prince charming

I like most typical girls growing up in American, faced at a very young age, the unrealistic fantasy that Cinderella’s Prince Charming afforded us. Throughout the years the face of Prince Charming changed for me, most of the time drawing heavily on the influences of the current television programs. John Schneider and Tom Wopat from the Dukes of Hazard both held places in my heart, as did David Hasselhoff from Knight Rider and Richard Dean Anderson from MacGyver. We can’t forget the influences of movies on my girlhood fantasies: Luke held my heart for the first Star Wars, but Han Solo quickly took his place as I got a bit older and wiser. Han Solo understandably morphed quite easily into Indiana Jones, and I’m sure at least a dozen other leading males held a momentary spotlight as my teenage heart throbs. Although my tastes have changed slightly in whom I find attractive, there is a general y-chromosome common denominator.

I spent last weekend in Catalina with my mom. We stayed at a lovely Bed and Breakfast Inn and met some very interesting people. One of the nights we enjoyed the company of a couple of young women who I was fairly certain were more than friends. They both were very beautiful in their own way, one a dark haired brunette, the other a fair-skinned long wavy-haired blonde, and both very athletic. They spoke of their adventures earlier in the day kayaking, and they were planning an early morning hike up the mountain. We were all sitting in a quaint alcove next to a blazing fire in the fireplace. The conversation turned to making fires, and my mother bragged of my fire-making abilities having learned from growing up with wood-cook stoves as our main source of heat; she likened it to Little House on the Prairie. The dark-haired girl smiled and commented that Laura Ingles was cool, and then there was a look between the two of them, the kind that carries with it so much more than can be voiced at the moment. Let me just say this particular intimate glance made me very aware of girlhood fantasies that I didn’t know anything about. It seems that Laura Ingles was their Prince Charming, or should I say Princess Charming… x marks the spot in their hearts.

position for mcdreamy is currently open…

So I was once again stood-up by S, a.k.a. NLMMcD*. We were supposed to go on a picnic yesterday, and once again he didn’t call. I’m really not mad; I just marvel at his ability to continually stand me up. However, the bigger mystery is how I continually believe that the dates will actually happen. My ambivalence to the whole situation probably speaks the loudest. I ultimately know that this isn’t a connection that will provide a lasting relationship, so I guess it is easy to not get upset about it. I’m still wondering why he can’t seem to follow through. I realize though, that this has a lot more to do with my ardent curiosity of human behavior, versus my sadness of a missed date. Although I’m not mad, I do think I will have to downgrade his status as my McDreamy. Hot or not, even I have my limits.

*No Longer My McDreamy

a definite LA moment

I’m not one who is easily star-struck by actors*, but every once in awhile LA does lend itself to some cool moments involving actors. My mom recently visited from Idaho, and I wanted her stay to be memorable. One of the activities I found was an evening at the Getty of Food Fiction excerpts read by four different actors. So I packed us a fun picnic dinner and we headed off to enjoy the museum before the show. (As a side note, I have to say the picnic was a hit; mom liked everything despite her less than enthusiastic response to the idea of my pasta salad made with these new soy noodles† TJ sells.)

While we were eating and drinking our wine, a familiar face walked by. I find with actors, I often have a moment where I am annoyed that they don’t recognize me until I realize the reason I recognize them is because they are on TV or the movies; its at this point that the actor sees that I recognize him and acknowledges my recognition, which is around the same time that I’m beating myself up with the realization, once again, that the television isn’t a two-way communication device, while simultaneously searching the recesses of my brain to figure out from where I know him, and then the nano-second interchange finally ends with him smiling, and me forgiving myself for my stupidity and appreciating his acknowledgement of my recognition. (Need to take a breath) If you are still with me then you deserve an award.

So this older gentleman breezes by our table, and the previous ill-explored interchange occurred, and the name Odo popped in my head. Odo was the Changeling on Deep Space Nine. I’m sure Mr. René Auberjonois would prefer me to recognize him from his current work on Boston Legal, but alas I cannot shake my Star Trek roots. It was then that I made the connection that he would be one of the readers at the evening event. The evening of readings was great!¥ Mr. Auberjonois did a great job, but John Lithgow stole the show. Afterwards there was a champagne reception and my mom enjoyed meeting and receiving all of the actor’s autographs on her program.

