change colors - This one is a little harder to do. You can of course employ the use of colored contacts, and pop them in and out regular intervals if you wish. But I did say this was the practical guide to Meyerific vampire-ism, and such practices sound less than practical to me. Instead, I would recommend straining as if taking a bowel movement. This will force blood into the whites of your eyes. Due to the color principle of simultaneous contrast, your blue eyes will look greener against the red, your brown eyes blacker, and so on.

Following these simple tips, you too can be a moody, brooding, deer-eating conflicted hunk of man meat that your wife won't be able to keep her hands off of. When she's not nose-deep in a Meyer novel that is.

You're welcome.

Cyndi

Where Was Santa?

So Thanksgiving is over. It is now officially the Christmas season. And with Christmas comes Christmas songs. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE Christmas songs. I have CDs. I have records. I have radio stations that play Christmas songs 24 hours a day 7 days a week. But sometimes, a particular song gives me pause. I hear the lyrics and I begin to think (always dangerous). I begin to ruminate. Read my ruminations here.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. We've all heard it. This song has bothered me since kindergarten when I had to learn it for a presentation. Come the day before Christmas break, we were to sing this song (in a cafeteria that smelled vaguely of fish sticks) for a crowd of adoring parents at my elementary school. I consciously only mouthed the words as the song offended me. Why you ask? I'll tell you. Read the song lines that follow and see if you feel me.

'All of the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names, they never let poor Rudolph, join in any reindeer games...then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say Ho Ho Ho, Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?'

Okay, let's establish one thing right from the off. The other reindeer? Bitches. I can hear them now: 'Oh. My, gawd! Rudolph's nose is red! Eeew. We totally have to hate him! I mean, he sorta looks like us, but his nose! It's like...RED! It's like a zit or something. Sooo gross! We should make sure he doesn't play any reindeer games. Like 'eat from the trough,' or 'crap-some-pellets.' (I mean honestly, what kind of games would reindeer really play?)

So let me ask you folks, Are these really the kind of animals you want helping deliver your presents? Discriminatory bastards that freak out over a genetic mutation? Did Rudolph choose this deformity? I highly doubt it. Can you imagine if he'd had a goiter? A gimpy leg? The gout? I shudder to think.

And where the hell was Santa during all this anyway? Don't tell me he was too busy to intervene. Unless by "busy" you mean snoring with his fat ass wedged in a Lazyboy in front of a fire.

Here's his bitchy reindeer, starting a gangland style turf war out in the barn. Seconds away from threatening to buss a cap in Rudolph's deformed reindeer carcass. And there's poor Rudolph, watching, wishing, hoping, traumatized in the corner, only wanting to play some freakin reindeer games. And where is Santa? Don't tell me he's too busy checking lists. Please. I'm an admin people. Santa is the head of a multi-national corporation.

The man does not check his own lists. He has hired help for that, elf temps in short skirts, or perhaps Mrs. Clause. Do you honestly think that if a man was checking the list, it would be divided into naughty and nice? Mmmhmm. Perhaps naughty (as in meeow) and nice (=boring). ie. Librarians and academicians get no presents. Jerk.

So it gets a little foggy one Christmas Eve, and who do they look to? That's right. Old glowing zit-nose. Santa stumbles out, drunk as a skunk, as evidenced by his declaration of 'Ho! Ho! Ho!. Really, when's the last time someone greeted with you with "Ho Ho Ho!"? Other than drunk uncle Ralph at the last family Christmas party that is.

So here comes Santa, and asks Rudoplh to guide the sleigh (a safe bet considering Santa started hitting the eggnog before five pm that night). And what happens next? 'Then all the reindeer love him' (fickle dill weeds that they are). Oh now they love him. He wants to play some reindeer games, and its all bitch slaps and snide comments. Suddenly he's gonna make sure the old man doesn't steer them into the broad side of a barn, and it's all, "Oh Rudolph we love you!" Sure you do, you ignoble prigs.

But this doesn't even address the most insidious undertones of this little ditty. Check this out. What's so special about Rudolph? Why, he has a glowing nose, of course. Know what we call that in the tech field ladies and gents? Something that's sort of like the original only with an added functionality feature? Reindeer version 2.0. An upgrade. Follow my logic here. This next bit is important.

Guess how long it takes for a reindeer to span from birth do adulthood? Less than a year. So in my estimation, between the time that Santa figures out that a reindeer with a glowing red shnoz is a significant improvement over a bunch of catty game-playing skanks (even a raging lush can observe market trends) and the time when next Christmas rolls around is more than plenty to hook ole Rudolph up with a few smoking hottie reindeer cows (that's what they call them, I kid you not) and breed a super-race of present-hauling, nose-illuminating work horses, or deer, I guess.

And what do you suppose happens to the obsolete reindeer? Well lets indulge in a little conjecture, shall we? The facts are as follows. 1. Non nose-glowing reindeer are no longer needed. 2. Santa is a rather large man with a rather large appetite. 3. Chickens are not widely farmed at the North pole last time I checked. 4. There are a proliferation of excellent venison recipes available via Google. You do the math people.



Cyndi

All Nine Lives

A cat is considered geriatric at 12. Two Sox was eighteen when he finally passed away last week. I've seen those bumper stickers that say "Animals are People Too." Given, these bumper stickers are typically pasted on the backsides of cars that also have tatty sun bleached stuffed animals in the back window and woman wearing stretch pants and a chocolate frosting stained Garfield "I Hate Mondays" t-shirt wedged into the driver's seat. But I digress. Animals are people too, that is my point.

As strange as it may sound, I believe that. Anyone who's had a pet knows that pets have personality. And where there is personality, there are also personality quirks. Two Sox certainly had his share.

The Ambush: Two Sox simply knew, without question, that he was lord and master of our house growing up. Our insistence on introducing unworthy companions into his realm proved to be someone disconcerting to him, though he deigned to allow himself to play amusing games with his unworthy wards. One of these was "The Ambush." Two Sox often preferred to take his leisure on the dining room table. This locale had the added benefit of allowing him to observe the approach of his dim-witted canine co residents, who on occasion (being of course, far less intelligent than himself) would amuse themselves by doing laps around the table. This behavior, of course, providing Two Sox the opportunity to wait until said dog came racing around and perform a graceful leap onto their passing back. Typically this elicited a reaction rather similar to having lit the dog's ass on fire. Which, of course, would have been infinitely more satisfying, but it is rather hard to strike a match without the operation of an opposable thumb.

The Ambush 2: Being the well rounded and open minded individual that he was, Two Sox was not so shallow as to limit himself to hunting from the dining room table. Indeed, he wisely took advantage of seasonal opportunities as well. One method of doing this was to conceal himself amongst the foliage at the bottom of the Christmas tree. Hidden in the shadows afforded by the lower branches, Two Sox would then lay in wait for a passing dog, or foot, and erupt from his concealment in a gray streak of feline claws, teeth, and fury. Being also benevolent, as well as skilled, he typically allowed his quarry to escape after minor scratches an abrasions, such was his self control.

The Ambush 3: As was becoming a gentleman who knows the importance fealty, Two Sox allowed his lessers to display their gratitude for his presence with the occasional pet on the head, chin, or throat. In the case that said lessers became overzealous in their adorations, he was prepared to remind them of their station and permissions. On one such occasion, one subject by the name of Steve dared to pat his hind quarters. After a stern warning of tail flicking and pupil dialating glares, Two Sox, with his keen powers of observation, determined that his lesson had not been taken to heart. In a powerful and terrible gesture, he launched himself at Steve's arm and into Steve's cereal bowl, soiling Steve's trousers with both milk and shame.

