my $1000 footrest…

Last weekend the knight called me to catch up, and I mentioned that I thought my clutch was going out. We agreed he’d look at it on Monday. Over the weekend I traveled all over with no problem, and even Monday morning I had a press check near downtown, and still had no problem. My boss and I decided to get lunch and I volunteered to drive, and that’s when it happened, my clutch went out. We called the knight to come and rescue us. He then had my car flatbed towed to his mechanic, and gave me rides to and from work for the rest of the week. Thursday my car was ready, and the knight gave me a ride to pick it up. The mechanic, a very sweet man who I know worked more hours than he charged me for, asked if I rest my foot on my clutch? My first inclination was to answer no, but as I thought about it I had to sheepishly answer yes. He let me know that was the reason for the freakishly short life of my clutch. I’ve decided to not beat myself up about this, (believe me, the knight has harassed me enough to last a lifetime; I guess a small price to pay for a knight’s services*) after all, I’ve had my car for four years, so really it is only $250 a year, and if you divide that by the number of months in a year its about $20 a month; so I’ve been spending less than a dollar a day for a footrest for my left foot, and really, that is a small price to pay!

*FYI, I’ve adopted the knight as my big brother, which might explain the acceptance of his harassment: a necessary part of a brotherly relationship! Plus it also helps me to overlook the many times he comes to my rescue, because really that’s what family is for, and since all of my family is long-distance, I’m sure they won’t mind him stepping in to bridge the familial gap.

submit urself woman…

Last year I had a friendship with an attractive man that ended after a now infamous text message was sent to me. We had been fighting because he didn’t respect my time commitments, and everything revolved around him and his schedule; narcissist comes to mind. Since we weren’t speaking to one another he opted to text me demanding that I stop and pick him up so he could fix my roommate’s computer. I communicated back to him in a text that I needed an apology before I would be able to stop and pick him up. I thought this was a reasonable request. However, silence ensued, which makes me think he didn’t think an apology to be a reasonable course of action. Later that night he text messaged me saying, “There’s only 1 man here n that’s me so stop acting like 1. Submit urself woman!” I literally laughed out loud. However, I know his intention wasn’t to make me laugh. He was serious! He sent it one more time in the early morning hours. I didn’t feel any need to respond, and that was it for our friendship.

That is until last night. He sent an email asking if I was ready to apologize. His words exactly were, “You miss me don’t you? And boy I’m looking better than ever! Ready to apologize?” Who says this?!? It's like a bad comedy routine! Now from a psychological standpoint, I get that his bravado and narcissism is just a cover for insecurities, and we all have them, but really… I guess all I can do is laugh since I’m not ready to submit!

T, my modern day knight in shining armor…

A few days ago, I knew I needed to stop and get gas on the way home; the miles left count down on my dash must have zeroed out on my way home the night before, but typical me, I didn’t notice until on my way to work the next morning. And of course, also typical me, I didn’t have time to stop without risking being late to work. At least I remembered after work of my sad need of fuel. I stopped at a gas station and searched for my coin purse that holds my credit cards. While frantically looking in every corner of the bottomless pit known as my purse, I came to the sad realization that I had taken it out the day before and forgot to return it. Although the new commute home is much less than before, I knew I would surely run out of gas if I tried to make it back home. I did one last ditch effort search before looking up. When I came up for air, I couldn’t help but smile. There was my friend T from work with a smirk on his face and laughter in his eyes, as he sat in his car holding out a $20 for my fuel tank. He had just seen me at the gas station on his way home, and noticed me looking through my purse, so he figured something was wrong and he pulled off and waited. He must have been sitting there for three minutes or more while I had my head buried in my bag, then he just smiled and handed me the cash and went on his way. His ability to read me is so disconcerting. Nevertheless, he did save the day.

round and round we go, where we stop nobody knows…

“round and round we go, where we stop nobody knows… round and round we go…” this sing-song-y childhood chant has been niggling at my brain for months now. I seem to remember it from my days playing on the merry-go-round, or maybe it was a part of a duck-duck-goose kind of game; for some reason I can’t remember the specifics, but the phrase has been chasing around in my head intrinsically tied to how fast my legs could carry me in whatever merriment the words were born. There’s an image I have of my childhood self that’s tied to these words: face all aglow with an uncontainable joy, and laughter spilling out without any restraint while the dark green and brown of the trees and the light green of the new spring grass blurs in circles around me. The spinning vertigo rush leaves me breathless and flushed, while the addiction to that feeling requires me to submit to the twirling forces over and over again. The image makes me smile.