(So after reading this through I realize that this has a very anticlimactic ending; to help it along I am tagging on a lame moral of the story.) The moral of the story is you can’t always orchestrate star sightings for visitors, unless of coarse, you pay for them.


* Now put me in front of my favorite chefs, and it’s a much different story, but we’ll save that revelation for another post.

† Have to say I love them, the noodles that is; no need to cook, can serve cold or hot, and very healthy; refrigerator section near the cheese.

¥ This is a yearly event that is held at the Getty. I would highly recommend it. Each year is a different theme, and if your dad is into baseball and literature, I think this would be a great Father’s Day gift.

note

I've made it past the two-week mark and I am still posting!

feast or famine

I don’t understand the recent rollercoaster-like fluctuations in my dating life. Why is it that I either stand in a barren wasteland of male availability, or an anxiety-producing oasis spring with endless possibilities? The anxiety in the midst of Eden comes because none of the recent wave of men that has hit my shores in the last 48-hours are ideal matches for what I am ultimately looking for in a relationship. (FYI: the 48-hours has come after several months of barren wasteland.)

Let’s do a quick run down: We have E, who has great stats and we seem to want similar things out of life, but currently he lives in Florida. Then we have an LA contender, another E who is ten years younger than me; tried that, not sure I want to do it again. There’s J who is a great friend, and we have fabulous chemistry whenever we hang out (i.e. last night with too many drinks, and too late of a night for a midweek excursion), but I am all too aware of his commitment issues, and other foibles, the danger of considering the oft too-well-known friend possibility. Then there is C, who is also a friend; there was a moment when I had a thing for him, but it was just a very small blip on the radar, and actually a moment is much too long to describe the infatuation. But now it seems the tables are turned. He also was at the too-late-night-with-too-many-drinks get together of last eve, and when he walked me to my car, and we went to exchange the customary hug, he took the opportunity to kiss me; not the familiar kiss on the cheek, no, he planted one right on my lips. What was that about!?! I’m chalking it up to the alcohol, but I know he had nowhere near the amount that he is capable of consuming; two drinks on him is the equivalent of a ginger ale. Oh well, I won’t try too hard to understand that one. As if my head wasn’t spinning enough, this morning I received a phone call from my McDreamy, S. S and I have dated on and off again since February. I find him very physically attractive: the epitome of tall, dark and handsome with a pinch of ruggedness thrown in for good measure. And I have to say we have great chemistry, but as far as the other components of attraction that is where it ends.

This is where the sad twist to the story is introduced. None of these guys has a sprinkling of potential when compared to D. D and I also started dating in February, and at the point when the tide was turning us to a more serious path, to both of our dismay, life bombarded him with some extreme issues that had to have his undivided attention. It is now coming up on two months since we have spoke. I miss him, but I understand what he is dealing with is big, and I have maintained my distance.

In a previous relationship involvement, my friend A made a comment, “Well, it sounds like you have found Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Right Now.” I internally bristled at the comment, but smiled at A, knowing the touch of cynicism is the norm for my gay Jewish friend. The thing that made me bristle was the idea that all relationships have an expiration date attached: get what you need from it for now, but don’t expect it to last. It turned out A was correct, R was much more Mr. Right Now. However, I’m not ready to have expiration dates printed on all my relationships. I am very hopeful, despite all the opposing evidence that I will find the relationship I desire. But I have to say... Mr. Right Now is looking pretty good.

summertime…

Today, as I left the building for lunch, a wall of magnolia-scented warmth hit me, and with it, the realization of summer awoke. I wouldn’t consider myself a warm-weather girl, but neither am I enamored by the cold. I guess I prefer the moderate temps the best. So I was surprised at how the warmth thrilled me. There was pure enjoyment as I basked in the sauna of my car, and then tuned the air on high and rolled down all of the windows. Such extravagance! If I’m required to afford three and a half dollar a gallon fuel then I will also enjoy the luxury of both the air and windows, as I relish in the realization of summer!