The Refined Palate: An epicure of the highest order, Two Sox did not limit himself to canned cat food sup or dried pellets for sustenance. Indeed no. He was a cat who enjoyed something sweet to tempt the palate. Some of his favorites included a nibble of strawberry Pop-Tarts, Twizzlers, or the very occasional marshmallow. Such was the refinement of his tongue, that he preferred to take only one bite from each marshmallow, knowing of course (as all experts do) that after one bite has been taken, the flavor and texture of said marshmallow has been hopelessly compromised and must then be discarded in whatever manner one sees fit. Which is exactly what he did do, all across the living room carpet, where his minions would collect them and dispose of them, as is their station.

The Chatter: As a scholar of military stratagems, Two Sox was infinitely aware of the philosophy that one should keep one's friends close, but enemies closer. In order to do so, Two Sox developed a system of speaking in short mews and chatters (modified from his celebrated moth hunting techniques) that could be easily understood by those in his jurisdiction. Hearing his vocal chatter, the humans would then respond with gushy coos and greetings, instantly alerting him to their location within the domicile. Ingenious.


The Games: As I mentioned before, Two Sox was a great hunter, a strategist. Such skills, like claws, must be kept sharp, honed, and ready to kill. But how does one hone such skills when entrapped with lesser beings? Simple. War games. Through a series of subliminal prompts, Two Sox taught his subjects to help him hone these skills by pitching him ice cubes from the freezer. Upon hearing the freezer door open, Two Sox stealthily maneuvered himself into the sink, only his eyes above the rim, waiting for his practice quarry. Seeing him hunkered down, the subject would then toss the bit of ice slightly above his head, affording him the opportunity to spring into action, swatting his target with deadly accuracy. Through such preparations, he could be assured that when the time came, he would be ready and able to kill. Sudden death, served chilled.

The aliases: Wisely, an assassin of Two Sox's order had many aliases in order to keep his true identity a secret. Some of these included: Toxy, Soxy, Mr. Kitty, Mr. Sprinkles, Puddles, Soxo, and Keeton. It is believed that he survived as long as he did through the operation of his closely kept identity. A cat of mystery, to the very end.

We will miss you Soxy.

Cyndi

Why Is My Underwear So Comfortable?

One of the benefits of having a blog, and reading other blogs, is the handiness of disseminating information gained from a wealth of personal experience. As people, we can share with one another lessons learned in the operation of living. Vastly aided by Google, one can type in just about any search term and get at least one hit, no matter how obscure the subject matter. For example, Googling "How to deworm a camel," returned ten pages of results. Go ahead, try it. No matter what your question is, chances are somewhere, someone's been through it and sent their intellectual gainings out into the ether. It's a beautiful thing.

As a blogger, I feel it's my duty to disseminate some of the information I have learned over the years. So, read on, and benefit from my experience.

Fact: If you are suddenly stricken by how terribly comfortable your underwear is (are?), it is very likely that you have managed to put said underwear on inside out. Thus, the seams face outward, and you benefit from the smooth comfort of the underwear's exterior against your posterior. Why they are not designed this way in the first place, I do not understand.

And also, to wax tangential, what's with underwear having tags? Hanes, much to my delight, has gone a long way towards furthering the tagless campaign. But why on earth did it take so long for someone to figure this out? Honestly, you wear underwear (hopefully) roughly 23.5 hours a day (assuming you shower regularly). Would it not seem expedient to make all structural underwear design decisions based solely on comfort? Why on earth do you need a tag in your undies?

I can think of no real information so vitally important that it begs a minuscule cloth note sewn straight to the fabric that covers your ass. "These underwear were made by Victoria's Secret!" Yes, thank you. I was aware of that, seeing as I purchased them there. "Machine wash and tumble dry with delicates!" Why thank you for telling me that. My personal plan for cleaning this twelve dollar and fifty sent pair of underwear was to spit on them and beat them with a stick.

No. There is no need for tags. Besides, they tickle.

There you are, trying to take notes, and all you can think about is the tickling right above your hiney. You think perhaps it might be a hair (head hair, not bum hair. eeew.) and you start to freak out. You obsess until you have to excuse yourself from the meeting and go to the bathroom and check, only to find it's the tag. Then you have to go to your desk and get the scissors and take them back to the bathroom and perform minor surgery on your unmentionables in the stall. Then your coworkers think you're a weirdo when they come in for their morning pee and hear you snipping away at something. "What is she doing with scissors in there?" they think. Then they look at you funny when you come back into the meeting fifteen minutes later. They know you've gone to the bathroom, and they know you've taken fifteen minutes. You know what they think you were doing. So what do you say? "No no no, it was nothing like that. I was just cutting a tag out of my underwear." FAIL.

So this has never happened to you? Well then, for my friends who Google "why is my underwear so comfortable?," this is for you.

Happy Birthday Ma

Today is my Mom's birthday. Happy Birthday Ma! My Dad's birthday was October 5th. Happy late birthday Daddy! I am writing this post in their honor, though embarrassing them in a semi-public forum (okay, Mom and Dad are the only ones who read my swill anyway) may not be their idea of "honor." What can I say, that's just the sort of thoughtful daughter I am.

Parentage is a interesting thing. One of the joys of step-parenting has been to watch the boys and pick out all the various little aspects of my husband divided amongst them. I suppose we are all strange hybrid composites of the stuff that makes us (kindly donated by mom and dad) and the various other spiritual filaments we pick up from our environment. So in this post, I will attempt to dissect myself (gruesomely apropos for the season, no?) and see what of my parentage spills out.

There shall be two categories (categories, like lists and check boxes soothe me. Sue me.) "Characteristic" - trait as manifested in Cyndi, and "Parent at Fault" - parent at fault for said manifested trait.

Characteristic - I am a klutz (as has been multiply elucidated by my many self-inflicted-injury posts, and more recently, in a heretofore undocumented event resulting in a broken toe.)
PAF - This one is going to rest firmly with my Ma, who over the years has regaled us all with both story and working example of various impossible slips, falls, injuries and accidents. IE, a black eye from opening a cabinet door into her face. Yes, this is absolutely something I would also do, and likely will do at some point in the future. My father, graceful and lithe, was an athlete of the first order and lept like a gazelle over high jump bars throughout high school and college. Were I to attempt anything of the sort, it would likely look like something like a heifer getting a running start to jump a barbed-wire fence. The result would be all flailing hooves, pained mooing, blood, and the always inevitable shame.

C: I am lurpy. The aforementioned lurpiness is the result of my odd shape combined with above-average height.
PAF: Actually, this one goes to both parents. Like my father, I am tall and have slender wrists and ankles. My father and my brothers have often bemoaned the fact that their delicate wrists could be fractured with only a delicate thwap of a rolled up newspaper. I don't mind the wrists so much. Being a girl this presents me with less of a problem. But combine gangly height with squat-in-the-potato-field-and-drop-a-kid German birthing hips (thanks Ma), and you get a rather odd combination that baffles many a sales girl when shopping for jeans. Thus the ensuing "lurp" factor.

C: I am a book nerd. When I don't have my nose buried in a book, I am usually rattling on to some uninterested party about a book I read, recommending several books I think they should read, or detailing the many uses of books in decorating and furniture propping.
PAF: This one is going to my Ma. My mom is an avid reader and kept me in books from the time I was old enough to begin reading. Not surprisingly, the first thing I read was food-related, the back of a package of ham. I have many fond memories of visiting used book shops with her and lugging home a treasure trove of dusty tomes that enabled me to retreat solidly into geekdom.