Recently my life has encompassed all of the vertigo-induced adrenaline from the figurative merry-go-round twirls, but with none of the laughter or smiles. I’m working to add the joy back into my life without the twists and turns I’ve been encountering; hopefully the twirling chaos isn’t an unknown addiction. While I still don’t know where I’ll be stopping (the nursery rhyme still holds true in real life) I’ll leave the twists and turns to the rollercoaster’s at Disneyland!

hug me foiled

On my way to work this morning, I was happy to see that my traffic signpost is back from its holiday. Apparently it didn’t get the extra day the federal offices were given to commemorate President Ford, but instead is back blinking the times to the next freeway just for me (and the other 100,000 commuters on the 101). I almost stopped to give it a hug right then and there, but unfortunately my signpost (the one which provides the most support) has a fence around it; who knows, maybe hugging signposts has caused traffic problems in the past? I’ll just hug it in my heart and hope it knows my love and support.

hug me

I love the movie L.A. Story. Its quirky LA-centric story has Steve Martin hugging a freeway street sign at one point in the movie. Although I’ve always attributed the anthropomorphic behavior as pure fiction, and my freeway sign has never asked me to hug it, I did realize on my commute to work today that I do believe my freeway sign is on holiday. No lights. No estimates of minutes to the next freeway. Clearly it’s taking a much-needed break while there’s not so much traffic. Maybe I should hug it without it having to ask. I think I’ll wait until I know its back from its vacation.

meaningful serendipity

I often ascribe meaning to events or situations because, well, I guess I’m a human searching for meaning (an homage to a psychology hero Victor Frankl). I’ll admit that the ascribed meaning may not always be justified, but nevertheless the meaning is there. As further explanation to this, I also believe in God and often see God’s interaction in my life. However, I don’t think that God rules over every single detail of my life, so this further challenges what deserve meaning. To further confuse the issue, I often question terms like chance or luck, and find other words like fate and destiny to attribute the possibility of God’s interaction.

All of this is coming up because yesterday I had a random encounter with a good friend. My boss and I decided to run an errand and grab lunch at a little Thai place. While running the errand I ran into J, a previous co-worker who has also become a good friend. I had seen him a few weeks before at his graduation ceremony, and I’d been thinking about him a lot, but our schedules haven’t allowed us to get together to catch up for quite awhile. He ended up joining us for lunch, and while it was great to see him, I am marveling more at us even meeting. Neither of us frequent our meeting place; he was picking up a tux for a friend’s wedding, and if I were a mathematician and I could figure out probability formulas, I’m sure the odds of us meeting in the couple of minute window in this random location would be huge. Later when I told my roommate the story she quickly attributed the meeting as fate; I pointed out that although I could believe it was fate, J most likely would say it was a coincidence. She responded with the statement men are afraid of fate. As I thought about it, we all are a bit fearful of things we don’t understand, especially when it appears our freewill is taken away.

In my ponderings of these different terms I latched on to “serendipity”. I love that word; apparently I’m not alone, according to Simon Singh a British mathematician, Britain’s voted serendipity their favorite (or should I say favourite) word in 2000. In 2001 the movie Serendipity gave those of us who buy into sappy romantic tales hope that destiny will prevail in romance. But there’s a difference between a movie and real life… right? Serendipitous events make for great stories, but I have a hard time thinking they are anything more than fiction… well mostly. There in lies the dilemma: my rational mind can’t accept fate, destiny, or serendipity, while my spiritual/emotional mind, or maybe better phrased my heart believes beyond a shadow of a doubt they exist. I guess you could say, I’m two people in one body. My training taught me to only embrace truth proven empirically. But then there is the truth that my heart knows that requires faith. So I guess I will continue attaching meaning to things in my life and wonder about the validity of their meaning. And I guess time will tell if my meeting with J was mere coincidence, or fateful serendipity.

