Not A Dollarshort

I'm an immortal walkin' case of the blues.

Yesterday, while listening to a recently-burned mix CD of Ben's authoring, I found myself smiling the stupidest of smiles while listening to Dean Martin's Houston (2.4 megs).

It was the sort of "life is good smile" that will occasionally creep up on my face without warning -- particularly on sunny days or after I've eaten a really good meal.

This song just made me glow with glee -- and I just have to think it has more to do with Dean Martin's vocal charm than any sort of musical arrangement.

This feeling lead to me utter the weirdest of phrases:

"I wish Dean Martin would have been immortal," I said. "I wish that he never aged and never died and was still around singing like this."

Now, I'm sure that most people would pick a more noble candidate for immortality -- Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jesus (of course, in his earthly form -- I believe He's got the immortal thing already down).

But I'm not everyone and that's why I want Dean Martin walking the Earth for all time.

So, which entertainer would you like to see as an immortal? And, why?

God Bless America.

Have you seen that great Albert Brook's film, Defending Your Life?

If you have Starz!, then no doubt you've caught at least part of the film in the past couple weeks. Defending Your Life is to Starz! as Selena is TNT. Both are played in a seemingly endless loop -- a loop mind you, that I'll sit through without fail.

The scheduling of Defending Your Life coincided perfectly with Ben and my own attempts to defend ourselves with regard to unemployment pay.

Over the past couple months we -- two somewhat intelligent people, both with tech backgrounds and university degrees -- have failed miserably at submitting a valid unemployment pay form.

Now, I'm just going to say that we aren't idiots and that there is some sort of conspiracy to (1) deprive anyone who isn't down with the system of their rightfully earned money (2) make you feel like a criminal if you file an appeal based on their arbitrary judgements.

Unemployment is insurance paid by your employers, for goodness sake!

Because we had submitted our fourth "invalid" (they said we mailed in blank forms) unemployment claim and we had filed appeals, we were both scheduled to have phone interviews.

After Ben's interview went strangely well (it was just pleasant small-talk), he had the foresight to make a jokingly accurate observation:

"I hope these interviews won't be like our own version of Defending Your Life."

Meaning, I, as the Albert Brooks of the house, was in for a lot of trouble.

When my call did come -- two hours earlier than they had scheduled -- I was asleep. After trying to gain my composure and speaking voice, I realized quickly that Ben had been spot on with his prediction.

Question after question, the appeals agent bombarded me with impossible scenarios regarding the trip we took to Los Angeles.

Agent: So, you went to Los Angeles for a week?

Me: Yes. But we were looking for jobs while were in L.A.

Agent: Did you actively look for work?

Me: Yes.

Agent: Did you turn down any work?

Me: No.

Agent: What time did you leave for Los Angeles?

Me: What? I don't remember -- 9 AM?

Agent: So, you left at 9 am?

Mena: Yes, I think so.

Agent: What if someone had called at 8 am and offered you a job?

Mena: That wouldn't happen.

Agent: If someone offered you a job at 8 am would you have been able to start work that day?

Mena: Really, that wouldn't happen.

Agent: Answer the question, please.

It's then when I start to freak out.

Mena: That wouldn't happen! That's impossible. I'm a designer. I haven't even received an interview call back! No one would call me at 8 am without a prior interview and ask me to come in that morning.

Agent: So you would have refused the work.

Mena: I'm just saying that in my field, this is an impossible scenario. Maybe if I had an interview and an offer pending, I wouldn't have gone to LA. You're usually given a start date and it's never "start this moment."

Agent: So you would have refused the work.

Mena: I give up. Yes, I would have started at 9 am. I wouldn't have gone to Los Angeles. I would have turned around if we were in the car.

I'm foolishly stubborn about matters like this. Because it was an improbable answer, I couldn't force myself to give the simple "yes" that he wanted to hear.

About two weeks ago, I received a letter saying that my appeal had been denied and I was now supposed to appear in front of a judge to plead my case.

Keep in mind this is for a lousy $230 a week.

I called up the claims office and told them to basically screw the appeal. The money wasn't worth the hassles. And what did they say?

"A judge will have to decide if you can drop the appeal."

So, have you had better luck with this process? I think they just make it more difficult for Californians.

Snow!

The Web rules my life: Reason #419

While reading Onfocus this morning, I said to myself "Wow! It snowed in Sebastopol?"

Only after seeing PB's wonderful pictures did I bother to open my window blinds to see that, yes, it also snowed in Petaluma!

And it was honest to goodness real snow! Not that pathetic frost that we get so excited about once a year. This stuff was everywhere -- on cars, roofs, covering lawns. The most I've ever seen in low-elevation parts of California.

Since I've only really seen snow twice in my life, this was a real treat.

I'd hate to think that I would have missed this glorious morning because the first thing I look at each morning is my computer screen. How utterly clueless I am!