C: I am a snark. Snark: (according to the urban dictionary, source of all pertinent knowledge for my generation) "Combination of "snide" and "remark". Sarcastic comment(s). Also snarky (adj.) and snarkily (adv." You may or may not have picked up on this already, since you are reading my blog. Hopefully leaning towards may. I lay it on pretty thick here people.
PAF: This one is all Dad. My father is a deceptively quiet man, but behind this placid exterior glows a hotbed of pure liquid snark. Evidence of this can be found in any Richards home video where in my father's voice can be heard firing off the occasional quip from behind the camera. Perhaps the most famous being his remark about a lady in double-wide stretch pants lumbering across the street to the hospital - "Whoa. There goes a sick patient," he snarks. Like me, my Dad would walk on his lips through a bed of hot coals before knowingly hurting anyone's feelings, but every now and then, one of those snide little buggers leaks out.

So here's to parents! I will be forever grateful for mine for putting up with me for all these years and loving me even when I'm a dork (which is almost always).

Cyndi

Miss Fix It

This is kind of a long story, and I may or may not switch from first to third person in the telling. Strongly leaning towards may. Turn back now if you wish.


It's not really a good idea to leave me alone for too long. One of two things typically happens. 1. I think too much. (After such occasions, one could likely find me weirded out by the possibility that Osama Bin Laden's goat may be harboring plots to overthrow our agricultural economy.) 2. I try to fix things. Believe it or not, it's the second of these options that proves more dangerous.

Yesterday, I came home from a leisurely lunch and went upstairs to switch a load of laundry over. The washer and dryer are the front-opening kind, and whoever set them up put them in backwards, meaning that the front loading doors open into eachother and one must maneuver around them to wrangle a load from the washer into the dryer. It has bothered me for months now, like the sort of low frequency hum that you quietly ignore until one day you tote a gun off to the local grocery store and shoot a checker for giving you plastic instead of paper. You know. That sort of thing.

So yesterday, having an afternoon to myself, I decided that I'd had it. A few days previous I'd been watching one of my home improvement shows, and the hapless host put an idea into my diseased little brain when he switched the hinges on a refrigerator door so it would open the opposite way. "Ahh!" Cyndi says to herself, "that didn't look too hard. I'll just take the doors off and switch the hinges. It will be easy. Probably it will only take a few minutes."

Twenty five minutes later, sweating and cursing (minimally of course, and only in my head), I had the dryer door off and found that even with all the might of my scrawny arm, I COULD NOT get the screw to go into the hole on the opposite side of the dryer opening. I begged, I pleaded, I threatened, I tossed around the word "scrapyard." But alas. No progress. (Switching into third person present tense mode in 3...2...1)

"That's it!" Cyndi shouts inanely. "I didn't want to do this, but you give me no choice. I'm going to go rent a drill!" Cyndi watches the dryer carefully for any sign of dogged submissiveness, but finding none, stomps downstairs to get her shoes and car keys. "You'll be sorry!" she shouts over her should as she clicks out of the front door.

(Fast forward 15 minutes.) Cyndi stands at the rental counter of the Home Depot. Buck the rental clerk blinks at the blond in shiny black heels and skirt standing in front of him.

"Hep you m'am?"

"Why yes. I need a drill," Cyndi says, trying to sound confident and knowing.

"Why?"

"Erm, why?" Cyndi stammers. The little voice in her head begins to yap at her, 'If you tell him what you need it for, he won't give it to you. You'll feel stupid. Be vague, be breezy, be confident.'

"Oh, just a couple little projects, you know." Cyndi laughs in what she hopes is a breezy manner.

Buck raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

'You blew it,' says the little voice, 'you call that breezy? Psh.'

"Oh, this and that," Cyndi answers uncertainly.

"Well yer gonna have to give me some kind of idea of what yer doing else I can't give you the right tool."

"Oh, I just need to hang a few pictures, switch a door around, that sort of thing."

"Door? What kinda door?" Buck asks, preternaturally sharp now, formerly dull eyes taking on the glassy ferret-like sheen universal to used car salesmen.

"Washer and dryer." Cyndi mumbles.

"Washer and dryer! Waaaale. You caint use no drill fer that. You'll jest strip out the screws. Only it take ya 2 seconds instead of a minute. Trust me missy. I been usin these tools for 40 years now. You have to use a screwdriver."

"I tried that. The screw wouldn't go in."

Buck flicks a quick glance at Cyndi's arm, the problem already decided and quickly settling over his features in a mask of practiced skepticism. "Well you probably jest wasn't gettin enough power behind it. Or you have the wrong kind of screwdriver. What kind was you using?"

Frantically, Cyndi's mind swims. 'What is the name of that stupid thing?' she questions inwardly. The little voice in her head shrugs deferentially. 'Phillips' has miraculously vanished from the memory banks, and instead, "The one with the little crossy things at the top," is all that leaks out. Cyndi grimaces inwardly, feeling an utter moron.

"That's called a Phillips m'am. What size was it?"

"Uh, I dunno. Five or six inches long I guess."

Buck laughs his patented "Ain't it adorable when women try to fix things" chuckle. "No m'am. What size was the head?"

"Oh well, yes. Um. Not too big, about like this" Cyndi says, pinching her fingers and holding them up to her eye to indicate a quarter inch, simultaneously glancing around the shop for a tool to jam in her ear to end the mortification of the moment.

Buck sighs. "You come on back with me now and I'll show ya some thangs." He lumbers to a stock room behind the desk, Cyndi clicks after him, heels echoing mockingly in the industrial shed filled with steel and sawdust.

With a thick-fingered grease coated hand, Buck scrapes up a handful of screws.

"Now see, this here is a sheet metal screw," Buck says, poking at the flinty lot with a blunted black rimmed nail, "It's self-tapping, so ya don't hafta knock a hole in first. He counts out four screws and offers them. "You go head and put these in yer purse."

"Er, thanks."

"With the right screwdriver, these'll go right in fer ya. Guarantee it. Lemme show you what kind screwdriver you need." Buck clomps off into the store proper with Cyndi tagging along. He pauses by the screwdrivers and selects one from the bottom shelf.

"This one here is a good deal. It's got two sizes of flat and Phillips," he says, overemphasizing the word, doing his best to educate, "heads. And when ya take them out, it will double as a ratchet. You tell yer husband about that? Kay?"

"Sure. Thanks," Cyndi says, resisting the urge to kick him in the shin and claim a spasm.

"Now, that oughta do ya. Good luck." Buck ambles away back toward the rental section. Cyndi checks out and flies home with her new prize.

(Fast forward 20 minutes)

With considerably less sweating and cursing, Cyndi screws the last screw into the dryer door, now happily installed on the opposite side, opening away from the washer. "Hmm," she says happily, "I guess Buck did know what he was talking about."

She pushes the door closed triumphantly. It hits on something and flies back open. She tries again to the same result. "What the..." Cyndi opens the door and discovers she has installed it upside down.

"Oh for the love!" She shouts ineffectually, realizing that she has to switch the hinges to the other side of the door and reinstall. She opens the door and examines the hinges to find all the screw heads are stripped out and cannot be removed. "Some moron must used a drill on em," Buck comments from inside Cyndi's head.

The only option left is to take the door off and put it back in in its original backward position. Cyndi takes the door off again and re-installs it a third time, only this time the door requires and extra push in order to close.

So all that, and yours truly managed only to make to dryer door close less smoothly than it had in the past. Yeah. I rock. Grocery checkers beware.

-Cyndi

The Willful Cowlick

Naturally, I have coarse brown hair. It's been this way since I was a kid. My regular routine of bleaching, blow-drying, flat-ironing, etc. seems to have little or no effect on the texture. Simply and stubbornly, it is what it is. Most the time it cooperates, though over the years it has informed me in no uncertain terms that it will not stand for any foofy type of up-do. Due to an unfortunate accident of genetics resulting in ears that jut away from my head at a roughly 80 degree angle, I'm okay with the no updo thing. Though I have oft suspected that allowing my ears out of their padded hair prison would give me special sonar powers. Or at least the ability to hear dog whistles.

