Los Angeles

The Renaissance Pleasure Faire

To the Renaissance Pleasure Faire we go!

I was going to title this “Mel dives into LARPing for the first time,” but that’s not in the least bit true. All I did to prep for the Renaissance fair was braid my hair into a semi-decent Dutch crown.

But, HUZZAH! I had the pleasure (pun-intended) to go to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Irwindale on Saturday with the roomies. As a virgin-Renaissance-fair goer, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. But I really did have some good ole’ medieval fun.

Actually, since it was me and one of my roommate’s first time at a Renaissance fair, a random festival goer (in character) took us aside and pronounced our welcoming to the crowd of people. He then asked if we were together, which my roommate answered with a “Yes,” and I answered with a “What?!” That awkwardness was trumped by distraction though, since there were so many shops filled to the brim with knick-knacks I don’t need, but very much wanted.

$16 garland. I doubt medieval people ever paid for their garlands. Pfff. But pretty, regardless!

Just to give you a picture of all the things I fancied, but completely lacked necessity, I’ll list a few: a glass potion bottle (thought it would make for a great flask), a leather-bound journal, a pewter chalice, and a wooden sword. Who the hell doesn’t need a wooden sword though? Truly.

The roommates and I dined ye olde-fashioned, with beers—I had Harp, Hoegaarden, and a “Bloody Buddy” chocolate and raspberry porter mixture—and a turkey leg. I consumed more calories than I had this past week—most definitely. But it was well, well worth it.

The definition of classy.

Here’s a summary of events that took place while at the fair:

1. We paid $2 to get lost in a maze. And lost, we were.

2. We waited to watch a joust, but instead ended up watching this bird man that introduced us to owls and vultures. I was on my last drink at that point, and mixed up my bag-o-sweet nuts with my beer. Rookie mistake.

3. Irwindale had a beautiful backdrop of a lake and misty mountains. We took a good break while taking in the nature. It was almost as if we traveled outside of Los Angeles (which we technically did, but still). Fresh air at last. Kind of.

4. My roommate, Ben, had a random “battle” with a woman. He was decked out in war gear and everything. Not really sure who won, but he looked good!

5. This:

It was like a skeevy group shower. Oh look, a little girl in a tub.

And this:

Not sure what’s going on, but I rolled with it.

. . . Does this make me cooler, or what*

Oh yeah, and I really wanted this wooden armory. For the love of all things bad ass:

Beauties.

*Debatable.

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Ruminations

Changing up URLs.

Because of my lack of timing and attention, my old url ohmelgee.com is now defunct and up for grabs. That is, if you have $280 to spare. I don’t really care about shelving over $200 bones, so I bought the domain name ohmel-gee.com. Horrible part is that Google searches still lead to ohmelgee.com. I’m hoping that Google’s smart bots will figure it out and redirect, but I’m still reading up on how to do all of that. UGH.

In the meantime, I defer you to this boring but very important news.

Also note that I plan to do a site revamp once again. It’s been really hard updating this dear, dear blog, but I need to remap it out.

Don’t cry too much,

Mel

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TV

Addicted to “Misfits.”

Just started watching Misfits two nights ago, and I’m almost done with the first season.

In my defense, it’s standard for British tele to have short seasons. This one had six. But still, I easily drained five hours of my life. No regrets.

The premise of the show: While on a probation, young adults acquire superpowers during a lightening storm. Just so happens that their obtained powers showcase their insecurities. A metaphor for adolescence? Score one for Misfits.

Of course there’s an overarching plot, but I won’t spoil the fun for you. But do know that it’s a dramadey with lots of sex. Like lots of sex.

If I had a Misfit-esque superpower, it would probably be the ability to poison people, or something to that extent. I get really self-conscious about my cooking and baking for some reason. I’m not a terrible cook in the least bit, but I’m always terrified that my dishes will taste like shit to other people.

So there you go. I just unknowingly Chicken Souped for the Soul.

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Literature, Ruminations

Why Nancy Drew Can Trade Lives With Me Any Day.

