dollarshort (retired)

18 and Life.

To commemorate our three year wedding anniversary, I present proof that eighteen year-olds in love should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to correspond via email in any way imaginable.

The statistics:

Mena
264 messages total
1,034 occurrences of the word "love." Average: 3.9 per email.
1,848 exclamation points

Ben
929 messages total
7,609 occurrences of the word "love." Average: 8 per email.

Overall
Words and phrases appearing way too much: Eternity, forever, die, "The Cure," "safe and careful," "no friends," "hugs."

Enjoy.

Subj: hi baby
Date: Sun, Sep 17, 1995 11:25 PM EST
From: Violeta161@aol.com
To: bluetide@eworld.com

Hello my dear-

I should be doing my homework, but instead I am writing to you. I love you so much and I miss you even more!!! It was so wonderful to hear your voice. It made my day complete. I hope you had an okay night last night and you weren't too depresed. I also hope you weren't hassled by that drunk girl in your room. Anyway, I missed the Simpsons tonight so I don't know who shot Mr. Burns. I managed to do some homework so that is good.

I am sorry you had a lonely time yesterday, but it will get better. I am sorry you did not get to go to the dance last night. (I know how much you wanted to) j/k. I do fear that you will want to meet other girls, but I won't go into it. I love you so much.

I listened to some of my CDs today. I listened to all of "World of Morrissey", "I Bleed", some of "nocturne", "Best of New Order" and a little of Kiss Me... I really did miss you, though. I saw an advertisement in my NME for a compilation. It seemed like the best in the world. Do you know what it is called? The best in the World ...Ever! It is a 40 track CD whose artists are: Blur, Oasis, Supergrass, Pulp, Stone Roses, Elastica, Suede, Primal Scream, Cranberries, New Order, The Smiths. Boo Radleys, the Chemical Brothers, Radiohead, Morrissey, Manic Street Preachers, Therapy?, Edwyn Collins, Inspirial Carpets, Ash, The Shamen, Depeche Mode, Smashing Pumpkins, The Charlatans, The Levelers, Future Sound of London, The Prodigy and last but not least McAlmont/Butler!!!! Even if they are album tracks that cobmo is just wonderful. Imagine if they are all new songs!!!! That would be so amazing. I should be going now... got to do my homework. Call me if you can.

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!! MENA

With Much Hope.

The other night I received a call from my best friend, a girl I've known since the eighth grade. She and her husband have been contemplating having a baby and have gone so far as to stop taking birth control to "see what happens."

A while back, when I heard the news about them actively trying to conceive, I was terribly supportive and lectured them for about an hour about how they were too young and too poor. Additionally, I threw in a few arguments about them needing to travel to Europe and "go out to dinner more often."

And you know, I wasn't projecting at all.

Of course, all my other arguments make me sound like I hate children. "If you have more than one, do you think you'll like them equally?" or "When you see kids in public, do you actually want one?" or "Don't some kids just look like total jackasses?" or the classic "Doesn't having a baby seem very alien-podlike to you?"

The truth is, I don't hate children -- I just have no experience with them ¹.

My friends have always been afraid of my judgmental side -- that's part of the reason I never expect anyone to tell me what's going on in their lives. I half expect my best friend to call up one day and say "Hey, guess what? We had a baby...and, well, he just graduated from high school!"

And that's the call, or at least the pregnant variation, I was expecting.

Instead, my friend told me that some of her blood tests came back with an elevated level of prolactin². This means that she may have a tumor on her pituitary gland and will need to take medication to become fertile again. According to some online resources, this condition doesn't seem extremely serious but it's certainly not something you want your best friend to go through. The thought that there may be a tumor in, on, or near your brain is scary in itself.

(I did tried to reassure her that at least the tumor isn't causing Acromegaly, the condition that causes giganticism; I had seen a documentary on the disease a couple nights before she called and was now a veritable M.D.)

It's really amazing how my priorities changed once I realized that my friend couldn't have a baby. In a instant, I forgot all about Europe and dinners and money and considered all the ways to fix the problem and get her popping out babies.