But for the most part, I don't mind terribly. That is except when new hairs grow in exactly where my hair parts. You may not know this, but coarse hair grows vertically until passes the 3 inch mark. Only then does it consider laying down. When my hair grows, I am rewarded with a plethora of defiant brown (sometimes gray- eek!) spikes that shoot from the top of my head like so many bamboo shoots. And they will. not. lay. down.

I've tried every type of "product" known to man (or woman). Sprays, gels, waxes, pomades. Nothing works for more than 30 seconds. Goop on, plaster it down, and DOING! Back up it springs, only perhaps a little shinier, straighter, stiffer, etc. Short of scraping engine grease from a carburetor (somehow I thought this would only create a different issue), I've done everything I could think of.

Why not pluck them? - you ask. Ahh! If it were only that simple. It would seem that plucking one only creates room for the hair next door, who previously lay down for whatever reason, to stand tall and find its place in the sun. Or florescent bathroom lights, as the case may be.

They also catch the light of any given room fabulously, and often people talking to me will take a quick glance at the top of my head. "Yes," I say, "I know they're there. But could you pretend you don't see them? Recognition only serves to swell their egos." At which point said person usually walks away.

Not that I blame them.

-Cyndi

Can you guess what's next?

The pieces of the puzzle are as follows:

A. Items on Cyndi's desk.
-One Letter of Agency
-One Service Order Agreement
-One styrofoam cup containing paperclips
-One styrofoam cup containing Coke and ice

B. Task at hand
-Letter of agency must be signed, faxed, paper-clipped to Service Order Agreement, and filed.

So have you guessed what happens next?

If you guessed, "Cyndi shoves her hand in the styrofoam cup of coke looking for a paperclip and is so shocked that she jerks it out and tips the cup over, ruining the documents...You are CORRECT!

You win a cookie. It's in my purse. Feel free to drop by and grab it. But you may have to fight me for it. Fair warning has been given.

-Cyndi

Calculations - Dieting the Cyndi Way

Latte - 130 calories

Asiago bagel - 360 calories

Vegetable Cream Cheese - 120 calories

Grand total for Cyndi's breakfast - 610 calories

Calories burned in one hour while sitting - 88

Hours for Cyndi to burn her breakfast while stationed like a lump at her desk - 6.93

Licking the cream cheese off of the remaining half of your bagel and throwing the rest away to save 180 calories so you can eat the chocolate bar in your desk without guilt- Priceless.

It's Haunted Alright...

by stupid people. Allow me to explain.

On Saturday, Andy and I stayed at a reportedly haunted lodge out in Utah's ski country. I have whims like this, on occasion. A couple weeks ago I stumbled across a Haunted Places in Utah site. I sent the link to Andy, we peeked at a couple places, found a little lodge that was cute, and decided to go. My decision to do so was vastly aided by several factors, which I shall present in list-like form, as it pleases my diseased little brain.

1. The Lodge was running a special as it is off season for skiing (why does that word never look right?). Decent price, cute countrified room, home-cooked breakfast included. So far, so good.

2. The Lodge is located up a beautiful canyon and promises an outdoor hot-tub and sauna with a beautiful view. Also good.

3. The lodge promises an excellent menu of higher end noshing. Being the fat gir erm, foodie that I am, this is always a significant aspect in my decision making process.

4. The Lodge is supposed to be relatively empty this time of year, promising one's fill of solitude and serenity. I can always use a little of each - so cool, right?

5. Lodge is haunted. Also very very cool.

So I booked the room, and off we went. It all started well enough, the drive up the canyon was lovely. Andy's company is always immensely enjoyable. We were having a grand old time joking about the various ways we might be ghosted in the middle of the night.

Then we pull up to the lodge. Which looks nothing as grand as the photos they have posted on the website. There are several more cars parked outside than I had expected. I begin to feel dubious.

"This may not be very cool." I say, suddenly feeling the need to warn Andy.

"I'm sure it will be great," he counters, ever my more optimistic half.

I feel my eyebrows bunch. Something is weird. But we go in anyway and are greeted promptly at the door by Dirk-the-not-so-bright lodge dude and a barely controlled chaos of employees shouting and rushing every which way.

"Sorry folks, we're closed for a wedding," he bellows.

"Uh, what?"

"Closed. We're closed. We have a wedding here tonight."

"Oh, that's odd. We have reservations to stay here tonight," Andy informs him.

"Oh yeah?" Dirk consults a pencil-scribbled ledger. "Oh, I guess you do. Here, fill this out." He shoves a piece of paper towards Andy.

"So is the restaurant closed as well?" Andy inquires politely, filling out the slip. He knows I am fuming, irritated at the unwelcoming greeting, more irritated that my hopes of dinner are in peril, more than a little peeved that no one bothered to inform me of the wedding when I made the reservation.

"Yep. But I think the reception is gonna have a buffet line. You guys should just crash and grab some grub." He chuckles.

I narrow my eyes at his back as he turns away, Andy quietly asks if I want to push it out a couple weeks. I tell him no, that the room is non-refundable and we are already here. My discontent is quickly doubling and redoubling.

Another minion tells us he will take us to the room. He leads us through the dining room (where the reception will be held) up the stairs to the room. I am now panicky as I realize if we want to come and go at all that night, we will do so through some one's wedding reception. Tables are also set out on the patio, so unless I want to prance amongst the wedding guests in my bathing suit, sauna-ing and hot-tubbing are also out.

In the hall we edge past a group of women spilling from the nearby room, ironing some component of the bridal gown.

Our room at the end of the hall is small, wood paneled, and has hideous doilies tucked under animal themed lamps. It also smells. Minion points out that we have a view of the patio and can spy in the wedding guests if we want. His suggestion is the creepiest thing about the place as of yet. Still the view of aspens and pine trees beyond is nice. Minion leaves, I frown.

"Is it so unreasonable to expect that someone should have told me that they were hosting a wedding on this particular weekend?" I ask Andy. He agrees, they should have told us. We decide we will drive further up the canyon for an early dinner and then return before the reception begins and hole up in our room. We find a place to eat and are the only ones there, which is nice. The cook informs me he doesn't trust the steak, and asks if could he interest me in a burger instead.

"Fine," I say. It's not. I can't shake my disappointment. Still it's cloudy and beautiful in the canyon. It looks like rain and I am here with Andy, who is enjoying himself.

The storm begins in earnest as we arrive back at the Lodge. The parking lot and surrounding road is choked with cars. We elbow our way through a clot of wedding guests to get to the stairs. People look at us strangely. "Are they supposed the be here?" Someone whispers behind us. "Look, they're going up stairs," a concerned female points out. "Just let them go," her male companion comments. "They're probably just lost."

I fight an urge to cartwheel down the stairs ninja-style and kick them in the head. Probably best as I can't cartwheel and I don't have any ninja moves. I'd likely trip and fall on Aunt Edna, killing her instantly. Maybe then this place really would be haunted. I smirk at the thought then promptly censure myself. I have a formidable mean streak when I'm feeling put out and anxious.

We settle onto the bed and read as it begins to pour. I finally begin to unwind. I open the window and watch the rain slant onto the tables, soaking the cloths, ruining the flowers. Concerned female shrieks and people scampering to drag in the decorations. I shouldn't be pleased but I am. A wolf howls in the distance. Andy and I grin at each other. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all. The night is lovely, the rain loud enough to compete with the revelers from the reception. I have a nagging feeling they will all still be here tomorrow morning, and I am correct.

The last part of the reservation worth salvaging, the promised breakfast with our bed, already looks foreboding. As we ready ourselves for the morning we can see from our window that the tables on the patio, still sparkling with last night's rain, are clogged with people. We pack up and decide to do a drive-by as we turn in our room key. The restaurant is stuffed with people, there is not an open table to be had. We elect not to wait, and leave.