Ugh, I just sneezed into my own hair. Gross.

Anyways, I hope I’m not getting sick. There’s usually one week every month when I feel less than par. And it’s not PMS, I promise.

Just because I have no other segway into this, I’m going to right out tell you that I sometimes wish I was Nancy Drew. Okay, most of the time.

As one of my childhood heroes, Ms. Drew has done it all. She’s saved heirlooms, caught missing persons, and manhandled “ghosts” with barely a scratch. I’d say she’s had a nearly perfect life.

Look at her entourage: a lawyer-father, a maid/nanny/surrogate grandmother who makes amazing cookies, two best buds who always have her back, a hot boyfriend who doesn’t let his manly mojo get in the way of the shere fact that Nancy is clearly smarter than he, and a cute-ass chocolate lab.

Also, she’s been solving crimes within 100 pages (since the age of ten).

The only thing this sleuth lacks is proper detective disguises. I’m pretty sure there’s a limit on how many times you can put a scarf on your head and call yourself a traveling secretary.

Luckily, during my late-night window shopping, as in online window shopping (funny how “window shopping” inadvertently has two meanings in one–a big sigh for our digital society), I stumbled upon this:

1. Someone buy this for me.

2. Penny Warner is a genius. As much as I commend her, I have an exact amount of contempt, because I’m jealous I didn’t think of this first.

3. Someone buy this for me.

Also, I came across this book:

. . . Which I also just deemed I need in my life.

I’d also like to put on the record that I want to own every single Nancy Drew mystery, and a Nancy Drew poster to boot.

And in case you think I’m a weird freak, here are my other heroes (some are also from childhood):

-Sherlock Holmes. I love you, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

-Encyclopedia Brown

-Veronica Mars

I guess you’re smart enough to sense that there’s a trend there. You’re a regular gumshoe.

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Ruminations

True endearment via picture-text.

This is the post where Mel goes a little soft. And apparently speaks in third person simultaneously. (Okay, I’m stopping the third-person narration now.)

I am, without a doubt, absolutely lucky to have more high-quality friends than I can count on my fingers.

This statement isn’t meant to be arrogant. It’s mainly because I’m ridiculously undeserving and I like to remind myself of that from time-to-time.

And it wasn’t until I received a picture-text from one of my closest friends and favorite people ever that I wised up.

I’ve always been a quality-over-quantity type of girl (and I’m not saying that because it’s commendatory—I don’t rightly give a fuck about characteristics that cultivate compliments—I’m saying it because it’s the truth). I only really keep in contact with the people I want to keep in contact with, which may make me an asshole in some cases, but I shrug them off.

I’ve totally made a few friendship flubs here and there—but who hasn’t? That’s how you learn—you analyze your mistakes in combination with others’. But while fallouts were all mentally digested, I don’t necessarily still talk to ex-friends (I honestly still deem them “crazy-ass bitches.”)

A typed-up, meant for snail-mail-but-sent-via-picture-text is the best letter of all!

Anyways, so I read this letter from my friend. She passed on post-college-graduation-advice to me and radiated how proud she was of me, and said how one day I will “do great things and that’s a fact,” and I swear to God I nearly sobbed my eyes out.

That’s when I realized that, fuck, I have friends who have my back just as much as I have theirs, who actually truly give a fuck about my wellbeing and my life and genuinely want the best for me (and vice-versa).

This certain genre of friend is hard to come by. It’s rare and coveted.

It’s almost like solid gold in that it’s prone to malleability yet highly valued. (Only, it’s not found in the insides of contemporary rappers’ mouths.)

I have friends from elementary, middle, high school, and college who I routinely don’t talk to for months and months because our schedules don’t align or because we have new groups of friends and we’re busy creating new memories, or just because we have “big kid jobs” that tire us the fuck out.

But when we finally do catch up—and we do—two hours have passed by and we’re crying from laughing and massaging our faces because our jaws are sore.

And when the conversation finally starts to wind-down, there’s the remnants of an understanding there—a real kinship—that it’s a tried and true friendship and these “catch-ups” are never-ending.