One of the reasons they were starting early was because they were worried she'd have problems getting pregnant or carrying the baby. Her husband has like seventeen sisters and a good number of them have had problems with their pregnancies. And, since they want four or five children, they figured they should start sooner rather than later.

Lately, I've begun worrying about the sooner rather than later situation.

Ben and I always thought that twenty-seven was a good age to have a baby. Ben's mom was twenty-seven when she had him and that age always seemed perfect. At seventeen, when we started dating, twenty-seven was a lifetime away. Now, it's like tomorrow. And we're not ready at all. Next week, we'll be celebrating our three-year wedding anniversary and next February we'll have been together for eight years. All those years and, mentally, we still feel like kids.

I mean, one of the reasons we want to have a kid is so that we can take it to Disneyland and vicariously enjoy the park through our child's eyes. That's a pretty screwed up reason to have a baby.

And, I worry that at twenty-seven or eight or nine, I'll just be as neurotic as I am now -- someone who's quite capable of raising a neurotic child of her own.

Take this letter I found a couple months ago at my grandparents' house -- what the hell was going through my mind when I wrote this (at age ten)?

Yeah, it was a joke and all, but still.

I can only imagine the day when my own child will slip this in the family mailbox and expect hijinks to ensue.

Oh, the anticipation.

---

¹ Adventures in Babysitting
Once, at a wedding, I was put in charge of a hotel room filled with about seven or eight children. I was fifteen or sixteen and had no experience as a babysitter. Some parent (a complete flake, if you ask me), left an infant in my care. When the baby wouldn't stop crying, I eventually realized that I needed to change its diaper. Based on absolutely no experience with poop and diapers, I just sort of put the baby's butt under running water and dried it with a paper towel -- all the while I was gagging uncontrollably.

My second experience babysitting, I took three kids to a a creek bed to play and inadvertently dragged them through an area covered in some sort of animal shit. When I brought them back to their parents, they were covered in the stuff and crying.

Finally, at the age of 13, I made my best friend's four year-old sister cry by telling her an infinite loop sort of joke. It went like this: Pete and Repeat were swimming and Pete drowned. Who was left. "Repeat" Pete and Repeat were swimming and Pete drowned...

² If anyone is familiar with this condition and may be able to share a personal story, please let me know through email. I want to reassure my friend that everything will work out.

Frequently Asked Questions

We all need to spend some quality time with that little internal voice that asks the hard-hitting queries. I sat down with myself and addressed some frequently asked questions.

Q. Ben and Mena? Mena and Ben? Who's the sidekick?
A. According to the Google Smackdown, the combination of "Ben and Mena" trumps "Mena and Ben" 2,050 to 242. This, of course, means I'm Lewis to Ben's Martin. Or, as some other people like to think, I'm fucking Flava Flav to Ben's Chuck D.

Q. Whoa, that sounds a little bitter. What's going on?
A. Well, when we were juniors in college, there was this one British Literature paper and Ben got an "A" and I got an "A-". Since then, we've been holding on by a thread.

Q. Hey, English major, why don't you refer to yourself in the third person more often? I really like that!
A. Mena thinks that the third person works best for borderline and over-the-line psychopaths (see Alex from A Clockwork Orange and Frank Booth from Blue Velvet). And while your narrator also sees a use for the third person narrative in British Literature, she has been disappointed to discover that she's no Moll Flanders. Coincidentally, the management finds the we-means-I variation of the third person narrative to be particularly disconcerting because of the implications that there might be other voices in your host's head.

Q. What's the deal with that creepy Thorn Birds dream you had last night?
A. Yeah, tell me about it.

Q. I've noticed you've stopped watching TV Shows You Hate™. How's that going?
A. Great! Thanks for asking. This season's big deletion was Will and Grace. I know, I know, those "Wilma" jokes are priceless. And the Rosario/Karen lets-both-talk-at-the-same-time schtick? Brilliant. Ultimately, Debra Messing's sternum pushed us over the edge. Next season, God willing, Six Feet Under makes the cut. Unfortunately, as a result of pulling back from network television, we've now tacked on about 73 hours of programming from the Food Network to our weekly viewing schedule.

