I have spent the last few hours at a dinner party. Well, a "gathering of adult friends" which was attended by my dad. I got invited, wanted to get away from my mother (who is bad enough when she doesn't have the flu), and went. I'm still not sure why. In the following time, I ate some lovely salmon which was grilled with fennel, that sat atop a soft bed of spring greens tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette, which lie next to some rosemary potatoes and succulent cantaloupe wrapped with fine prosciutto. An average evening when my father's around. But although the food was very good and there was a very cute toddler there, the conversation seemed oddly to repeat itself. It went from a comment about the wine to a comment about how the wine interacted with the food, and how the sweetness of the balsamic vinegar complimented the spice of the fennel, and how the hot fish perfected the cold salmon, to how the wine was wonderful with the salmon and how the wine filled out the flavors of the food... I found myself staring, quite blankly, and wishing wholeheartedly that whatever creator-force is out there would not curse me with as boring a middle age as that. On top of it all, I have a sunburn, which was burning (as sunburns do) and itching like no other. So I spent my evening eating great food with terrible conversation trying to look interested while trying to pay as little attention as humanly possible.

The sunburn, strangely enough, is in the precise shape of a corset. I guess it's not so strange when you learn that I got the sunburn whilst wearing a corset at ye marry olde Renaissance Pleasure Faire which is currently stationed at Glen Helen Parkway way the bejesus out in the middle of God-knows-where to the east. I love that thing. I go every year. At least twice. I can never really figure it out. I think it has to do with first impressions, you know, the way something goes the first time or on a memorable occasion affects the way you perceive that thing for a long time afterwards? Yeah. Well, when I was there a couple of years ago, there was this jerk dressed as some sort of pirate fellow following me around and slapping my ass ceaselessly. No matter what I said or did, the guy would not leave me alone. Finally, in the height of my desperate agony, a very, very tall man (literally had to be 6'7) dressed as one of the Queen's guards, walks up, yells at the asshole chasing me-- who promptly runs away-- and then gets down on one knee and apologizes to me. So ever since then, I have this connection in my brain that goes like this: RENAISSANCE FAIRE = CHIVALRY. And no matter how many times I have been there, that first impression seems to fill me with denial towards all the other assholes and lack of chivalrous gentlemen who have appeared or failed to appear ever since. I love chivalry, really, there's such a startling lack of it in my general vicinity-- i.e. Los Angeles and surrounding suburbs, high school, and baseball games (which sort of fits in the "high school" category). But maybe it's overrated. Who knows. It sort of reminds me of this "fairy tale" I got from a friend through e-mail a long time ago... maybe I can find it...

Oh good. I did. Here goes.



ONCE upon a time, in a land far away,
a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess
happened upon a frog as she sat,
contemplating ecological issues
on the shores of an unpolluted pond
in a verdant meadow near her castle.

The frog hopped into the princess' lap
and said: Elegant Lady,
I was once a handsome prince,
until an evil witch cast a spell upon me.
One kiss from you, however,
and I will turn back into the dapper,
young prince that I am and then, my sweet,
we can marry and setup housekeeping
in your castle with my mother,
where you can prepare my meals,
clean my clothes, bear my children,
and forever feel grateful and happy doing so.

That night, as the princess dined sumptuously
on a repast of lightly sautéed frog legs
seasoned in a white wine and onion cream sauce,
she chuckled and thought to herself:

I don't f***in think so.

- posted by Carly @ 9:26 PM