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