the weight of a couple of words

I’m finding that I spend much of my life in “if-only” mode. If only I could lose twenty pounds I’d find the man of my dreams, or if only I could make it to the gym every other day I would lose the twenty pounds. If only I could manage to get myself totally organized I could become more efficient, and I could spend more time doing the fun stuff. If only I liked broccoli as much as I like chocolate. If only chocolate didn’t fill that nasty emotional void so well when I’m sad. If only, when the world is closing in, I could feel all of the hard emotions instead of pushing them aside. If only I could shut off the emotions when they get to the breaking point and just think when I need to work. If only…

My roommate is sick with stomach cancer. After a time of uncertainty of whether I was able to believe what she was telling me, I now know that it is true. It not only is true, but she is really much sicker than what she has led me to believe. A couple of weeks ago we had a serious conversation, and she let me know that the chemo isn’t really working. The doctor informed her he believed she was in stage 4; that’s stage four of five. He also suggested she get her will in order. There have been days since when she feels much better and has hope that she can beat it, but then there are days like today when she is in pain and she describes her bones hurting. I’m sure she finds herself saying, if only I could live.

I’m now crying. Apparently my psyche can no longer run from the tears. It would be nice if I could choose the time and place for an emotional breakdown, but no, here I sit at my workstation writing this with tears unabashedly flowing. Thankfully most of the work force has gone, so explanations, if any will be few. I was thinking about a book I read awhile back called “The Things They Carried” written by Tim O’Brien. He deals with the horrors of war in a series of short stories recounting how the weight of the huge amount of war gear they carry is light compared to the emotional baggage the killing of the war leaves with them. In no way do I feel like what I’m going through compares with the atrocities of war, but at the same time this baggage I’m carrying right now is getting very heavy. If only I could just live my life without the weight of all of my “if only’s”, and just embrace each day as a gift to be cherished and lived to the fullest. If only…

the early bird gets the orange!

This morning I made a very early morning trip to Starbucks to send my friends off to Africa on a bit of a caffeine-high. I have to say I was absolutely giddy with joy when I discovered a three pack of mini Starbucks syrups, one of which was my beloved Valencia Orange! (Reference point in case you missed it.) I had already checked out, but immediately snatched up a couple of packs and pulled out my gold card again. I then enquired why they had the mini when they discontinued the syrup, and apparently I wasn’t the only one who loved the syrup. They use to use the orange flavor in their iced tea, and the iced tea lovers have also missed the Valencia syrup, so because of the public outcry they are bringing it back! If I had only written a letter instead of a blog entry this might have happened sooner. But let’s not dwell in the past; instead we will relish the future full of Valencia Orange syrup. I can now continue on in my pathetic dating life, knowing that the inevitable down days will be soothed once again with my orange elixir.

funny, disturbing, or just some great advice?

Conversation I overheard between two guys at the gym the other evening. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions concerning their stellar intellect: (for the purposes of keeping this post PG, f-- represents the present active form of the verb to f***)

Dude 1: I really want to get that f-- new job, but I have to f-- take that f-- state test, and its f-- a hundred bucks to take the test.

Dude 2: Dude, you should f-- take the test. I heard you could f-- make $1400 a week.

Dude 1: Yeah, that is cool, but dude, its been f-- eight years since I’ve f-- been in school. I f-- need to take a class to help me pass the f-- test because I f-- don’t remember the difference between my f-- synonyms and my f-- acronyms!

Dude 2: Hey dude, I know its f-- a hundred bucks to take the test, but my buddy f-- took the same test, and if you f-- don’t pass it the first time, then its f-- only $25 to take it again.

Dude 1: Wow, that's f-- cool!

blog neglect

I’m suffering from a severe case of blog neglect, and I’m very sad about it. I have at least a dozen posts in my head, but too busy on all fronts to download them to paper. Hopefully something will give a bit soon.

exercise for my soul

Last night I went to visit S, a girl who lived with me a couple of years ago, and I enjoyed holding her newborn son who was born a week ago. She’s now almost 20, and almost an adult. I say almost because adulthood requires certain responsibilities that S has avoided up to now. The bittersweet part of the story is our visit took place in skid row. There among the various addicts and mentally ill stood my sweet girl holding her sweet baby boy. Now to be fair I know skid row generally conjures up a certain negative perception of homelessness that involves filth and encampments. However, that wasn’t my experience last night. I’m aware that since I have lived in downtown for so many years I may be desensitized a bit to an appropriate idea of normal, but San Julian, the street next to several of the city’s largest missions, was much cleaner than I have ever seen it with no encampments. We also witnessed a deep level of community and protection among the people who live there, and last night was filled with laughter from all directions. Even still it’s not the place I ever want to see a baby.