Q. Since you're not watching as much television, what books are you reading?
A. Are you trying to make me feel stupid or something?

Q. Okay, I'll phrase that another way. What books are sitting on your bedside table, unread?
A. Marie Antoinette: The Journey, One Year Off, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, On Rue Tatin: Living and Cooking in a French Town, Word Freak: Heartbreak, Triumph, Genius, and Obsession in the World of Competitive Scrabble Players and Road Trip USA.

Q. How's the banjo-playing going?
A. Shut-up.

Q. So, what ever happened to that vacation you were planning?
A. Well, after examining our prior work engagements and our budget, we realized that we needed to trim a bit off the cross-country road trip and instead went to the Musee Mecanique.

Q. Wait. Isn't the Musee Mecanique a ten minute walk from your apartment?
A. Exactly. But we fought all the way there -- just like a real vacation.

Q. What, exactly, is a bard's countersong effective against? Will it work on effects that don't allow saving throws? Will it work against a thunderstone?
A. Countersong works on sonic magical effects -- that is any spell, supernatural ability, or spell-like effect that has the sonic or language-dependent designator. But it does not work against extraordinary abilities and non magical cound, such as a thundersone. Since countersong allows you to use the bard's Perform check result as saving throw result, it is not effective against spells or effects that have no saving throw to begin with.

Q. Hey, that's from the Dungeons and Dragons FAQ! What does that have to do with your internal monologue?
A. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

Some of My Best Friends are Thin

During the past two months I've taken to jogging daily -- around my neighborhood and up its hills. As expected, I can now endure longer jogs and steeper hills. The route that once inspired me to utter the words "I'm going to die" is now the easy route, the one I take when I really don't feel like exercising. I no longer clench my left arm in an attempt to evoke sympathy from Ben by passively saying "If I have a heart attack, I'm blaming you!"

Although I love the post-run rush and the way that exercise acts as a natural anti-depressant, I have not reached the point where I can say that I actually enjoy exercising. Jogging, to me, is a chore. It's the sort of thing that "other" people do. You know, healthy and happy people who own rollerblades and streamlined strollers.

So why did I begin jogging?

I'd like to say that I began in an attempt to physically feel better and make myself healthier. Exercise for the sake of exercise. If I could say that, then I'd probably be on my way to being one of those "other" people.

My real reason has fairly little do to with health and all to do with vanity and preoccupation with modern cultural-imposed views of beauty. I'm striving to be a shallower kind of person who links appearance to worth. My motivation to losing weight? When I go out with friends, I don't want to have to sit in the Bebe "boyfriend chair" because I know nothing will fit me (Assuming that I even want to shop at Bebe).

I want to lose weight so I can fit into clothes that are fashionable. I want to be able to buy pants from the Gap and not have to hem them up 6 inches because their designers seem to believe that anyone who is a size 12 is also 5'10. I want to be able to say that I'm not 50 pounds heavier than my two closest friends.

It's all about numbers.

I find that the only thing that makes me feel overweight is my clothing size and my numerical weight. I like my body. Yeah, my butt and thighs are large, but I blame it on my genes. Puberty, not food, gave me my curves.

Of course, sitting at a desk for ten hours at a time and no exercise whatsoever didn't hurt either.

Place me in a different culture or another time period and I'd do just fine.

Do I want to be thin? I don't think so. I'm threatened by thin women, not because they're inherently evil but because I assume that their lives are a lot different than mine -- a whole lot easier. Even though I realize that this isn't necessarily true, it's hard to believe that anyone who actually meets societal-based ideals doesn't at least have one aspect in their life a bit easier.

But, I guess, saying that is sort of like saying that overweight people are lazy. It's not rooted in truth, but rather just lazy assumptions.

Because of exercise and a healthier diet^* over the last two months, I've lost about 20 pounds. Most people don't seem to notice the difference because the bulk of the weight has been lost from my stomach and I have never been in the habit of wearing midriff-revealing shirts.