It was a lovely night, nevertheless, but not through any fault or effort of the people who run the lodge. By accident and happenstance. And was not, sadly, haunted by anything other regular ordinary people. Methinks I may need to go leave a couple reviews.

-Cyndi

Aaaaargh!

Wenches and Maties! Today be International Talk Like a Pirate Day! I will have ye know that I, Surly Cyndi Longshanks, have single-handedly instigated a celebration of this holiday in the Tech department where I be employed as a meeting wench. Here be the invitation I be sending out earlier this week:

Ahoy there!

This be Surly Cyndi Longshanks the Meeting Wench. Killer Kent, Master and Chief of the S.S. SOS Underbelly, have asked me to inform ye that this Friday be International Talk Like Pirate Day. In accordance with the Pirate Code, we be having a luncheon of hearty vittles on Friday this, at high noon, in the 4^th flaarr executive baarrd room.

Moreover, we be havin’ a contest to see which matey can invent the best pirate-like name for themself and their position here on the S.S. SOS. The winners shall be richly rewarded with gifts of booty and swag. All ye must do is email yer pirate name to meself, Longshanks the Meeting Wench, by 9 o clock on the marning of Friday. I’ll then be sendin the list around fer the votin. We’ll be announcing the winners o’er our sup of hearty pirate nosh on Friday.

Here be some sample names to tickle yer wee brains:

Burly Bill, Master of the Swaghold

Greenbeard Morrison, Keeper of the Pirate Code

Heartless Hardy, Master Booty Buccaneer

Lynn the Lenient Lamprey, Crew Chief and Plank Sack Master

On Friday, the wearin of eye patches is to be encouraged, as is the talking pirate-like fer the day (unless of carse ye be talkin to a customer or other externally-facin matey. Be a pirate, but don’t be a daft one.)

Killer Kent would be appreciatin yer participation in this crew buildin experience. See ye thar!

And lo! Today there be blokes in pirate-like costumes, shenanigans, tom-foolery and many other things of the like. Not to mention a feast featuring several kinds o' meat on a stick. Tis a pirate's dream! And I be takin credit fer all of it.

I'll post pictures of the festivities for ye soon!


Yaaaarrrs,
Surly Cyndi Longshanks, Meeting Wench

Happiness Is...

1. Remembering there is a half eaten bag of Fritos and stale Milk Duds in your file cabinet when you are starving.

2. Tripping on your stupid rubber soled heels then realizing there is no one there to witness it.

3. Spilling your latte on your lap when you're wearing a dark brown skirt.

4. Being me, today.

Hair Conversations with Mary

I have a cute little hair stylist. Mary, my coiffure expert, is a 19 year old advanced student at the Dallas Roberts academy. She makes me almost feel young again as she chats with me about her dating life, her room-mates, all the things that I am many years beyond now. It takes about 4 hours, start to finish, for her to do my hair. But she does a fabulous job, even if she does insist on giving me the 'Utah Poof,' (see picture) so I always go back.

I sat fidgeting in the chair this past Saturday, my butt going numb at about the 100th foil. For the 78th time I picked a fallen hair (my own) off my black smock and with waggling fingers released it to the hair laden salon floor. Mary giggled.

"You don't like hair, do you?" She asked. I shuddered.

"I HATE hair. HATE it."

"Why?"

"It's a textural thing."

"Textural?"

"Yeah. Like when it's wet and gets stuck to your fingers, or when you can it tickling down the back of your shirt, or when..."

"When you pull one out of your mouth?" Mary supplied helpfully.

I wretched and swallowed excess spit. "Yes. Like that."

"That's weird. It's never bothered me."

"Yeah, I'm weird. I have a few things like that."

"Like what?"

"Wet bread. Like when they make a sandwich at Subway and they put the tomatoes next to the bread and it gets all soggy." Cyndi shudders again.

"What else?"

"Well for icky mouth-feel I'd have to say pudding, yogurt, peanut butter, jumbo marshmallows. For tactile ickyness it would be cardboard, dishwater with floaty things, and dryer lint." Cyndi shakes her hands to rid them of the phantom dishwater floaties they're now feeling. Mary smiles.

"Yeah, I know. I'm a weirdo." I reply.

"No!" She tries to assure me exuberantly. "You're just, you're just..."

"Crazy?"

"Nuh uh! No! You're totally not!"

"It's okay. Really. I know I'm warped."

She sighs and fiddles with a foil, clearly searching for something she can say to make me feel better. "I don't like ketchup. That's weird, right?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess so," I reply shifting cheeks.

"This is going to look hot," she says changing the subject.

"Sweet," I reply.

I'm a freak.


-Cyndi

For Grandpa

My wonderful, kind, and heroic Grandpa, Stephen John Richards, passed away the Sunday before last. He was a beautiful man and left his grandchildren with many lovely memories. Below is merely a few of them, as told by by my brother Stevie, his name sake, and me.

Cyndi:
It's funny, the things one remembers. For me, it's the sheets on the bed I occupied whenever we were lucky enough to be visiting our Grandpa and Grandma in Florida. It always seemed to be summertime on those occasions, the weather hot and humid enough that sheets were sufficient for night time cover. These were white and covered with pill-balls, but bedecked by a repeating pattern of grinning tabby cats wearing red high top sneakers, laces in neatly looped bows. It seemed lighter at night than I was used to, warmer as well, and I sometimes found it hard to fall asleep. Instead I would count the tabby cats, thinking of Grandpa telling me how Aunt Kass would draw cats riding horses. These sheets had been hers once, when she was young enough to live at home. I found it oddly thrilling sleeping in her white four poster bed.

On those sweltering summer days, we spent many happy hours at the pool next door, diving for rings, exploring the bottom of the pool through foggy goggled eyes. On one occasion, I had a pressing need to go to the bathroom, so Grandpa walked me back over to his house early, assuring me my brothers and Dad would be close behind.

The smells were different in Grandpa's house, as was the texture of the carpet in the room my brothers and I shared. My feet were more sensitive after coming from the pool and it reminded me vaguely of stepping on yarny little worms. I hung my bathing suit and goggles on the white bed post, hearing a faint tapping on the carpet as the dripping water saturated a spot on the carpet below. After changing back into the customary shorts and tank top I wandered out into kitchen where Grandma stood at the stove, stirring a pot pf Beanie Weenies, to which she added extra hot dogs. Grandpa, in a striped shirt, Bermuda shorts, and striped tube socks pulled up to his calves, sat at the table reading the paper. He looked up and smiled as I came in, removing his glasses, reaching for the can of Hi-C still chilly from the fridge, and pouring some into the sparkling yellow cup for me.

"Did you get all the water out of those ear pans Cinderbug?" He asked. I shook my head "no" and heard the water slosh.

"Well make sure you sleep on that side tonight, and it will come out while you sleep." It had, of course, in a warm trickle onto one of the red sneakers of the cat on the pillow case, a larger version of his clones that adorned my sheets. The same pillow which, every time I arrived for a visit, inevitably held a Barbie or new stuffed animal for me.

"Do you have any paper?" I asked him, wiping the Hi-C from my lip. "I want to draw you a picture." Grandma crossed the beige and brown linoleum and pushed a yellow pad and pen over to me.

"Here you go," she said, "What are you going to draw?"

"I'll show you," I said setting to work. I gripped the pen, scratching along the paper, until a crooked pig emerged. On his head I drew two attenuated little antennae with bulbous ends.

"Ooh, what are those? Those don't look like any pigs I've ever seen," Grandpa said, humoring me.

"They're Pigaliens!" I announced, proud as punch.

"My! Pigaliens! Have you ever seen a Pigalien Marge?" He asked.