I have lived in downtown for a long time, and have seen a lot of crazy things, but this city never ceases to provide a countless number of surreal experiences. At one point we were standing talking on the sidewalk, me, N, S and babe, with several of her friends, when a church youth group came walking through twelve deep, but responding as one. You could tell this was a challenge to their worldview and fear held onto them tight. As they passed, across the street there was a man who picked up a couch from the sidewalk, put it on his head, and ran away with it. Meanwhile the chatter and laughter of our little group never stopped. That is probably why it has taken me so long to figure out that despite the positive upbeat feel of the night I’m very sad. Today a number of my friends are working to try and find S a place to stay that is a little more permanent and healthy for the baby, but until we find a place she’ll be staying on my couch. I guess, for me skid row adjacent is still much better than skid row. More than anything it just helps my heart.

just call me crazy!

I’ve heard an apt description of insanity as repeating an action over and over again expecting different results. While I am sure I could apply this to many areas of my life, let’s just focus on one area of insanity. I’m a fair-skinned white girl very prone to burning with over-exposure in the sun. This knowledge is readily available by just looking at me, however, there have been many occasions over my lifetime that I have had an opportunity to test out this presupposition and have found it to be very true, the results of which leave me very red and in pain for days. Why then, do I operate out of my insanity, when clearly I have tested and re-tested my ability to survive in the summer sun?!? The above picture is of my leg, photographed just moments ago, three days after my sun encounter. And never fear, ever the exemplification of thoroughness, I have a matching tone on my back too. At this point I am sure someone would like to inform me about the simplistic value of sunscreen, and to this I wish I could fain ignorance, but alas, I actually had applied sunscreen to my face, arms and shoulders; I even managed to put some on my ears. But the broad sweeping strokes required for my legs and back somehow brought out the insane part of my brain, and those areas were neglected. Neglected that is until now. Now as I sit, still enduring an overarching dull pain over my back and legs with occasional sharp spikes that stab through my flesh, I wonder at the beauty of sunscreen, and its proper usage. Okay, so the stabbing through my flesh is a bit melodramatic, but please, whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for me! Why? Because I am INSANE!

the lost and found (or rather the lost and the more lost)

Sunday night I had an odd and very disconcerting evening, and I can’t seem to shake the residue its left on my heart. I attended a 4th of July BBQ at S & B’s house, my friends who are like my family. Over the years I have met a number of their couple friends at various parties and get-togethers, and several of these couples were in attendance, as well as some new friends. When I say couples, I really mean family units, since most of these couples have been married for a decade or more and have pre-teen and teen-aged children similar to S & B. Two different couples caught my attention almost immediately since their unhappiness was so evident; actually it was the men who appeared to not be happy. With one couple it was very obvious; the male counterpart of the couple was surly and just seemed lost. His wife was too helpful, too happy, and ignored her husband. They didn’t sit together, or interact in any way, and if you didn’t already know that they are a couple it wouldn’t be apparent at all from their interactions at the BBQ. The other family unit that I noticed were much more subtle in their unhappiness. They sat together and on the surface seemed okay, but then there were the cryptic messages the husband would blurt out. Nothing that would seem too odd, but the realization dawned on me that night that the passing comment B had made about friends who were heading to a divorce included them.

Although it made me very sad, seeing these two dissolving family units by themselves wasn’t the thing that disturbed me the most. There was also a new family who came, neighbors from across the street. The husband and wife with their two daughters, in my estimation were a beautiful family. I was informed in the introductions that the oldest daughter, probably about 15, is going to baby-sit T, S & B’s youngest child. Charming, witty, and full of smiles the family unit seemed perfect; that is until Tyrone started to touch me, or rather my arm. (Yes, I’m dispensing with anonymity for the moment!) Touching me one time, in the course of telling a funny story is excusable; twice, one more time during another story, understandable maybe… but three times! with the third being a full arm extended rub up and down to comfort my lost ability to perform in front of a crowd is anything but normal! The sad thing is there was a sick-and-twisted part of me that was flattered by his touch; don’t get me wrong; there is nothing I did to encourage the attention at all! But although there is never any part of me that would ever think an affair with a married person is okay, I still was taken by Tyrone’s charm. However, after the moment of attention has subsided, I still can’t shake the “woe-is-me-always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride!” feeling that continues to leave me restless. Still the larger disturbance, from the weekend BBQ, is my wonder at how any man stays faithful and monogamous in any relationship without becoming dead inside?

who needs a man?