In terms of my long-term weightloss goals, I've lost half the weight I intend to lose. I set this goal before losing a pound and now have to wonder if I'm trying to become something that I shouldn't necessarily become. If I'm happy with how I feel now (after losing the initial weight), then why force myself to become a size 6?

A couple weeks ago, I bought a size 6 dress from J Crew Online. This was to be the big linen motivator in my life. I'd try it on every month as an attempt to chart my progress. When the dress finally fit, that would be the big indicator that I've lost enough weight.

When it arrived and I tried it on for the first time, I was horribly disappointed. For the most part, the dress fit. I blamed it on J Crew's practice of oversizing clothing. They try to get into my head. "If I'm really a size 12 and I fit into a size 6, then that must mean I need to buy more clothes!"

Or maybe, it was a subtle hint that I should be happy with my weight and that size is just an arbitrary number?

^* Basically, I stopped drinking carbonated beverages and cut out most desserts from my diet. We've limited the times we eat out to once per week but still eat our favorites -- mostly Asian. At home, Ben cooks fairly low-fat dinners from an assortment of cookbooks. Surprisingly, these low-fat dinners are really good and I don't miss anything we used to eat. We actually have more variety in our diet and are eating a bit more meat. The only thing I really miss is sweets.

These are my San Francisco Giants

After watching the San Francisco Giants lose Game 7 of the World Series, I had to question whether there is really such a thing as bad luck. Obviously, to the players, the presence of good or bad luck is as much a given as Cardinals' pitcher Steve Kline's hat is unbelievably filthy or Kenny Lofton's on-deck dance is enjoyably silly.

But perhaps these behaviors only confirm that obsessive-compulsives make the best players. Or rather, baseball players make the best obsessive-compulsives.

I raise the bad luck existence question not because I feel as if some cosmic wrong has been perpetrated against the Giants, but because I wonder why I'm never on the side of the winning team. This fact is repeatedly confirmed each time my favorite Survivor castaway's torch is snuffed out with true Probstian finesse.

Ben said I jinxed the win when, during Game 6, I started talking about whether or not I wanted to go to the Giants' victory parade. "I want to see some motherf--king ticker-tape" sealed their fate, and no masterful hitting from Tsuyoshi "it's all in the arm-bands" Shinjo would change the outcome of the Series.

And, there's the annoying little bit of trivia about how Ben and I can't attend a baseball game that doesn't end in a devastating loss for the home team (A's and Giants both included).

Does my support bring bad luck? Or, do I just support the born losers?

If I was to examine my personal streak of bad luck in relation to contests, raffles and competition, I would venture to say that I'm the sort of loser who could have 100 raffle tickets entered in a drawing that has 101 entries total and still lose. This observation can be traced back all the way to elementary school and the years I spent with perpetually crossed fingers and a pained look of anticipation on my face.

Sure, there were the merit awards I did not win. But, those had more to do with skill, or my lack of. The losses that really stung had nothing to do with achievement or determination and all to do with randomness, and dare I say it, luck.

There were two major yearly raffles at my elementary school: The Jog-a-thon raffle and the Halloween raffle. While the Halloween raffle was open to the community -- and the prizes mostly won by adults who had purchased the tickets from manipulative children -- the Jog-a-thon raffle was offered solely for the students. The tickets for this event were awarded on the basis of how many pledges each child got and how many laps they eventually ran (usually in the February rain). After receiving our raffle tickets, we would be sent to the school's auditorium and spend the next half hour dropping tickets in the boxes of the prizes that most appealed to our greedy little middle-class eyes. Sample prizes included mountain bikes, televisions, skateboards, boom-boxes and tickets to various events and attractions.

Every year, without fail, I would over-contemplate strategy. Should I use all my tickets on the mini-television in a chance to up my odds of winning? Should I place one ticket in each prize box in an attempt to distribute my chances of winning? Should I use the bulk of my tickets on the slightly undesirable prizes in an attempt to win for the sake of winning? And if I did win that prize, what would I do with a $50 gift certificate to Pep Boys?

At the end of the day, probably two hours before school ended, the school administration would call us to the blacktop and we'd sit in the sun as each ticket was pulled and each prize was awarded to its new owner. When the winner's name was called, they'd get to march up to the front of the assembly and claim their prize in front of 800 bitter faces.