the word of the day

The word of the day is turgid. Isn’t that a lovely word?! Doesn’t it just roll off your tongue? For those of you, like me, who need the definition: swollen, bloated, puffed up; as, “a turgid limb.” (I know, lovely, huh?) What I really like though is its use when it comes to language: swelling in style; bombastic, pompous; as, “a turgid style of speaking.” It’s so ugly; I may have to use it. Why use such prosaic words like “pompous”, when you could use “turgid”?!

*Forgot to credit Dictionary.com for their definitions and word usage.

random connections

I've known for quite some time that I'm not a big clubber. On the few occasions that I have gone out, I really have enjoyed myself, but probably not for the same reasons that others enjoy the experience. For me it is a grand study in human nature, and I spend most of the evening watching people. Last summer I went with friends to Vegas for a quick trip, and of course when in Vegas you have to go out. I found the whole experience rather odd in a fun, funny sort of way. Let me explain. 1. We wait in line for forty-five minutes 2. This wait earns us the right to pay big bucks once we get to the door. 3. Once inside the door, there is literally no room to move, and the crowd becomes one giant entity that occasionally sways us to a bar where we buy overpriced watered down drinks, or swings us to a dance floor where millimeters of movement is allowed. 4. In the wee morning hours the entity has broken apart enough to allow a track of hook-up potential that continually circles the club.

This weekend I spent some time at Disneyland, an activity that occurs much more frequently for me than clubbing. However, the thing that struck me after my DL outing was how very similar it is to the clubbing outing: long lines, lots of money, crowds that become a singular entity, and late night with slightly less hook-up potential.

to jump, or not to jump?

Yesterday someone jumped to his death from a 10-story window in my building. There are still many unanswered questions about who it was and why it took place, but nevertheless, it is a very disturbing event so close to home.

I first heard about it from my roommate when I came home last night. Her son is visiting from North Carolina, and he found himself comforting a woman in the parking lot next to our building after she had witnessed the event. I later found out that my neighbor and good friend TH encountered a man crying in the elevator. Being ever compassionate she asked if she could help. He then managed between sobs to inform her that he was afraid his son was dead having fallen from a window. Her medical training kicked in and she ran to the parking lot alley hoping to help. I’m sure she didn’t realize that the fall was from a 10-story window and hope was far away. Despite her many years of hospital work, and her previous encounters with death, the scene was a complete shock and an image she will live with forever.

In the midst of all of the pain and sadness, I find myself asking how a person gets to a point where the only question is to be, or not to be? I know there are no answers, or rather many answers, but no more questions, at least for the young man who died, but I will keep asking questions because somehow it seems to be a sign of those who wish to live.

a room with a view

I’m recently at a new job, and it is amazing how quickly you learn the shortcomings of co-workers. I heard rumors of a certain Marketing person who is in his 50s, married with three kids, dating another 30-something Marketing person, obviously not his wife. I found this interesting because I frequently work with the 30MP, and had talked to her about her engagement to a man who is working in Australia right now. I’m guessing having a fiancé so far away is probably not the most ideal situation. I didn’t listen much to the rumors until I noticed last week that the engagement ring was gone. Hard to miss the rock she was packing. Earlier this week, our third-story window had the perfect vantage point to see MP50 and MP30 walking to MP50s car at lunchtime. I also learned that MP50 confided in a friend that he misses having romance in his life. The whole situation makes me very sad. That window has a view into a future I hope I never experience.

an americano by any other name…

I love coffee… I love its smell… I love its taste… I love the almost-too-hot-to-hold mug in my hand with the coffee-scented steam wafting up my nose in the morning, and I love the slightly sweet and creamy, cold icy decaf in the afternoon. I’m quite aware that there was some basic conditioning that has brought me to my current state of desire for the brew. I grew up with the smell of Folgers percolating in the kitchen early every morning. My father was a carpenter when I was growing up and he had to leave the house before seven with his trusty thermos of coffee under his arm. That aroma of freshly brewed coffee is inherently home for me.

