Not A Dollarshort

I'll tell you where you can put your change.

Want to spend a fun-filled day rediscovering and embracing your loathing for your fellow man?

Well, then, throw a garage sale!

Last weekend, Ben and I headed up to Sonoma County to help my parents throw their garage sale. We were given appropriate tasks based on our qualifications.

Ben, because of his math and computer science degrees, was the "bank," the person who handled the money and bookkeeping.

And I, because of my intense don't-you-con-me nature, was given the job of "enforcer" and "negotiator." Basically, I was theft-control and the person who stood to be insulted with ridiculously low barters.

Nine hours and a $111.65 later (our cut), I saw the world in a much darker light. The greed! The horror! The absolute seriousness of garage sale shoppers!

To make your life easier, here are some of my tips on throwing a successful garage sale:

1. Get a good night's sleep.

2. Despite their cute-sounding name, "Early Birds" are bloodthirsty beasts. They'll ring your doorbell at seven in the morning, three hours before the sale is set to start. Do not yell at the Early Birds. Dirty looks are fine, though.

3. Never shake children who are inappropriately touching the merchandise. Parents don't like that.

4. Patio furniture is king. Many a family will look at their children as possible trade-ins for a high-quality patio sets.

5. If you are particularly fond of an item, stand firm on the pricing. If you're lucky, it won't sell and you'll be able to bring it home with you.

6. Garage sale shoppers aren't too fond of being sprayed with hose water.

7. People who insult you with an offer of $65 for an almost new $600 mattresses, boxspring, frame set are ridiculously presumptuous.

8. At 4:30, just sell them the f**king mattress for $65.

9. If you and your family intend to have screaming fights about the garage sale, do it inside of the house. Very special tip: Never include the phrase "stop conning me!" in earshot of the garage sale patrons.

10. Wear sunblock.

You may continue.

Ladies Night Transcript

"I believe I'll be the first contributor with breasts on the site."

So, I wasn't the only person who noticed something lacking from The Morning News.

It has been rectified. All is now good.

--

On another Maggie Berry note: Curses to her for getting this in my head.

They wore sparkles.

Children take most everything literally.

Even with my above-average intelligence¹, I was no exception.

In third grade, after becoming acquainted with the Reader's Digest standards songbook, I became captivated by song.

I sang the old favorites -- Stardust, Moonglow, Rum and Coca-Cola.

I also sang loudly, poorly and painfully high.

Still, I wasn't a realist and despite my shortcomings, my desire to become a singer intensified with each and every viewing of that showcase of talent, Star Search.

Sure, you may scoff at those little Britneys, LeAnns, Christinas -- the kids who belt out painfully bad (but loud) songs through their lock-jaw smiles.

To me, Ed McMahon's jewel had all the glamour, excitement, and suspense that was missing from my nine year-old life.

I wanted to be a part of that excitement.

So, each day after school I would head to the downstairs bathroom (for the great acoustics and privacy, of course) with my songbook and tape recorder in tow. Into the microphone I would belt out show-stoppers in the manner fitting the brightest star on the Search.

My repertoire was vast -- I had the torch songs and the ballads, the seasonal songs and the crowd-pleasers. Still, I needed a gem of a song to catapult me to the top.

One song stood out: New York, New York.

"These vagabond shoes
are leaving the way.
I'm going to make a start of it
In old New York."

Yeah, I know what you're thinking: Those aren't the lyrics.

It didn't matter, technicalities such as lyrics and tone stood in the way of my act. Instead, I focussed on the important things -- like designing my costume.

It was to be a leotard -- a tuxedo-stylized leotard. Blue and red, with sequins on the lapels.

I would wear tap shoes, though I didn't know how to tap dance.

And, of course, the top hat was optional -- perhaps I'd wear it in the semi-finals.

Now, here comes the "children take most everything literally" part.

My parents actually told me that I was going to be on Star Search.

They (and I think it may have just been my dad) said something like, "get your act together and we'll get you on the show."

Now, they knew I'd never be on that show. For one thing, they could hear. And no matter how much my mother loved me, the sounds emanating from my mouth no doubt sounded similar to that of the wails of an injured poodle.

Why did they say it?

I'd blame boredom, and a less-than-developed sense of understanding of their child's mind and her inability to detect sarcasm. ²

But I digress.

Say you are a child -- a particularly geeky child with few friends -- and you've just been told you're going to be on Star Search. What would be the first thing you would do?

That's right. Tell everyone in your class the good news.

I believe I don't have to detail their reactions. Needless to say, they laughed my dreams right out of me.

With my Star Search aspirations and assumed lies, I became one of those detestable elementary school figures: the liar.

The moral of the story? Kids who "lie" may simply be ill-informed.

The sight of Ed McMahon and the sound of New York, New York still sends shivers down my pines.

---

¹ No, really.