During this time, I'd notice patterns -- like how the same kids won all the prizes. The luckiest boy in the school was a classmate of mine and he'd win almost everything. When he'd win the girl's mountain bike, I'd fume at his greediness. Fairness never entered into the raffle for one reason: this little bastard won because he brought the most money into the school.

This kid had the same last name as a famous crooner and though we never knew for sure if he was actually related, his family's house -- complete with hedge mazes and a gazebo on an island -- probably indicated that there indeed was an association.

When we'd receive our raffle tickets in standard letter envelopes, he'd receive his in a manilla envelope. If I was a bit more cynical, I would have seen that I didn't have a chance. But, a little kid without hope is, well, an adult.

So, each year and each raffle, I would sit on the hot ground and silently repeat my mantra: "Let this be the year. Let me win something. Let this be the year. Let me win something."

I never won anything, and in the process, I became really bitter about contests and raffles.

When Ben's ten year-old brother tries to sell me chocolate or wrapping paper, I tell him I'll just buy him the incentive prize. Most of the time, they have these kids pimping their wares for prizes that cost less than five dollars. The point, he then tells me, is that he wants to win the prize and that me buying it wouldn't be any fun.

I tell him that being a pawn of a money-hungry Catholic school isn't any fun either, but he doesn't seem to mind.

So, last night, during Game 7, I found myself repeating my silly little mantra. "Let this be the year. Let them win." While I can't say that I particularly like the Giants on the basis of merit, I found that during this season, living in the City has made me more loyal of a fan. For the first time, we were rooting for the home team. For the first time, it actually seemed like we had a home team.

And, of course, I really wanted to go to the victory parade.

I guess, if I wanted San Francisco to win, I should have rooted for Anaheim.

Five Steps to a Better Me.

"So, I was waiting in line at the bookstore." Ben begins to recount his story with a sort of delivery that indicates that I'm not going to like the punchline. "And the guy in front of me steps up to the cashier and places his books down. When the clerk routinely asks how he's doing, the guy becomes all enthusiastic and his voice booms as he says 'Great! I'm having a pretty great day and how are you doing?' Upon hearing this, I think 'what a prick.'"

"You didn't say that out loud, did you?

"No," Ben continues, "but in my mind, it's my instant response and I'm not sure whether it's because I'm jealous of this guy's genuine happiness or because this sort of enthusiasm makes me uncomfortable. All I know is that I've got all this ill-will aimed toward this person. So, he finishes buying his books and turns around and I realize..."

He pauses.

"... That he's a priest. And, of course, he smiles at me and I have to come to terms with the fact that I've just called a priest a prick simply because he's enthusiastic."

"Who are you? Larry David?" Even I see general misanthropic weirdness of this scenario.

"Well, did you at least take it back?" I ask.

'Taking it back' is our overly used superstitious habit of trying to cancel out all potential tragedies and disasters with a three-word phrase. In this case, the tragedy would be Ben going to hell. 'Take it back' is our Pavlovian response to questions like "what would you do if I got hit by a car?", "will you love me when I'm 600 pounds?" or "did we run out of ice cream?"

"I didn't 'take it back' per se, but I certainly felt horrible."

We don't reward enthusiasm well.

Like the other day when we spotted a stewardess (her uniform and travel suitcase gave her away) walking downtown with a smile -- the largest Ben had "ever seen in his life" -- plastered on her face. And this smile, it was completely fixed. She moved her head side-to-side, looked down into her purse and even asked for directions all whilst beaming this oh-so-unholy smile.

While most people would see this smile and feel warm and happy and renewed in the goodness of man, I just remarked that I felt creeped out and thought that if she had a son, he'd probably resemble Chucky.

It's that sort of attitude that makes me resolve to be a better, nicer person.