For some reason, somes kids aren't at school today. Because of this, there were tons of kids outside playing in the snow. Two sad girls were trying to sled on flat ground in a park. The snow had already begun melting and they just sort of sat on their sleds.

Regardless of their inability to sled, they seemed to be having the greatest time.

Ben and I had a wonderful time just walking around the neighborhood.

I took some pictures.

It's still better than Trading Spaces.

For some time last year, Ben and I watched an inordinate amount of television. We had just ordered digital cable and not only had an assortment of pay channels but also BBC America.

Now, receiving BBC America had always been a television goal of ours.

Note: Having any sort of television "goal" other than "watch less" is probably the first indicator that someone needs to re-analyze priorities.

Back to BBC America. While in England in 1999 we had spent many a night watching the British programs that -- as I described them in my journal -- are "shows that I could never imagine existing (out of pointlessness) but now can not live without."

Prime example of this television genre: Channel 4's Watercolour Challenge.

Naturally, then, while watching BBC America, we fell under the Anglophilic spell of Changing Rooms -- the inspiration for the horrible American program, Trading Spaces.

We even went so far as actually discussing who our favorite Changing Room personalities were -- Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and Graham Wynne won out, incidentally.

Despite our love for the show, we always doubted the actual quality of the work. Sure, many a time they have made the most dreary room look fantastic, but really, what how structurally sound is MDF? Come to think of it, what exactly is MDF? Is it particle board? Is it some sort of plastic/wood hybrid. Regardless, I don't think I'd want my new bed frame to be built out of it.

So then, yesterday, Tom posted this great link to Joshua Sofaer's story about his Changing Rooms experience.

Handy Andy as a primadonna? It can't be true!

An irritable Carol Smillie? Oh My!

It's a fascinating read for those who watch the program.

I heart Mike Walker.

Okay now, why didn't anyone tell me that the National Enquirer now syndicates its "news" stories on Yahoo?

I've been a big fan of the Enquirer for as long as I can remember. My grandparents actually had a subscription, if you can believe that.

We even had a protocol to read the tabloid o'fun. Usually I would read it first -- right after I got home from school on Monday. Next, my grandmother. My father would come home and usually take it upstairs where it would then be passed on to my mother. Finally it would make its way to my grandfather who would pile them up and save them for my aunt who, after taking them back to her house, would be their last reader.

Think about all the enjoyment that was had for pennies!

As an Enquirer connoisseur, I took great pride in always correcting people who would ignorantly say that the Enquirer posted articles about alien abductions and batboys. "No, you don't understand, the Enquirer dishes dirt about celebrities," I would explain. "The Enquirer actually scoops the traditional and respected press."

And you've got to love the blue dot.

Don't laugh. It really works.

Of course, this is not the "official" blue dot. Regardless, feel free to rub your monitor for good luck.

Phonezilla props.

Congratulations to Paul -- who celebrates three years of phonezilla.net -- a truly best kept-secret.

Paul was one of the first people reading my blog -- he sent me an email about two weeks after I launched dollarshort.org. I was still unsure of the whole "making friends" via the Internet thing since, in the past, I thought it just served a troubling purpose.

Luckily, I got over my issues and made my first friend from the Windy City.

But Paul is really a great guy and he's got a weblog/site worth reading.

So go and visit him.

Thank You.

If you've read my first dollarshort.org post ever, then you'll understand that I'm not used to being awarded compliments and nominations.

In fact, being the only person in my entire class who didn't receive a single award at our high school awards ceremony sort of sealed my fate as being the classic loser.

For what it's worth, I was robbed - I should have received a certificate mentioning that I was my school's team captain at the Knowledge Bowl.

But nothing. And, frankly, I carried that team.

No, I'm not still bitter. Not much, at least.

My mom called me yesterday and we had a very cute conversation about some other award I'm nominated for:

Mom: That [site name] isn't playing fair! They're asking for votes for the People's Choice Awards!

Mena: I know -- what are you going to do about it?

Mom: It's just not fair. But I've told my friends (she lists them) to vote for you everyday.

Mena: Well, I'm certainly not going to beg for votes so don't be disappointed when your baby doesn't win.

Mom: Well, you deserve it -- your're the best.

Oh, a mother's love.

I wasn't going to mention my nominations at the Bloggies because I have issues about tooting my own horn.

But then I realized, unlike the other award I'm nominated for -- my readers actually took the time to nominate me. And, if I didn't mention the Bloggies, I would seem a bit of an ingrate.

So, of course, I have to say thank you.

I really love the fact that people like dollarshort.org.

And even though I am nominated, I still believe that unless everyone has a fair chance of being noticed and "judged," awards and contests still are a bit of a pain.

And, I'll say it again Brushstroke.tv, Dooce and Boing Boing (should have been nominated for weblog of the year, in my opinion) were robbed. Oh, and vote for Fury for Best Programming for a Weblog (which should really be, in my opinion, home-grown solutions).

