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.

HAPPY SUMMER SOLSTICE!

Today is summer summer solstice. Go out and do something pagan-y!

Pagan-y activities Cyndi recommends:
Pick flowers
Go camping
Watch the sunset
Play in the rain
Have a barbecue (this is a delightfully practical way of sacrificing an animal and burning its flesh without those pesky satanic undertones that plague a work-a-day pagan).
Frolic in a meadow (If you've never frolicked, think Bambi in the part where he and Thumper discover the meadow. 'The MEADOW' the shout as they jump and roll about. This is before Bambi's mother snuffs it of course. And do avoid fields with stinging nettle. They tend to be frolic-inhibiting. And let's face it, you don't want to be in the ER explaining how your rash was acquired in the act of frolicking.)


Pagan-y activities Cyndi does not recommend:
Dancing naked outdoors: (Your neighbors won't appreciate this. Police tend to discourage it as well.)
Leaping naked over a fire: (I shouldn't have to tell you that this isn't a good idea. Unless of course you have been longing for a Brazilian wax. I imagine singeing the hair off your nether regions might be even more effective, though the potential for pain expands exponentially depending on your lack of coordination).
Sacrificing a goat: (Unless the goat has insulted you in some way. In which case a sacrifice might me acceptable. But mostly I recommend that you give the goat a good talking to.)


It is also my and Andy's anniversary. We will be sacrificing some french cheeses in a red-wine fig reduction, followed by a Roman style grilled quail agro dulce, and then finally a mascarpone cheesecake with a apricot hazelnut crust. *mouth waters. Cyndi dabs her keyboard with a tissue.

Yes, well. Solstice. Go out and be glad to be alive.

Cyndi

Only Humans can Treat Chickens Humanely

Wha?? See, I know what you are thinking. But the title of this post was taken directly from a Foster Farm's billboard that I encountered this morning on my way to work. "Only Humans cans Treat Chickens Humanely" it touted. To the left of this slogan a family portrait bragged of Foster Farms' obviously impeccable value system. Mom, Dad, charming country house behind them. Three little ones, glossy and well fed presumably on humanely treated chicken parts.

I snorted as I passed, considering the ramifications of this statement. The Webster's dictionary defines humane as " marked by compassion, sympathy, or consideration for humans or animals." I'm almost positive that having the flesh gnawed off your bones after being economically snuffed, bled, hung and plucked would not qualify as humane in most circles. Don't get me wrong here. I'm not all activist-y and I do eat chicken. My roast chicken kicks ass, if I do say so myself. And I do. Because it's delicious. And I rock. Woo!

Okay, back to what I was talking about. Humanely killing chickens. This kind of sentiment bugs. Can't they just be honest about what's really going on here? Here are some alternative slogan suggestions.

"Foster Farms: Only Humans can Kill an Animal and Consume its Flesh while Still Convincing Themselves it's Humane. Aren't You Glad You Are a Human Instead of a Chicken?"

"Foster Farms: We Electrocute our Chickens and Chop off Their Heads While They are Passed Out. This Is Much Better than Clubbing Them. Trust Us."

"Foster Farms: Death so Quick You'll wish You Were a Chicken."

"Foster Farms: We Only Killed the Ones who Had it Coming."

"Foster Farms: What to Chickens Have do Live for Anyway? They Don't Even Celebrate Christmas."

"Foster Farms: We Didn't Kill them, they Willingly Sacrificed Themselves for the Greater Good of Humanity. It's As it Should Be."

"Foster Farms: We Eat What We Kill. This Way They Did Not Die In Vain, Thus Making Their Death Honorable."

I'm a hypocrite. The honest truth is that if I could only eat what I killed, I would have to be a vegetarian. I couldn't even kill a turkey, nature's butt-stinking-ugly D-student. In fact, knowing me, I'd cut open a tomato one day and get all guilty when I think how happy it was sitting on a vine in the sun. Slowly I would starve to death as I thought about the various humiliations that produce endures in order to arrive orphaned on a grocery store shelf. I'd end up buying all the rotten and bruised items, feeling sorry that they wouldn't get picked. Instead of eating them I would take them home and make them a little bed from tissues and an egg carton where they could live out their last days in peace.

Then I'd die.

Good thing there are places like Foster Farms that relieve me of the obligation to kill things and do their best to make me feel warm and fuzzy about the way they were dispatched. Yep, I'm glad to be human.