Who needs a man when you have a WW 8 point cheese pizza, ¾ bottle of two-buck-chuck vino, a half a container of fat-free BBQ Pringles, and a half a bag of reeses peanut butter bites! Can anyone say emotional eating!?!

Let’s make this fun: a meal that would send any normal person into a food-coma $11.95, finding out an ex is getting married… priceless!

word of the day

Who has heard of this word before?! and how do you even say it? Anyway, here it is courtesy of dictionary.com.

Brobdingnagian \brob-ding-NAG-ee-uhn\, adjective: Of extraordinary size; gigantic; enormous.

The venture capital business has a size problem. A monstrous, staggering, stupefying one. Brobdingnagian even.
–Russ Mitchell, "Too Much Ventured Nothing Gained", Fortune, November 11, 2002

Any savvy dealer . . . will try to talk you up to one of the latest behemoths, which have bloated to such Brobdingnagian dimensions as to have entered the realm of the absurd.
–Jack Hitt, "The Hidden Life of SUVs", Mother Jones, July/August 1999

This is for you ML, "That's what she said!"

baby got back?

Earlier last week my morning commute allowed me enough time to stop and get a Starbucks treat to start my day. I was happy and excited to finally try the raspberry-mocha combo that I missed out on a couple of weeks ago. My boss, knowing some of the dating drama that has been a part of my world recently, had suggested that I hang out at Starbucks more since she told me of another person she knew who found his girlfriend at the famous coffee hang out. As I was waiting for my wonderful brew, I have to admit to venturing a look around at several men who caught my eye. One in particular held my attention for a few moments longer than the rest, but he was still ordering when my cup came calling, so I grabbed my joe and headed on my way.

The joy of my you-got-to-work-early-so-you-deserve-a-treat reward only lasted for a few moments as I surveyed my car situation. There was a large Infiniti sedan that was parked so close to my Mini that I would have to be at least half my size in all directions in order to comfortably enter my car. After my initial frustration I took on the challenge to make a way into my vehicle, and gave quite a show with my shimmy-shake coffee-balancing dance while utilizing the whole five inches my door was allowed to open without bumping the Infiniti. I had just settled into the driver’s seat and found the home for my coffee when the handsome holder-of-my-attention from the counter knocked on my window. “I’m so sorry,” he managed once my window was down, “I saw you getting into your car, and I didn’t realize I had parked so close, I’m really sorry.”

Now I’m not claiming to have the most stellar repartee, but I do have moments of witty cleverness, so let’s review some of the things I could have said in response to his apology: “I guess the next coffee is on you” in a teasing tone with a twinkle in my eye, or “your smile is thanks enough” with a warm sincere smile, or “well this will cost you!” with mock demand as I hand him my number. Again, nothing outstanding, but answers I would be proud to claim. What I said instead, to the cute man standing at my window who had just witnessed my slap-stick comedy kind of struggle into my car, and who was awaiting my reply to his apology, to this man I said, “I didn’t think my a** was that big!” That’s really what I said, “I didn’t think my a** was that big!” WHO SAYS THAT!!! I am certain those words have never crossed my lips before in my life! Yet in the rare opportunity to show this handsome man my cute ways, smart wit, and fun confident personality, I instead choke and default to self-deprecation! He smiled and walked away unaware of my stealth flirtation attempt, while I grimaced and drove off marveling at my social ineptness.

the things they carry

My friend Y, recently wrote a beautifully poignant blog about the hard things we carry. I guess it hit home for me. The last couple of weeks have been hard on me, and my heart, but despite the load I carry (which I’ll probably write about later), it’s hard to watch the people I love go through difficult things. In a way you hope that you can carry some of the burden, but really the weight will always be heaviest with them. As a result, I see all these emotions they are feeling with an inability to feel them myself. Maybe this is my defense mechanism so I can hold it together. But I do predict that sometime next week or the week after, it will all catch up to me, and I’ll have myself a good cry. Maybe then it will be lighter. I only hope until then that I can hold hands and be a support to the heavy lifters.