Grandma glanced at the wide array of ceramic pigs adorning her kitchen window sill. "Nope, no pigaliens there." She remarked.

"Grandpaa!" I droned, dramatically, " they're not real!"

"Well how do you know?" He asked, his face the picture of innocence. I shrugged. I guess I didn't.

"You better sign and date this." Grandpa remarked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well when you are a famous artist someday, this will be worth lots of money." He explained.

"But I'm not going to be a famous artist. I'm going to be a teacher." I replied.

"Maybe so," Grandma agreed. "But you better sign and date it, just in case." I did so with great importance, carefully lettering Cindy Lynn Richards in my labored child's script, then handed it over to Grandma, who placed it on the fridge, securing it with a pig magnet. She returned to the stove to stir lunch as the front door opened and closed, announcing my brothers and dad returning from the pool. They shuffled wetly to our shared room to change. Grandpa rose and walked to the cabinet, returning with a can of macaroons. He glanced at Grandma, her back was to us, and slid a macaroon across the table. He winked at me and popped one in his mouth, then quietly returned the tin to the cupboard.

I stealthily palmed the macaroon and took small bites every time Grandma's back was turned, finishing after several moments. I felt something deeply significant had transpired. Twenty years later, I still do.

The sum total of these experiences, after all is said and done, cannot be adequately measured by the passing of time, nor in beginnings or ends. Instead, they are counted in ripples and in folds, in the aligning of like hearts with shared tendency, in continuance of traditions, in the persistence of memories.

The other day, I sat at my kitchen table making a water color with Matty.

"Remember to sign and date it," I said when we finished.

"Why do you always say that?" He asked in his innocent way. He was right of course, I always did.

"Because some day, when you are a famous artist, this will be worth lots of money."

"But I'm not going the be a famous artist." He insisted.

"You never know." I replied. "You better sign it just in case." He did, of course, with great importance.

Stevie:
The other day I asked Mom to get me a grapefruit at the grocery store, not having had one for many years. I was surprised to see how muscle memory took over. I cut the large fruit in half , and with a spoon stumbled along the edges until the grapefruit was loose. I took the first bite and instantly i was transported back to Grandma and Grandpas kitchen. I could smell coffee, I could see Grandpa with his big glasses on reading the newspaper. I had looked up from my memory and realized that i was finished with the grapefruit. I began to clean up....what was i doing? I forgot the most important part, i took a glass from the cupboard and like grandpa squeezed the juice into the glass careful to remove the seeds. i took a long drink from it and it just made the memory all the more complete. Its true though, the quaint memories that your brain chooses to remember over others. I remember the blow up snake in the fruit tree in the back yard, i remember a bag of neon space men the size of army men, tucked into the tv one visit. I remember playing to vigorously with a sword laden toy once, and the sword went into someones drink. above all though i remember swimming. the tight floaties restricting my movement, grandpa slicing through the water using his hand to squirt water at us all, telling us it was a water skeeter. and then at the end of the days swimming activities, grandpa would help me out of the pool, he'd towel off my back and then wrap the towel around me. He'd stand next to me with his towel wrapped the same, and then he'd bend at his knees and press the towel along his shorts the water would wring out, he showed me how to do it and there wed stand side by side knees bent bouncing up and down on our feet getting the water out of our shorts. i remember how good the Hungry Howies pizza tasted, and how i've never found pizza that tasted anything like it. taking rides in the big car to see the eagles high in the mossy trees. i was so young but those memories are the ones i remember the clearest. I know regret serves no purpose, but i do have regrets, i regret not getting to know my grandfather . I want him to know, that if i do anything in this life, i want to be the man he was, the magic in his smile , the cute nick names he would use, the zest for life he had. I never got to tell him how much these things meant to me how precious it all was.

We love you Grandpa. You will be missed.

Exercise Alternatives

I hate running. With a passion. HATE it. Some (crazy) people have told me that one can become addicted to running, that all of the sudden one day you get a rush of endorphins and from then on you must run in order to get your "fix." Obviously I never kept with it long enough to to experience this miraculous event. My endorphins seem to favor doughnuts and chips. I mention running and they run screaming to the nearest synapse where they can cower in fear and refuse to come out until I buy them a make up doughnut. With extra sprinkles of course. I myself find the sprinkles fairly immature, but something about them pleases the dorphies.

I was taking stock the other night as I sat dumping the rubble and dust from a bag of barbecue chips down my gullet. I came to a not so startling long overdue realization. I hate exercise. In all its forms. I have not found one single activity that I can do and enjoy consistently. Allow me to illustrate for you all of the forms of exercise I have attempted to be consistent with over the years

Calf raises -Age 12-My dad has the world's most perfect calves. None of his children were fortunate enough to inherit these. Instead, my leg is roughly chicken leg shaped. Rounded at the thigh, boney and ridiculous at the calf. As I bemoaned this fact to my dad at the age of 12, he suggested that I try to build up my calves via calf raises. I started doing as many as I could after being dropped off at middle school by the bus every morning. No noticeable difference, other than strange looks and whispers from my fellow junior highers. In fact, my calves lost weight, making them even more scrawny than before. Fail.


Beef jerky can filled with rocks (no, I'm not kidding) - Age 12 - After my brilliant plan to enlarge my calves didn't work, I then decided that perhaps I could make everything more proportional by slimming my thighs. Having no access to a home gym or any of the handy exercise tapes at the time, I hatched a what I thought to be a visionary plan to create weights by filling a beef jerky can with rocks from our alley. I would then sit on the end of my bed, toes pointed ceilingward, and balance the can of rocks on my ankles while straightening my legs. Well, I think I have addressed the topic of my coordination thoroughly enough that any of you reading can guess how this went. Bruised foot, rocks on floor, shapeless thighs remained.

Step up platform - Age 14 -
Overly ambitious and allowance money to burn, I purchased a large turquoise rectangular chunk of Styrofoam that Walmart had branded the "Step it Up," along with its accompanying tape, complete with over caffeinated spandex clad bouncy instructor. During the first workout I managed to trip on said Step it Up, loose my balance, and fall on top of my guinea pig cage. Bruises, shame, pissed off guinea pig, but alas, no increase in fitness level.

Tai Bo - Age 21 - This one I actually kept at for a solid month on the STBN diet. If you don't know what that is, go Google. Then I went on a trip and remembered what naught food looked like. Consequently, it looked significantly more appealing than Billy Blanks encased in spandex. If I'm EVER looking at something wrapped that tight, it better be a sausage. Bratwurst, preferably. Or Cheddarwurst *drools. Yes, well, anyway. They didn't work.

Gym membership #1 w/ personal trainer and eating program - Age 22 -Total Fitness - My first experience with a personal trainer. He made me bench press things. He drew up an eating plan for me. It repeated the same three meals every day. "You don't mind repetitive meals do you? I know I don't" he said, neck veins bulging. I kicked him in the shin and ran away.

Pilates series- Age 23 - Literally, I ordered it, and ten minutes later was eating my "I better get all my snacking in before the DVDs arrive and I have to get serious" bag of Cheetos, when decided I didn't really need to be that flexible. And Mari Windsor did have a slightly crazed look about her. And the chick in the demonstration had a funky toe. Probably pilates wasn't for me, I decided licking the away the orange Cheeto dust. DVDs arrive, find a home on the shelf, gather dust.