Cyndi

Cyndi vs. The Jetted Tub: An Epic Battle of Wills

*Note: This is a true story. Names have not been changed to protect the terminally stupid. For the purposes of this story, the Jetted Tub will heretofore be identified as "Larry." *

Immersed in the palid half-light seeping under the bathroom door, Larry waited. Many days had he passed thusly, cagey with barely restrained rage and disgust. He was a Windward six foot Whirlpool with integral apron and left handed drain for porcelain's sake. How had ever been brought so low? he mused to himself. They'd done it again today. The male and female both in their turn, pressing their feet in his face, ignoring his luxurious depths in favor of the bargain Walmart shower head. A shower head without massage settings no less. Humiliation burned deep in Larry's plumbing. Soon, he vowed. Very soon they would regret this choice.

Larry's jet-holes squinted at the burst of sudden light. It was the female. Come no doubt to indulge in her pathetic vanities. Typical. But what was this? What was in her hand. Surely these were not cleaning implements. Those had better be for the toilet, he thought. Horror descended in pounding waves on his high grade porcelain. She was turning not toward the toilet, but toward him! And now she spoke!

"Alright you. This is long overdue," she said taking a knee before him on the tile, her yellow gloves glowing like the very fires of hell in the fluorescent light. Frantically, Larry's troubled mind scrambled to think. Long overdue for what? What could she possibly mean? What was the oddly shaped brush in her hand coming ever closer to one of his jet holes? "No!" he shrieked in his mind. "Something make her stop! For the love of porcelain! Please!"


His anguished cries fell upon the cold hearted tiles, deaf to his plight in their travertine treachery. The brush, laden with un-namable horrors was shoved mercilessly into Larry's mouth, then eyes, then ears. Befouled with muck long neglected in his pipes, it judiciously plunged for what seemed to Larry an eternity.


"Much better!" the female exclaimed, mocking his suffering. He peered up at her, silently praying she could see the rage and injustice in his eye. Feel my pain you skin bag! he implored. She seemed not to notice the waves of hatred emanating from him; instead she turned his plug closed and began to fill him with frigid water. Had she no mercy? No ounce of compassion? Could she not at least make the water tepid to ease his tortured joints and u-bends?

"Now, the British cleaning ladies say to fill you with water, then drop in a cup of bleach and turn the jets on." In her vile hand she clutched a smooth white bottle, measuring out a draught of the toxic liquid.

She's trying to kill me, Larry registered with shock. She trying to kill me. His mind fought against the chilly waters threatening to numb him of all thoughts. Think Larry! he screamed. Think or we will die! A single thought slithered across his frantic mind, his revelation registering with a plop. Turn the jets on. She'd said she was going to turn on the jets. Could it be?, Larry thought with elation. Was salvation really at hand? The water was climbing higher now. He felt his pipes beating wildly. Would she do it? Would she?

Her gloved hand broke the surface of the water and depressed the jet button. NOW! screamed Larry. Larry drank deeply of the bleach tainted frigid water and with strength beyond his experience, forcefully ejected it through his jets. Geysers of bleach and sludge erupted skyward, scoring a direct hit in the female's eyes. She hadn't even had time to blink. Glorious fountains erupted, soaking the floor and the shower head, repaying them for every ounce of indignity he had suffered their hands.

The female shrieked, covering her eyes, spitting the tainted water from her mouth, blindly slapping at his jet button with one hand, trying to plug his jet holes with the fingers of the other. She she sputtered at the awesome fury of Larry's revenge, his heart soaring upward with his streams of justice. With one last desperate push, she jammed her finger into the jet activator button.

The filth-laden stew fell earthward, Larry's joy crashing downward with its descent. The female panted wildly, soaked to the skin as she stood in the great puddle Larry had created. "That wasn't nice," she finally managed, eyes narrowed at him.

"I can see that we're not going to friends after all," she said, flipping the plug to drain him. No, thought Larry fondly. We are not. The water drained away leaving a scarred wasteland of pipe gunk on Larry's underbelly. Battle wounds, he thought, puffing with pride. He peered over the edge of himself and watched as she used towels to sop up the spreading filth on the floor. She turned back to him and reached toward the detachable shower head.

What is she doing, Larry wondered. What can she possibly be doing? She reached down and turned the water to scalding, pulling the lever to guide the water to the shower head. She was spraying him down! With the shower head! Taking away his hard wrought sludge, subjecting him to further humiliation.

"Yes, well. At least you're cleaner now, even if I can't use you," she remarked idly. Larry reeled with hatred. All this, and still he would go unused. Despair took him as she gathered her things and left, returning him to the semi-darkness. Just you wait, he thought clearing his throat of the hair wad gathering there. Just. You. Wait.

Larry giggled sardonically, allowing himself the luxury of a grin before closing his jets. Until next time, he whispered, drifting into blessed oblivion. Next time.


Hope y'all enjoyed!
Cyndi