My mother and grandmother
My Great Aunt Alice passed away this week.

My sister
A co-worker friend was in a car accident over the weekend and he passed away this week.

My roommate
For the past five months my roommate has been battling stomach cancer.
Yesterday, we found out that a nephew of hers was shot and killed while coming home from work.

My friend
My friend T’s father, whom I adore, has had several bouts with a couple of different kinds of cancer. The most recent was a small, metastasized lump in his hand from his renal cancer from ten years ago. A few months ago he was given a clean bill of health. However, after a check-up this weekend, they believe the spot they have been watching in his kidney cavity is growing.

You are all in my heart, and I hope the burden will be eased, or shareable soon.

m.i.a.

I know I have been missing in action from the blog front recently, but I going to try and make up for it in the next couple of days. There is plenty to say, just not enough hours to say it.

bunnies & birds

The above is artwork from a co-worker's son. He is six. I was amazed by his bunny at Easter time, but his bird is even better. Can you believe a six year old?!? Apparently, he is a golf prodigy too. I really don't know him, but I'm in love with this little boy.

the stars are aligned

Today at lunch we went to a little hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place, Vinh Loi Tofu, which had a write-up in the LA Times. It literally only has three tables in the place, but the food is great. If ever you are in the Reseda area and hungering for Tofu you should check it out. Anyway the funny thing is we were competing for a table with the actor, Hector Elizondo. I remember him most recently from the Princess Diaries (don’t judge me, I’m sure you secretly wanted to see it too!), but I also loved him as the doorman in Pretty Woman, and I really enjoyed him in Chicago Hope. So running into an actor in the LA vicinity isn’t necessarily funny, or unusual for that matter, but it is a little funny in an odd way considering this is the second time in a couple of months that we have run into him at different places at lunch time. Hmmm, maybe I’m destined for the movies!?! Or maybe we will only ever just consume Vietnamese and Shabu at the same time.

where the sidewalk ends, and other tales from the airport

Beginning of trip on Friday:
My favorite tale from my weekend airport experiences involves the moving sidewalks found in most airports these days. I love these modern wonders; they are like giant treadmills, but bouncier, and I feel so productive when I am walking on one. I especially love them when I am in a rush, and trying to catch a plane after being detained by the tightened security measures, but that’s another story.

So I flew into SF, and was making my way to my gate when I came upon the much loved modern wonder of a sidewalk, and even though the timing didn’t necessitate a mad rush, I did want to walk on the moving sidewalk; go ahead, call me crazy! Not to mention that as an adult it’s the closest I get to a trampoline, and who could pass up something even remotely reminiscent to a trampoline? At this point in the story it is worthy to suggest that there is an unwritten code of the moving sidewalk by which people generally abide: those who want to walk do so on the left, while those who want to stand do so on the right; doesn’t everyone know this!?! And, here is where the conflict arises. I came upon a middle-aged couple taking up the entire sidewalk with their standing. This wasn’t necessarily unusual, but in their standing the woman looked back and saw me coming; instead of moving aside and following the code of the sidewalk she turned back around, stood her ground, and made me ask her in my ever-so-kind tone, “Excuse me, please.” She begrudgingly moved aside, and let me pass, but not without comment. Turning to her husband she said in a voice loud enough for my benefit, “I don’t understand why people use this sidewalk if they are going to insist on walking!” I walked on laughing, but wanted to turn and retort, “I don’t understand why people insist on standing still on the moving sidewalk!” but alas, the comment stayed locked in my head for my amusement alone.