Gym membership #2 w/o personal trainer/w/Tanning Pass and Special K diet - Age 23 - Okay, so the pilates didn't work out. When the flier arrived for a $9.95 gym membership I waddled in and signed up, this time refusing the person trainer. No offense Brock. I did however sign up for the tanning pass, thinking that perhaps bronzing my lard would somehow motivate me to actually lose some. Simultaneously I decided I would give the Special K diet a try. You know, the one where you eat nothing but cardboard flakes for breakfast and lunch and by dinner time you crap out a box? Anyhoo - long story short - tanning proved to redden rather than bronze the fat, making it extraordinarily difficult to sit on any exercise machine. Instead I consoled myself by wolfing a tub of Godiva Raspberry chocolate truffle ice cream. Needless to say, I didn't go back. And also forgot to cancel the membership. In fact, I think I'm still being charged for it.

Power 90 - Age 24 - This was by far the most successful. And low and behold I actually stuck with it 90 days and lost 30 some odd pounds. But then I remembered food. And I like food. And I ate food. And got fat. Tony Horton and his fitness minions still live in my DVD case next to the pilates DVDs. I'm waiting for he and Mari Windsor to breed a super-race from my media cabinet any time now.

Gym membership #3 - Age 27 - This would be the ill fated on campus gym where I currently work. Where all the dudes go to grunt and sweat over their lunch break. The gym membership I am still paying for. At the gym I have not been to since Marchish. Somehow wandering downstairs for a super duper triple chocolate chunk cookie has been so much more satisfying.

And yet, somehow, I have managed to lose weight since the beginning of the year and am back in my Power 90 clothes. *Shrugs.

This settles it. I will not run again. Unless someone is chasing me with a gun. Or a knife. Or better yet, a gun and a knife. Moreover, no running for Cyndi unless she is being chased with several really big guns and really big knives.



-Cyndi

I Make Bad Shoe Decisions

Hi. My name is Cyndi. And I make bad shoe decisions. Allow me to illustrate how a bad shoe decision happens, for those of you who are more practical than I.

The morning begins. Cyndi drags herself out of bed at 4:45 am to get ready for the carpool she must meet at 6:10am. Yes you heard me right. After a quick glance in the bathroom mirror, Cyndi decides her hair can surely go one more day without being washed and blow dried. Cyndi crawls back into bed.

Fast forward an hour and fifteen minutes. (I'm sleeping and then putting on make-up during this bit. Bo-ring). Cyndi stands before her closet, peering at her shoes, wondering which ones she should wear today. Thence commences the battle between Practical Cyndi and Shallow Cyndi.

SC: Hmm, I just got a pedicure and my toes are looking pretty cute. Probably I should wear some open toed shoes today.
PC: You only have one pair of open toed shoes. Last time you wore them you ended up with four bloody gaping holes in your foot.
SC: I don't seem to remember that. I'll bet they won't hurt this time.
PC: Look down, genius. See those purpley lumpy scars? That would be from the open toed shoes in question.
SC: *Looks down. Ooh! Those little flowers they painted on my toes are so cute! I really should wear those open toed shoes.
PC: Heeello? Did you not hear what I just said? Those shoes are thinly veiled foot torture devices created by a misogynistic designer who has never had to fit his foot into a female shoe! DO NOT WEAR THEM!
SC: Hey look! They have ankle strappies! I forgot about the strappies! I love ankle strappies! *Reaches for the shoes.
PC: You're gonna be soooorrry. Crap. WE'RE going to be sorry. I hate you.
SC: *Humming to herself.* Yay! Cute shoes, cute shoes!
PC: *Sighs in disgust.

Fast forward another hour and a half. Cyndi is walking past the duck pond on her way into the building where she works.

PC: Ow. ow. ow. ow. OW!
SC: Must walk cute. Must not show excruciating pain. Must radiate confidence. Repeat -I'm on the catwalk. I'm on the catwalk.
PC: Catwalk my hiney! Sawing our feet off would less painful! Holy hannah! YOUCH!
SC: Must smile. Must not grimace. Must...Sweet googley moogley these freaking things hurt! Why in the heck did I wear these stupid things?
PC: Because you are a shallow moron who is willing to sacrifice pain for fashion. Ow. ow. ow.
SC: Must get to desk. Must sit. Must not limp in pain. *Grins maniacally to disguise the excruciating pain in her feet while greeting a co-worker in the elevator. "Good Morning! How are you!"
Coworker: *Eyes Cyndi dubiously.* Good morning. Are you okay?
PS: No you dipstick! I'm considering cutting my feet off with an index card! You wanna help?
SC: Oh yes! Just great thanks. Well, have a great day!*Cyndi lurches out of the elevator and limps to her chair and collapses.
PS: Well better assess the damage. *Moves aside ankle strappy.* Nice. A bloody blister. And before 8am. You just had to have the ankle strappies. Great job, Foofy. Great job.
SC: Oh shut up and give me a bandaid.

So now I have on two bandaids. And I'm taking the elevator up and down from the 4th floor. And still considering cutting my feet of with an index card. Or perhaps my desk scissors. But the strappies are really cute.

Cyndi

Getting to know me...

Stand by for more useless information about Moi...

1. What is your occupation right now? International spy (who happens to moonlight as an assistant to the CIO)
2. What color are your socks right now? I own two pairs of socks (I used to own more but the boys co-opt them when they tire of rotating through the pile they keep under their bed). My socks are worn for running purposes only. I'm not running right now, obviously, because I am typing. But I am pretty sure they are white right now.
3. What are you listening to right now? The buzz of the label maker from my co-worker's cube.
4. What was the last thing that you ate? A vanilla cone from McDonald's. The dollar menu rocks!
5 . Can you drive a stick shift? I can drive an AWESOME stick shift. I can double clutch and only flash my break lights to warn the people behind me I'm turning. I can rev the engine and glide seamlessly into 1st, 2nd, and 3rd without so much of as a hiccup. Wait. Do I have to do these things outside my head for this to count?
6. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Andy, my Lurve.
7. Do you like the person who sent this to you? I adore her. Even if she did delight in making me wear clothes that didn't fit for her own amusement.
8. How old are you today? About 12. I'm hoping to age 4 years mentally before I have to drive home. Wouldn't want to get arrested or anything.
9. What is your favorite sport to watch on TV? Soccer. I have recently discovered the men's Euro Cup in HD. Me likey.
10. What is your favorite drink? Milk
11. Have you ever dyed your hair? *Whistles loudly and looks around.* Why no. But it has changed colors about 78 times over the last 16 years. Damndest thing really.
12. Favorite food? The kind I can eat.
13. What is the last movie you watched? You Don't Mess with the Zohan. Deesco deesco!
14. Favorite day of the year? Summer solstice.
15. How do you vent anger? I bitch. Loudly. To myself.
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? My Easy Bake Oven
17. What is your favorite season? Fall
19. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? NA
20. Who is the most likely to respond? NA
21. Who is least likely to respond? Everyone I am not emailing.
22. Living Arrangements? Townhouse in happy valley.
23. When was the last time you cried? *Cyndi shouts: "Wolf! Wolf!" Co workers eye her strangely.* Just now.
24. What is on the floor of your closet? Shoes and laundry waiting to be washed.
25. Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending to? Not really sending it anywhere but to cyberspace. Cyberspace, how long have we been friends? We're not? Oh. Well then.
26. What did you do last night? Stuffed myself with Peruvian food. Whined about being too stuffed with Peruvian food to run. Ate a McDonald's ice cream cone. Whined about being to stuffed with Peruvian food and an ice cream code to run.
27. What are you most afraid of? Death. Or hair. Soooo gross when it's wet and gets tangled in your fingers. *Shudders.
28. Plain, cheese, or spicy hamburgers? Yes.
29. Favorite dog breed? NOT the chihuahua. One attempted hot carl is enough for me, thank you.
30. Favorite day of the week? Thursday
31. How many states have you lived in? 6ish
32. Favorite music? Loves me a bit of everything. Cept Country. Blerg.