Corniness and clichés are taking over me, but I do not care. Le sigh.

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Celebrity, Literature, TV

Mindy Kaling, be my best friend, please.

I finished Mindy Kaling’s Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) this past weekend (thanks to a really close friend who gifted it to me during Christmas break).

Not to give anything away, in case you want to read it (and you should!), but if you’re a fan of The Office, or love Amy Poehler, or want to know where Greg Daniels’ favorite diner is, or what the hell an “Irish exit” is, or have a single funny-bone in your body, you should read it. Just sayin’.

I also found out today that Mindy was greenlit for her own pilot. Can’t wait to see it!

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Ruminations

What it feels like to live in L.A. and not have any desire to be in the entertainment industry.

It’s a bit fuzzy, really.

I’m not an aspiring actress, a hopeful producer, or a wannabe screenwriter. I don’t care that celebs shop in the same Trader Joe’s aisle as me, or that they drive on the same roads I do in their daily commute.

I don’t really enjoy gussying up. I trip in heels. I don’t enjoy skeevy L.A. guys with V-neck t-shirts who try to exercise their “game” at random dive bars. And I don’t find Chelsea Handler amusing in the slightest bit.

I don’t know the newest [insert cutting-edge director here] film and can’t put the face to the name of that actress from that new show that’s gotten rave reviews from Deadline.com, Hollywood Reporter, and whatever other trade mag I don’t care to read.

I fall asleep during movies from time to time. And fake, candy-coated people make me literally vomit. All over. Just all over the place. One time, a few months ago, I remember someone introducing me to one of their “friends” and two seconds later, when the person turned around, the introducee said, “Ugh, I can’t stand [insert friend’s name here]. Really.” I vomited all over. (Okay, not really, but a part of me wanted to slug the person in the face then and there, followed by a subsequent up-chucking.) Why would you introduce me to people you despise? Why are you wasting my life?

But don’t get me wrong, I love California. The mixture of sunshine and cooled air feels perfect to the touch, most of the time. I enjoy the freshness that comes with each day at my job and the new people I get to interact with every so often. (I breathe in and appreciate this freshness, because God knows L.A.’s smog level is probably obliterating my lungs with every inhale.)

. . . It’s just weird living in this germ that’s separated from the seed. But I prefer the sidelines to the circus around me. Seriously.

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Literature, Music

My new glasses came in today . . .

Image. . . They aren’t too-hipster, but they do make me look like I’m heading to a Lisa Loeb concert (which I’ll take). And they also look like I’m instantly judging you (which I’ll also take).

My plans before sleep:

+ Continue to learn “The Shape of Things to Come” from my Battlestar Galactica piano book.

+ Read a little bit from Mindy Kaling’s Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? Because that book makes me seriously LOL.

+ Write in this here blog. Oh, check.

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Poetry, Ruminations

“I’m sorry for your loss” and other shit I’m bad at conveying.

I’m terrible at consoling people. Especially people I’m close to or people I actually care for. I’m not quite sure why or how I was brought up so desensitized and awkward in these situations, but I end up tripping on my own words and sometimes, literally, on my own two feet.

Today, I found out that my coworker’s cat passed away. It’s a sensitive topic, since I know she was uber-close to her kitty and it definitely was one of her oldest friends. I offered up the idea that it would be a good gesture to get her a card to pay our condolences.

After much pondering, this is what I wrote: Continue reading →

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Literature, Movies

Dear Peeta Mellark . . .

I recently finished up The Hunger Games trilogy, and do agree with everyone else and their mother that the first two books were solid, while the last book unraveled at a rapid pace.

I do see a bit of myself in Katniss. The hard-around-the edges persona, the long, braided hair, and the embedded interest in bow and arrows. But, I won’t ruin anything for the people who still want to read the books. I won’t even allude to any plot lines.

But, I will admit my love for Peeta Mellark. Even if he’s the opposite of every dude I’ve ever had relations with—sensitive, fluid vernacular, blonde. Yeah, I should definitely shoot for more of the Peeta-type.

. . . And that is all.

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