Food for thought.

"I wash myself with a rag on a stick." (wav, 171 k)

Ben and I both fear that in a matter of years we'll be uttering those same exact words.

Combine our love of food and our love of sitting in front of a computer for seventy percent of the day and the mumu/stick scenario doesn't seem too improbable.

And of course since I'm the one who's most concerned with gaining too much weight, I'm the one who gains all of it between the two of us.

But I say, who cares? I prefer my cuisine French, hearty and in courses.

That's why Petaluma's De Schmire has been my favorite restaurant since I was seventeen and Ben and I began regularly dining there for our "monthiversaries."

A favorite appetizer of ours, Talmousse de Gruyere:

Gruyere cheese, Dijon mustard, and garlic is spooned into a puff pastry formed into a three-cornered pouch, which is then baked so it puffs into a golden crispy package which is placed on the plate beside a spoonful of garlic aioli. The thing is mostly air, but you get in there and spoon up some of the filling that pools on the bottom, and it is tangy and cheesy and delicious.

I'll take my Talmousse over a size eight (or ten -- we're pushing twelve) any day.

So this brings me to a question for my dear readers.

What would be your desert island dish (or meal)?

Olive oil, Motor Oil? What's the difference?

From the unlikeliest of sources came an olfactory blast from the past.

As I was standing in the kitchen -- looking for something to eat in our pantry -- I noticed the little container of automobile touch-up paint that ben had picked it from our Honda dealership to repair a scratch made by a brush with a wayward bumper (don't ask).

Now, you should know that I take every opportunity to demonstrate my above-average intelligence. So, it should come to no surprise that within moments of spying that bottle I was already unscrewing the cap and putting the thing up to my nose.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those glue-sniffing kids. And, believe me, I certainly don't go on any toxic joyrides.

Something just compelled me to sniff the darn thing.

My mom probably expects this from me. Right now she's saying "That Mena always has to smell everything -- she's done it since she was a baby."

It's like I'm a damn bloodhound or something.

Within a millisecond of the sniff I was a kid back in Los Angeles -- sitting in the garage with my grandfather.

My grandfather has always been an artist -- he's where I got my love of creative arts.

His actual profession was something quite different -- he was an auto-mechanic.

So now, let's just mix an auto-mechanic's resources (heavily toxic car paint) with a love of painting and you'll get a recipe for some serious noxious fumes. Now add one more thing to the mix: Extra-large canvases and a desire to paint like Jackson Pollock.

He really did a great job on those canvases -- his experiments with modern art and the medium of carcinogenic paint were quite revolutionary for our house. Unfortunately, we were all so scared of getting sick from the works that they ended up hanging in the garage.

Oh the sweet smell of art!

It should come as no surprise that most paints now give me hives and a runny nose.

I think I should be happy I didn't sprout a third eye.

On the salad bus of Dallas.

Edgar Allan Poe was born on this day 193 years ago.

The mention of Poe always brings to mind my pathetic foray into the world of junior high speech competitions.

When I was in thirteen and in the eighth grade, I fancied myself a public speaker. I was loud and therefore, I assumed, an asset to my tiny parochial school's speech team.

Of course, anyone can be loud. But not everyone can be expressive, compelling and accurate.

I wasn't any of those things.

Regardless, I signed-up to participate in a speech meet that was to be held at a high school in the next county over. Perhaps, by the time of the meet, I would have acquired the skills needed to kick some oral interpretation butt.

And what did I pick to recite? Edgar Allan Poe's, The Raven.

In addition to not being expressive, compelling nor accurate, I was also lazy -- so lazy that I waited until the night before the tournament to start memorizing the eighteen-stanza poem.

This is all a recipe for a predictable eighth grade disaster, so I think I can refrain from describing all the humiliating details.

A quick summary involves forgotten words, panicked revisions of a 150 year-old poem and a very traumatized kid sitting in the losers room watching the other kids perform the routines that brought them to the semi-finals.

Luckily, an original expository speech about baseball cards -- complete with poster board visual aids -- given by a kid from another school made me forget about my own personal humiliation.

This kid was bad -- perhaps not as bad as me for he at least took the time to memorize his material. But my gosh, he was dull -- an example of what a public speaker shouldn't be.

I'm sure that during the carpool ride home, I took great delight in impersonating this kid's performance. After all, humor at another kid's expense is always the best way to get a mini-van of thirteen year-olds laughing.

And, I like to think that it was this boy's performance which kept me from ever participating in a speech meet again.

Imagine the laugh I had when, five years later, I discovered just who this pathetic kid really was.

It was none other than my own Ben.

Of course, since he does most everything else perfectly, I take great pleasure in bringing up this story and reminding him how much of an impression he made on me -- all those years before we'd actually meet.