Cyndi vs.The Gray Pants

*Note: This is a semi-dramatic recounting of actual events that occurred approximately 8 years ago. As my memory has faded over the years, some of this has been filled in by the best reality-based supplementation my little brain can offer.*

Cyndi glances up from her French book. Madame Martine and her en francais pupils fail to distract her from the rift in the cosmic vibrations of the small apartment bedroom. The bitter February Idaho wind howls outside the window punctuated by the stacatto shouts of inane co-eds engaging in yet another uber-flirty snow ball fight.
Across the room Heather sighs heavily from her cinder-block raised bed, her normally animated face as lifeless as TV static at 2am. It's the same expression she's worn all evening.
"Okay Heph, what's wrong?" Cyndi asks. Heph is short for heipher, a pet name they use to address eachother often.
"Nothing." Heather replies, glazed eyes passing over the same page for the twentieth time.
"Nothing, right. You've been looking at the same page for an hour."
"Oh?" She replies.
"Um, yeah. Now are you going to tell me what's up?"
"It's nothing."
"Awww, come on. You know I'm going to nag you till you tell me."
"I got a 90 on that stupid poli-sci paper I've been working on forever."
For Heather, overachiever extraordinaire, a 90 on a paper was somewhere near to skipping through the quad naked during a class break on a list of desirable occurrences. In fact, public nudity might have been vastly preferable to a sub standard grade.
"A 90. Wow. That's horrible." Cyndi replies.
Registering the note of sarcasm in her friend's voice, Heather testily sets her book down on the mattress. Her husky voice raises an octave, expressing her exasperation.
"That's an A minus. I've never had below an A in that class."
"How much is the paper worth?"
"A third of our grade. I'll never pull a straight 4.0 now."
Cyndi winces. "Sorry honey."
Heather drops back on the mattress, folding her perfectly shaped bronze legs at an unnatural angle, staring listlessly at the wall.
"Hmm," Cyndi muses. "What can we do to cheer you up?"
"It's no big deal," Heather replies.
"I could make you a taco salad."
"Nah, I already had a turkey sandwich."
"We could go up to campus and watch people fall." Cyndi says, snickering as she remembers the beefy jock they'd seen biff it on a patch of ice earlier that day. He'd risen quickly and done the standard frantic glance about to see if anyone had witnessed his spill. Someone had.
"Too cold."
"Well crap. That's about all I had. Isn't there anything I can do?" Heather shakes her head no but pauses abruptly, a crooked smile quirking the corner of her mouth into smile.
Cyndi swallows hard. She's seen this look before; it has never ended well for her.
Heather slides a sideways glance to her, only meeting her eyes at the last second.
"Well, you could try on my gray pants. That might help." They often traded shirts, but at 4 inches taller and 3 sizes larger, Cyndi had flatly refused to try on any of Heather's pants despite her eager insisting. Even a simpleton could do that math.
"No. Absolutely not. No m'am."
Heather's lower lip juts out in a mock pout. "Aww pleeeease? I thought you said you wanted to cheer me up."
"I do, but not by attempting to squeeze my fat ass into your pants."
Heather heaves a heart-breakingly heavy sigh and leans back dramatically. "Oh well. I guess I'll just have to be depressed then." She stares up at the ceiling. The game is far from over, and Heather is more than a worthy opponent. They know each other well. Cyndi desperately thinks of something, anything to offer as a last bid.
"Really baby, I'll do anything else. Just not the pants. How about a foot rub?" Heather ups the ante once more, judging by the last offer she's already won.
"You know I'd try on your pants if you asked me to," Heather replies slyly. True, yes. She would. Given, everything of Cyndi's she tried on always fit her better, grateful for Heathers's perfect curves instead of Cyndi's categorically flat butt and too long legs. But this fact did not matter. Reciprocity is key to the exchange and Heather's lawyer mind has the logic well in hand.
Cyndi sighs in defeat.
"Alright, where are they?"
"Yay!" Heather shouts exultingly, springing from the end of the bed with more energy than she's demonstrated all night, possibly all semester. She locates them quickly, her closet being color coded and sorted by item type, a stark contrast to Cyndi's mish mash of overlapping hangers and general closet entropy next door."Here they are!" she sings tossing the hanger onto Cyndi's bed.
Cyndi eyes the pants dubiously. They are shorter and smaller than she remembers. Might as well get it over with.
"Turn around," she instructs Heather, removing her jeans.
"As if," Heather replies.
Bending over, Cyndi removes the pants from the hanger and slips them over her feet. By the time the hips of the pants reach her thighs, the cuffs are already 3 inches above ankle level. A throaty guffaw shakes the air as the pants cease their ascent, refusing to clear Cyndi's hips.
"Well, that's as far as they go." Cyndi says, arms akimbo.
"Come on! You haven't even tried to get them on yet." Heather manages, catching her breath.
'For piss sakes," Cyndi sighs, eager for the humiliation to be over, even if she is glad to see her friend laughing again. She grabs the waistband and yanks it upward. The pants raise a further few inches above her ankle and manage to clear her hips. They are now firmly wedged everywhere they were not meant to go and will go no further. Cyndi notes that she could sooner morph into a giraffe upon command than be able to zip them.
Heather screams with laughter, tears streaming down her face. She is unable to catch her breath. Cyndi shifts on her feet, delicately trying to extract the fabric from it's uncomfortable lodgings, waiting for the laughter to subside.
"Are we done here?" she asks.
Heather gasps for air and coughs wiping tears away. "Oh fine, go ahead. You can take them off."
"Thank the gods." Cyndi mutters, pulling the pants downward. They refuse to move. Cyndi hops up and down and manages to get one leg out before promptly falling over sideways, narrowly missing the corner of the pressed wood dresser provided by the apartments. Someone thumps the ceiling below, incensed their Jance Kapp Perry song has been interrrupted by such an unceremonious crash.
The room has gone silent. Looking up from the floor, Cyndi sees her friend convulsing with laughter, silent now as her body shakes with uncontrolled mirth.
"Always glad to help," Cyndi says, extracting her other leg from the pants. "Are we feeling better now?"
Several moments pass before Heather is able to answer. "Yes," she finally manages, "much."
"So glad." Says Cyndi flopping on her bed and resuming her French studies.
"Are you sure you don't want to try on the black ones?" Heather suggests innocently, "I'm sure they'd fit better."
"I'm sooo not falling for that one." Cyndi replies tersely.
"Oh well" Heather replies. "It worth a shot."


There you go. Thanks again to Heather for the suggestion. Love you baby!

Cyndi

PS. And no, Heather, I will not try on any of your pants for old time's sake. : )

Suggest a Topic

I know I don't write that often, but sometimes I really can't think of anything to say. And of course there is always the pressure to live up to my blog's name. I'm inconsistent, and I own it. But, I do occasionally receive complaints that I need to post more often. So I've decided to be all tricky like and put the pressure back on you all.

Suggest a topic. Any topic. Several topics. Suggest a topic and I will write about it. I will dutifully compile a list and write them, one by one. With great care and all the wittiness I can muster. Even if just a title, such as "Cyndi vs. The Hot Dog Bun" or "Cyndi vs the Belligerent Goat." Email me. Call me. Leave a comment. Send a text. Whatever.

It would be great exercise for me. And I needs my exercise.

So come on people. Help a sister out. What should I write about?

Cyndi

From the Mind of Matty

Sunday morning, roughly 11am. Cyndi is making breakfast at the stove. Matty, having already eaten, heads for the door.

Matty: I'm going to see if my friends can play.
Cyndi: Okay, but before you can go out, I need you to brush those fangs of yours.
Matty: So you mean I can't go outside till I brush my teeth?
Cyndi: That's correct.
Matty sits down at the table, begins to remove his shoes.
Cyndi: I thought you were going to go play.
Matty: I was. But I don't want to go THAT bad.