Earlier in the day while I was going through the lovely tightened airport security, I was asked to step aside while one of my bags was searched. I was in no way alarmed since this has happened before. The TSA officer took my messenger bag off to another table, and I took the opportunity to put back all of the contents of my life that by requirement were spilled on the security conveyor belt. I was mostly put back together and clad with footwear again when he said, “Ma’am, can you please step over here?” stated more as a statement versus a question. Again, not too alarmed, but more a twinge of concern. He then guided me to another higher-ranking TSA officer, and handed over a knife he had found in my bag. Okay, the twinge of concern was now a bit more elevated. It is true I had a knife, but it’s a kitchen paring knife, and I had no clue it was in my bag. I explained to the TSA officer that I had used the same bag a few weekends before to go to Catalina and I had the paring knife along to cut apples for a snack; I totally forgot it was in my bag. She seemed to believe my story, but as she held the knife up to the ruler she let me know that anything over three and a half inches they are required to call the authorities. Thankfully my knife hovered right at the three point five mark, and after determining my happiness to turn over the knife they let me go. I know that this might seem like a huge stretch, but for just a moment I felt I had a real glimpse of what it might be like to live in a government-run country, the kind where an individual’s rights are disregarded, and fear is the norm in ruling the masses. I never was fearful, just the twinge of concern, and my situation ended without incident, but somehow it made me appreciate the freedom we do experience every day.


End of trip on Monday:
My day began yesterday morning at 2:30am with a mad dash to pack up the final vestiges of a weekend away, and to catch an early flight out of Portland. Let’s just say, it makes for an interesting Monday morning to start it so early. Mondays suck for me anyway, so let’s just tack on four more hours of bliss and throw in two flights and airport parking to add to the joy of the day. The funny thing is, aside from me trying to amputate my toe with a gas pump it was a pretty descent day. On my second flight I met a woman who flew from Seattle to Burbank for the day just to audition for an R&B sax spot in Beyoncé’s band. I thought that was pretty cool and gave her a ride to the audition (it was just down the street, but easier to drive than walk in heels). Who knows, maybe I’ll know someone who knows Beyoncé! Most likely not, but I think it is still cool.


Last story, but I'm tired so no connections or flourish. I stopped to get gas and the gas pump popped out of my tank and fell on my big toe, which caused me to double over in pain and cry. My toe was bleeding, and there were no paper towels to be found. When I finally found the gas station attendant, I went off on him. He heard about his faulty equipment and lack of paper towels, and then I demanded some sort of antiseptic to clean my toe. In the beginning he wasn’t very helpful, but he found the first aid kit and watched me while I nursed my wound. I then felt guilty for yelling at him, and apologized letting him know that the reason I yelled was because I was in pain. He didn’t say anything in response, but the initially unhelpful man who wanted to break out the disposable gloves before getting near my bloody toe, softened into a kind man who wouldn’t let me finish bandaging my toe, and instead insisted that he wrap it in gauze and three more band-aids. My toe still hurts, but a little kindness goes a long way, and I’ll still buy fuel from his station.

So this is where the sidewalk ends.

…orange you glad I didn’t say banana?!

I’m sad… apparently Starbucks no longer carries Valencia as a flavor of syrup. I love coffee, but I rarely get a special cup of brew. An Americano is my drink of choice, simple, straightforward, and economical. I will switch between decaf and half/caf, or hot versus iced, but for the most part nothing else really changes. That is until I need a very special treat. These special treats usually only come around in relationship to cheering myself up after some issue with a boy, and this morning I needed a special treat. I had my heart set on adding one pump of Valencia and one pump of mocha to my grande decaf Americano with room order, only to be foiled by the barista who not only informed me that they no longer carry the Valencia syrup, but they haven’t had it for a long time. There was an accusatory attitude behind the statement as if she were saying, “You couldn’t have really liked it that much, if you didn’t know that we no longer carry your precious orange syrup.” Go ahead stab me, and then twist the knife! Does no one but me appreciate the special citrus goodness that when combined with a hint of chocolate and deep rich espresso becomes a magical elixir with the powers to heal (or at least mend a little bit) a broken-heart?! I wanted to scream, “It hasn’t been that long since I’ve had a boy-issue, so you couldn’t have been out for very long!”, but instead I calmly and rationally tried to come up with another flavor. I couldn’t think, and so consequently defaulted to peppermint. The peppermint-chocolate-espresso marriage does have its own special merits, but after this morning’s experience, I believe it only really has broken-heart-healing-powers around Christmas time. I think tomorrow I’ll have to try the raspberry-chocolate-espresso combination for its super-hero-heart-healing-power. I know that Starbucks is all the rage with bananas right now, but I really doubt that fake banana would do the trick for me.* Too bad, it would have worked better with my title… hmm, maybe banana coconut? I’ll keep you posted.