The positive reinforcement continued in college. The late eighties brought my art-school days and a steady consumption of coffee and TigerMilk protein bars. (Not a diet I would advocate for health, but good for maintaining a sleep-deprived state.) It didn’t hurt that I was living in Seattle at the time, and learning the intricacies of new complex flavor combinations derived from whole roasted beans from the new coffee shop in Pike Street Market Place, Starbucks. In 1987, although I was sipping my magic brew (code for doing shots of straight espresso) from the first Starbucks location, there were actually seventeen other locations… in the entire U.S. Just to give you a little perspective to that number. Last year when I found myself in Shanghai, China, I enjoyed coffee at three different Starbucks locations; the total number of Starbucks stores at that point in 2005 was 10,241. Boy, how times change. But I digress; this isn’t about the big bad corporate giant that threatens to take over the world, because if Starbucks is the Matrix, then I say, “Keep me plugged in!” Starbucks, especially when I was in art-school was just one more positive-reinforcement stepping stone to my love affair with coffee.

So many other happy times have the common thread of coffee running through them for me. I think of my early days in LA with late night coffee dates with friends at Borders or some fun eclectic Melrose coffee hangout enjoying mochas until two in the morning. There of course have been the random star sightings over coffee, like running into Fred Savage in Westwood, or the time we watched our friend run past Christian Slater five times while she was looking for him, or the time I brushed elbows with Matt Dillon on Larchmont. And in more recent years, there are the weekly coffee lunches with a friend that I remember with nostalgia, since proximity no longer allows it.

All these experiences show how coffee has been a major player in my life thus far. So at this point it should come as no surprise that I was searching for a blog title that would incorporate my coffee predilection. For a moment I considered something cutesy like “Jitters”, but I’m not really a cutesy kind of girl, and despite my love for the brew, I try and stay away from caffeine. I also pondered “the demitasse diaries”, “the java journal”, and the “the espresso epilogue” since I also love a good literary alliteration, but I can’t say that this blog has been, or ever will be very literary. (Also, refer back to the cutesy remark.) So instead of paying homage to my favorite drink in an overt way I instead chose “savor”, and with this small simple word I will incorporate in my mind all the wonderful ways it has applied to coffee for me.

inaugural post – part-time perfectionist

For the longest time I have had a serious bout of blog-envy. I love to write and reflect, and so blogging is a natural fit for me. In addition to my strong Carrie-esque desire I have a number of close friends who have taken up the pastime, which has further reminded me, on almost a daily basis, of my blogless state. So what, you might ask, has kept me from fulfilling my deep-seated desire? I attribute it to my part-time perfectionism (PTP*). (Sounds kind of like a bad 80’s song doesn’t it?) Anyway, my special brand of perfectionism has kept me from fulfilling the blog thing until now because I didn’t have the perfect title and a whole list of witty ideas from which I could draw. Mind you, this has been mulling around in my head for well over a year now, so obviously there has been a huge rush to bring it to reality.

For those of you who are not quite bored to tears yet, here’s how my special brand of PTP works:
1. get very excited about a project
2. obsess about it in my head for a long, long time, (a year is not too long!)
3. begin project, and become very anal about every detail for approximately two-weeks (which is just long enough to produce something, but rarely enough time to finish anything)
4. become bored or unsatisfied with the outcome
5. decide to put project on the backburner and take on at least three new projects to fill the void left by the boredom of the one

They always say the first step to changing a problem is recognizing there is one. Here goes: I’m not perfect! (even on a part-time basis) You’re shocked I’m sure. Translation in relation to this blog: I don’t have the perfect title, my wit and charm hover around a two right now, and my list of ideas ebb and flow from between one and three, but here I am making a move to live in the land of the bloggers. Given my track record and PTP you can count on having stellar posts (or somewhat mediocre ones if this post is included) from now until the end of May. Or it just might end after today. Enjoy!

(*this is for you ML, a.k.a. AG**)
(**Acronym Girl!)