And, it all begins with baby steps:

1. I will turn my frowns upside-down (and look sincere in the process),

You know the sort of comatose smile that child beauty pageant contestants wear? The sort of painful smile accompanied by glazed eyes and quivering lips? That's exactly what my forced smile looks like. The problem with my forced smile (other than that anguished look) is that I'll often forget I'm attempting to smile and mouth will frown, but my teeth will still be visible. So, I won't look happy, content or friendly. Instead, I'll look like a serial killer with lock jaw.

Whoever said it takes more muscles to frown than smile was a liar.

2. I will not get worked up when watching The Real World.

Or any other MTV show that predominantly features promiscuous girls and dumb-as-doorknobs guys. Yelling "skank" and "whore" at the television set will not change the culture nor will it make Amayas or Tonyas or Trishelles or Caras cease to exist.

I'm not sure if this will make me a better person, but it will certainly make me seem like a saner person.

3. I will stop watching The Real World or any other MTV vehicle.

See above.

4. I will stop coining new phobias based on other people's behaviors.

I once spent a twenty-five minute bus ride trying to think of the words that would form the phobia best described as the "fear or disgust related to the sound of someone clipping their finger nails while riding the bus." Because of my Greek vocabulary inadequacies, the best I could come up with is "clippanailaphobia," or the slightly more etymologically proper "clipponychophobia."

Completely unrelated, but frightfully amusing is "hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia," the fear of long words.

5. I will stop imagining amusing scenarios in which certain phobics can not attend their support meetings because they can't walk past the sign on the door.

See above.

Everything I know, I learned from Goofus.

For as long as I can remember, I've had this reccurring dream in which my house is threatened by fire or flood or some other sort of natural disaster and I have only minutes to gather up my prized possessions into one fairly small black hefty bag. Sometimes, in especially stressful situations I'm not even given a bag.

When I went down to Los Angeles last month to gather up the few belongings from my childhood home that I could logistically bring back to San Francisco, I was reminded of this dream. Of course, the black hefty bag was replaced by a Honda Civic and the threat of natural disaster was replaced by a looming escrow.

Obviously, I couldn't bring back everything that held a memory. And what I could bring, had to be small. As I sorted through what remained of my books and toys, I discovered my stacks of Highlights For Children, a magazine that played a prominent role in my life during the years of 1982 to 1988.

1988? Would that make me an eleven year-old kid reading Highlights? Yes. And alas, that is a different story.

While paging through the old issues, I found myself searching for each instance of everyone's favorite feature, Goofus and Gallant. With scissors in my hand, I snipped each strip out and placed them in a folder bound for our apartment. While I sat cutting and reading, reading and cutting, I began raising some important questions.

First, are Goofus and Gallant brothers? Or, as Ben suggested, are they the same person being portrayed in parallel universes? Is the flip of Goofus's bangs supposed to indicated something sinister? Or, is it simply the key to the mystery? In some panels, Goofus and Gallant are shown interacting with identically drawn parents. But, if they are brothers, where are all Gallant's Goofus-imposed bruises?

What we know: Goofus and Gallant are obviously presented as morality and etiquette lessons. We're supposed to follow the example that Gallant sets, and live our child lives in as non-Goofus of a manner as possible. However, I can not imagine any child, without parental guidance, reading the panels and not being inspired in the slightest by Goofus's antics. I for one, seem to recall learning a great deal from Goofus. He taught me lessons in negotiating, communication, conservation and sharing responsibilities.

Gallant, on the other hand was the sort of kid who'd remind the teacher that she forgot to assign homework. Sure, he was nice to small children and old people, but he was still a bit of a sycophant -- always trying to win points with his parents and his parents' friends. I mean, really, how removed from childhood was Gallant that he could find himself uttering these words in this situation:

And look at the face on Gallant in this scene. Could that face be dripping with any more pretension? And, once again it's aimed to please his mother. And what is she serving the family? It looks a bit like a hedgehog's skeleton. At least Goofus is in touch with his feelings.

But no matter how many times I found myself nodding in agreement with the wisdom of Goofus and rolling my eyes at the Gallant approach to life, Goofus would do some totally inexcusable action that would show just what an asshole he really was.

And then, being like Goofus didn't seem so cool.