² Because my parents do read dollarshort.org and because I will be seeing them in two days, I should point out that although my parents did have a fun-loving mean-streak, they did sincerely encourage my other activities -- including the piano and art. Standard disclaimer: my parents aren't bad people.

Fastball.

A couple days ago, while Ben and I were watching a particularly long Giant's game on television, I expressed a desire for some sort of service which would basically edit all the non-essentials of the game.

It would sort of be like baseball wrap-ups, pitch after pitch of high-speed fun. Because, you know, sometimes you don't have the time to sit through a three-hour game.

Especially when you're just watching it on the television.

It turns out, MLB.com has launched just a service:

"Not just baseball ... fastball! Watch a game's worth of action in about 20 minutes. Watch every hit, run & payoff pitch -- about 85 pitches -- in an action-packed 300K stream."

From the Real Video free preview, I think it's safe to say that what I pictured in my mind was a whole lot cooler.

Of course, the "service" I had imagined also involved hi-tech goggles and data dumps to the brain.

Perhaps if they add the blooper-reel footage music to the background, it would be a bit more exciting.

Link via Raelity Bytes.

Short, but sweet.

I've redesigned, relaunched and moved Sew Wrong to sewwrong.com.

I call the design "studies in Creamsicle."

Survey Says.

Last night it occurred to me that I may be watching way too much of the Gameshow Network.

While lying in bed, casually discussing the highs and lows of my day, I mentioned to Ben that "Allen" was once again on Press Your Luck.

This, by the way, was a low.

Mena: God, I hate Allen.

Ben: Who?

Mena: That guy on Press Your Luck who makes all those noises of glee while winning. He makes me so angry. He's such a smug bastard.

As we discussed the personality flaws of Allen, I explained to Ben that I discovered today that the Gameshow Network plays episodes in order of broadcast. And, today, while laying on my almost comfortable couch, I came to the realization that, yes, I am truly pathetic.

The actual thought:

"When the Family Feud's Richard Dawson comments about a past family or a joke from an earlier episode -- and I actually REMEMBER the joke or family -- it's time to turn the television off."

We beat penicillin

My friends at Amazon made my day this morning -- The Kids in the Hall's Brain Candy is now available for pre-order.

In related news, I may have to sell the two tickets I bought for their Mon, May 20th show. The seats are in section UL1, row EE, seats 106 and 107.

I'm asking for face value -- $85 (including the service charge) for both tickets.

I'm also willing to trade these tickets for 2 comparable-priced Giants tickets.

Let me know via email if you're interested.

Goofus.

There are two sides to every story.

Mena: Excuse me, Ben. When you have a moment, could you direct your attention to my half of the room?

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: No hurry, dear.

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: Ben?

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: Here's my question: What are the technical limitations behind why we can't have an exclude category in MTEntries?

Ben: Would you shut-up? I'm trying to kill all these processes and I don't have time for you.

Mena: I'm sorry for bothering you. But, I do not think I merited that response.

Ben: Argh! You're so infuriating!

I walk over to Ben's desk and put my hand on his shoulder.

Mena: Okay, I have a solution. We'll draw an imaginary line. And, for a certain amount of time, neither of us will disturb each other. How does that sound?

Ben: Stupid fool.

Mena: You know I have an inferiority complex. Comments like that really hurt.

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: (Silence)

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: Hey Ben, look at this! Simplicity now makes a male pilgrim costume pattern.

Wish List.

I just love the Swiffer.

So much so, that I often find myself singing to myself as I swiff our hardwood floors.

The song? A variation of the old Polaroid Swinger jingle.

Of course, "Meet the Swiffer, the Polaroid Swiffer" doesn't make much sense.

The whole ritual is a bit odd, I suppose.

While the Swiffer makes cleaning the floor so much easier, I find it quite unsettling (in terms of the amount of dust bunnies we have on our floor) that one Swiffer refill cloth doesn't cut it.

And because I'm horribly frugal, I can't bring myself to use two Swiffer cloths in one cleaning walkthrough.

So, as a cost-saving measure, I'll remove large chunks of dust and dirt and flip the Swiffer refill cloth over and use the other side.

The other day -- while switching the cloth -- I caught myself thinking the silliest of thoughts:

"I wish I was rich so I wouldn't have to worry about wasting too many Swiffer refills."

It just goes to show that I'm not really a "big picture" kind of girl.

It's sort of like the way I fantasize.

I'll daydream that I have the power to blink and have tasks completed.

Blink. My room is clean.
Blink. The project is complete.
Blink. Our taxes our filed.

I don't think big.

I don't consider that if I had the power to blink my way to these solutions, then I could just blink and have a pile of money sitting on my lap -- a lap, by the way that would be living (along with the rest of my body) in France.

Justice severed.

I've mentioned before that I have an insane need for justice.

This email from my mom confirms it:

"Dad sent this article to me and I thought that if you were in the K-9 unit, you would request this dog for your partner.

You could capture and hand out the penalty at the same time."

Did I mention that one of my childhood nicknames was "the little warden?"