*No double entendre intended.

a whisper and slam

Life is a series of beginnings and endings. The problem is the beginning comes so softly, just a whisper, while the ending crashes and slams with echoes that last far after it’s gone. I just wish I could be more aware of those early whispered beginnings, the ones that mean something.

i saved 15 minutes!

I’m so excited! I got to work in just under 30 minutes today. The normal commute of at least 45 minutes is now history; I have found the key to saving those 15 minutes of precious morning time. I just have to leave the house at 6am. No problem! Who knew that no one drives at 6am?!? I was even able to get in a small workout! Can you tell I am very excited? So what if my eyes are burning from sleep deprivation, and I managed to forget my carefully chosen outfit at home, I’m saving 15 minutes!

PS–Yes, I am fully aware that there is a slight edge to this that is verging on psychopathic, but don’t commit me yet; let’s just see how long my early morning commute lasts. I’m sure my 15-minute-savings-euphoria will wear out, I’m guessing about the same time as the caffeine.

a game of i-spy

I just realized that I am the only single person I know who shops at Costco. This fact dawned on me with vivid clarity, as I sat by myself eating my Chicken Caesar Salad from the Costco food court last night. All around me was the family-bustle, mothers and fathers swirling around their 2.5 children with their shopping carts filled to the brim with the staples of a household. And me with my meager holdings of a pair of Champion workout pants and my Dove moisture-rich shower gel. I sat observing as a mom played peek-a-boo with a little one, and another cajoled her child to finish the now cold pizza, while numerous dads waited at the window for countless hotdogs and mammoth slices of pizza, and I just sat and observed, and jealously longed for the banal task of family shopping. It reminded me of a scene from When Harry Met Sally. Meg Ryan’s character Sally was musing about a time she babysat a friend’s little girl. The little girl and her played a game of I-spy; after several of the usual outdoor objects, the little girl exclaimed, “I spy a family!” That one little phrase brought Sally to tears, and I understand that heartache more than ever. For now, I guess I will find contentment as the only single person hanging out at the Costco food court watching the families go by.

unfaithful

Yesterday when I was running errands after work I heard this song for the first time and it made me very sad. Admittedly, I’m really emotional right now, but songs don’t usually affect me like this one did. Then last night I talked to a man who lived this song. His wife carried on an affair for five of the eight years of their marriage. My sadness had a point of reference. I’m sure the connection can be written off as some sort of coincidence. Or… maybe the universe interacts with us in much deeper ways than I understand.

"Unfaithful" by Rihanna

Story of my life
Searching for the right
But it keeps avoiding me
Sorrow in my soul
Cause it seems that wrong
Really loves my company

He's more than a man
And this is more than love
The reason that the sky is blue
But clouds are rolling in
Because I'm gone again
And to him I just can't be true

And I know that he knows I'm unfaithful
And it kills him inside
To know that I am happy with some other guy
I can see him dying

I don't wanna do this anymore
I don't wanna be the reason why
Everytime I walk out the door
I see him die a little more inside
I don't wanna hurt him anymore
I don't wanna take away his life
I don't wanna be... A murderer

I feel it in the air
As I'm doing my hair
Preparing for another date
A kiss up on my cheek
He's here reluctantly
As if I'm gonna be out late
I say I won't be long
Just hanging with the girls
A lie I didn't have to tell
Because we both know
Where I'm about to go
And we know it very well

Cause I know that he knows I'm unfaithful
And it kills him inside
To know that I am happy with some other guy
I can see him dying

I don't wanna do this anymore
I don't wanna be the reason why
Everytime I walk out the door
I see him die a little more inside
I don't wanna hurt him anymore
I don't wanna take away his life
I don't wanna be... A murderer

I lost his trust
I might as well take a gun and put it to his head
Get it over with
I don't wanna do this anymore

I don't wanna do this anymore
I don't wanna be the reason why
Everytime I walk out the door
I see him die a little more inside
I don't wanna hurt him anymore
I don't wanna take away his life
I don't wanna be... A murderer

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!)