I spent some time today thinking about whether I was really, truly shaped by Goofus. Echoing through my head as I threw my clothes on the floor and pretended not to hear Ben was the singular question: "Am I Goofus? Am I Goofus?"

When I asked Ben his opinion on the big question, he laughed and quickly replied "Um, yeah. You're totally Goofus. But that's fine with me."

It's because Ben is Gallant.

And then it all makes sense.

Goofus and Gallant are probably really brothers and Gallant only puts up with all of Goofus's shit because he loves him and understands that Goofus is really tortured and probably has a bad self-image or something. And, Goofus doesn't seriously injure Gallant because he respects him and wishes he could be a better person.

Or maybe I'm just projecting a bit.

If you can make it there...

It's a saddening commentary that most of my questions about New York City posed to our favorite New Yorker begin with a "You know that scene in Crocodile Dundee?" or end "you, know, like the Huxtables' neighborhood?"

Because I've never traveled to New York and because my impression of the city is heavily influenced by film, I'm totally ignorant about what makes up the real city. Mention downtown and the image of dozens of nyloned, sneakered feet walking down the street pops into my mind. The subway system? Well, to me it's a hybrid of a Run DMC video and the hellish place in Ghost where Patrick Swayze learns to move objects from a very angry Vincent Schiavelli (of course, the quintessential angry New Yorker ghost).

Coming to America. Ghostbusters. Trading Places. Big Business. Working Girl. Crocodile Dundee.

Compiling the list of films that scream "New York", I realize that not only is my perception of New York skewed by movies, but it's skewed by particularly mediocre or downright awful 1980s movies (Ghostbusters excepted, however). This, most likely explains why my free association of the term New York conjures up the image of shoulder pads and white Reeboks.

All of these films reveal that I'm just as clueless about contemporary New York as that middle-American who asks me where I keep my surfboard, when's my yoga class, and whether or not I know Jeff Spicoli.

Still, the tackiness of those 80s movies is balanced by other representations -- the magic of a Woody Allen movie, Moonstruck, and dare I say, The Godfather. My film choices are obvious, yes. But what's the point of offering sweeping romantic generalizations based on obscure choices?

I want to be a part of the Castorini family in Brooklyn. I want to have our very own bread shop (that, of course, has been in the family for generations). I want Gershwin to swell as I self-deprecate. I want to eat an orange from a fruit stand.

To me, living in New York equates with living in a movie.

I want to live in a movie.

In Take the Cannoli, Sarah Vowell writes about her obsession with The Godfather and her trip to Sicily to visit the village of Corleone. When she is treated as an outsider, she has an epiphany:

"How had it never hit me before? The whole point of The Godfather is not to trust anyone outside your family... If I were a character in the film at all, I'd be on of those pain-in-the-ass innocent bystanders in the restaurant where Michael murders Sollozzo. I'm the tuba player in Moe Green's casino. I'm that kid who rides his bike past Michael and Kay on Kay's street in New Hampshire who yells hello and neither Michael nor Kay say hello back."

The truth is, in New York, I'd be the tuba player in Moe Green's band. I'm a Californian by birth and residence, someone who is about as cosmopolitan as a nylon fanny pack. I've managed to spend my first twenty-five years in California isolation -- unaware that Boston is in fact above New York City and that New Jersey isn't "near Michigan or something."

It's sad because it's true.

In about a month, Ben and I will set out on our first trek across America. We're going to right geographic assumption wrongs and along the way visit Chicago, Cleveland, Boston, Providence, Washington D.C, Charlotte and of course, New York City.

Our ultimate goal is to see if we should leave California and experience life on the other coast -- preferably in a city that we don't have too many incorrect film-based preconceptions about.

Perhaps we'll settle in Boston.

After all, it would be good to hang with the boys in Southie.

My dad did offer to hire a clown.

Today, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday at my childhood home in Los Angeles. It was a significant birthday not simply because I am now adult enough to be rental-car worthy, but because it will most likely be the last birthday I will ever spend in the house where I grew up.

My grandparents' house has sold and we're in the process of tossing, packing and scavenging the various mementos collected over thirty-five years on St. Johnswood Drive. My mother has assigned me personal tasks: clean out my Barbie drawer, sort through my old baby clothes and take what I may want for a future offspring, sort through my old toys and board games and pick one or two to represent my childhood, etc...

And all along, as I do this, I keep on seeing this chart in my head where there are sets of twenty-five blocks and this set, labeled "childhood (natural and oddly extended)", is now so completed.

I was speaking with my aunt tonight and mentioned that "a whole lot of people have lived in the house at one point or another -- much more than the usual American family." My aunt agreed and then began the roll call: my grandparents, her and her first husband, my uncle and his first wife, my parents, my great-grandfather and me.

The apron strings in our family are made of barbed wire.

So, the task of packing up my belongings and saying goodbye to this house is a monumental task. To put in perspective the importance of this house, consider that I lived here from my birth to age thirteen. One house in thirteen years. From age thirteen to age twenty-five, I have lived in ten different homes in various Bay Area cities -- none of which I felt the same sense of home as I do with my grandparents' house.

And then, when I think that in less than three days I'm going to walk out of this house forever, I can't help but feel that weird feeling in my throat -- the one that comes from suppressed sobs.

Blah, blah, melodramatic poop.

If I was ever on Jeopardy!, my dream category would be "Things that make Mena cry." (With, of course, the $500 question: "What are dog food commercials with old dogs climbing stairs?")

But, back to the birthday. We moved up our trip to Los Angeles so we could celebrate my actual birthday at the house. I figured I deserved one last childhood regression. So, I gave in and let my mom do my hair, asked my grandmother to make one of my favorite meals (pork chops, dumplings, cabbage and noodles in butter and breaded cauliflower) and ate a rum cake from the Italian pastry shop that my family has been shopping from for years.

It was a nice way to spend a birthday.

It was a better idea in theory.

For the past couple months, I've been pesterin' Ben to let me purchase a banjo.

He refuses on the understandable grounds that it would be a waste of money.

I'll give him that. But, with Ben, it's also a matter of principle; he sees my desire to buy a banjo as total confirmation that I'm just like my father, a realization that Ben is not yet willing to accept. My dad could fill a small room with all his musical instruments -- some that he plays, some that he can't and others that are just decorative. Ben, a fairly frugal guy, finds this behavior to be incredibly irresponsible.

But, I say, you can't blame my dad -- he loves music and his motivations have something to do with reality and his daydreams not quite synching. No one in my family could play the harp. But did that stop my father from purchasing one? Of course not.

A couple weekends ago, I met up with my mom to celebrate her forty-fifth birthday. I drove up to Petaluma, took her out to breakfast and we walked around town -- stopping at boutiques along the way. When my mom and I passed the local instrument shop, I told her I just "wanted to take a peek."

She instantly recognized the look in my eye.

Mena: Let's look at the banjos.
Mom: I don't think Ben would approve of this.
Mena: Oh, he won't mind. I'm sure of it.
Mom: If you say so.

She, of course, didn't believe anything I was saying.

After hearing the store owner play "Dueling Banjos," I was convinced that I was meant to play the banjo. Keep in mind that even though I spent my teenage years surrounded by mandolins, guitars and violins, I couldn't pluck out a tune to save my life.

When I told my mom I wanted to buy the Deering banjo that the clerk had just played, she became flushed and took out her phone to call Ben.

As you can guess, I walked out of the store sans banjo and with a whole lot of grudgin' directed towards Ben.

When I got home, Ben said I could buy the banjo as long I didn't use any of our shared funds. Considering that we've shared a bank account since we were both nineteen, it's impossible to find any money that just belongs to me.

So, I had the bright idea that I would make a comic book to sell on dollarshort.org; it would be about the saga of the banjo and it would be great! Everyone would buy it to support the banjo cause!

And then, three panels (only one colored) in:

Mena: Who the hell is going to want to buy this stupid comic.
Ben: People like you.
Mena: I like me and I wouldn't waste a dollar, let alone two, on the story of a me and my banjo.
Ben: Yeah, maybe not.

So, my dreams of being a great banjo player have been crushed and all I have to show for it is this silly, pointless, panel.