Not A Dollarshort

It was all right on Alf.

I tell myself that I'm going to sit down and answer the over three hundred emails waiting in my inbox, but then I find myself procrastinating in all ways awful.

Examples?

I spent a good chunk of time today visiting a website about everyone's favorite "confirmed bachelor," Paul Lynde.

As Uncle Arthur, Paul Lynde was the best thing about Bewitched -- and I was reminded of this fact after watching Bye Bye Birdie (where he appears as Ann-Margaret's father) the other day

My visit to Paul Lynde world also reminded me to take the time to look up the birthdate of another Bewitched regular, Bernard Fox a.k.a Dr. Bombay. As a child, I saw Dr. Bombay as an ancient -- he seemed to be in his fifties or sixties. So, when I saw him in Titanic a couple years back, I wondered if he was immortal. It turns out he is one of the only surviving members of the cast and he's only 75.

Next step in my procrastination odyssey was a visit to IMDB to check out the ages of William Frawley and Vivian Vance -- I Love Lucy's Fred and Ethel. I've always known that there was a large age difference between those two actors but it amazes me that they cast an actor, who during their last season, was seventy. This was to Vance's forty-eight.

Fun Fact: Did you know that Vivian Vance was contractually required to remain twenty pounds overweight during filming. This clause was to guarantee that she look older than her actual age. Although I've believed this for years, I have my doubts about the legitimacy of this fact.

After this visit through TV Land past, I remembered I woke up this morning thinking about Lucille Ball -- actually thinking about one of the most traumatizing things I had ever seen on television.

It was a television movie called Stone Pillow -- and Lucille Ball played an elderly homeless woman who -- and this is the traumatizing part -- eats an alley cat!

What a day.

Happy people are boring.

I'm not the most uplifting person.

Actually, I'm a bit of a pessimist, a chronic worrier who spends a great deal of my life belting out complaints and sighs at equally annoying rates.

So, it amazes me when I consider how frightefully cheery I have become since we've moved to San Francisco.

Cheery is relative, of course.

Most everyone I come in contact with will hear me issue a standard spiel about how much I love living in The City. I love the dining options, the Park, the Beach. And, oddly, the bus.

That is, when the bus comes within twenty-minutes of its estimated time of arrival. Or, when I board the correct #38 -- the one that takes me to my apartment rather than Ocean Beach.

It took a while, but I learned that it's important to read the destination on the front of bus.

I'm learning to like walking. I'm learning to tolerate the hills surrounding our neighborhood. And, most importantly, I'm regaining the independence that I loss somewhere between high school and marriage.

Taking the bus by myself is a big step. Going to Aaron Brothers to pick up a 56x16 picture frame (which cost more than the print) and riding the bus by myself is an enormous step.

Now, you're probably thinking that I'm a terribly stunted person. I mean, what kind of person pats herself on the back for riding a bus?

To which I respond, don't bring me down, mofo. I'm making progress and I'm queen of the mountain (or queen of the rather step hill we live on).

The "Queen of the Mountain" phrase, by the way, was a catchphrase of mine as a child. We had a very tiny tiny hill on our lawn -- probably unperceptable to anyone without child eyes -- which I would stand on when I was feeling particularly happy.

I haven't thought of that memory in probably 15 years.

This weekend continued our embracing the city streak.

On Saturday, we walked on the Coastal Trail which leads to the Legion of Honor. At the Legion of Honor, I picked up volunteer forms and we signed up for membership.

Later that night, we met up with Scott and Megan and dined at The Tonga Room in the Fairmont Hotel. A bit pricey, but still a good time. Some drink pictures: 1, 2, 3 and a picture of it raining inside the restaurant.

Sidenote: A complete coincidence, I had an email waiting for me when we returned from The Tonga Room. It was from my dad and was a link to this menu from The Tahitian Terrace at Disneyland. After The Tonga Room and that, I really was feeling the urge to take a Disneyland road trip.

On Sunday, my mother drove up from Sonoma to deliver our bicycles.

Since it is my new mission to melt away her hatred of San Francisco, Ben and I took her (via the bus, no less) to the lovely Queen Wilhelmina Tulip Garden at Golden Gate Park where, amidst the flowers, the Greater Bay Area Costumer's Guild were gathering for their Dutch Painters' picnic.

Now if I go on with this description of my weekend adventures, I'm afraid that a blue jay is going to land on my shoulder and begin singing.

Believe me, I think grumpy, neurotic Mena is more interesting too.

I have a way with words.

I've got, and I use this term loosely, writer's block.

Actually, the exact phrasing I used today is "my blogging teat has been sucked dry."

Ben told me not to post that sentence since he found it disgusting and proof that not all things said aloud should be posted.

True.

In other news, Wednesday was the one-year anniversary of dollarshort.

And, like some preoccupied husband/wife, I forget to send roses. Or rather, I didn't bother to commemorate the occasion with a post.

However, my dear pal, Paul, remembered -- on his own, no less.

So normal, it's weird.

I have a horrible habit of inciting all sorts of familial rumbles on holidays.

Take last year's Easter celebration.

Or the Easter before that, when, with one little benign (but smartass) comment, I managed to anger my father-in-law to the point where he felt that storming out of the house and driving away was the only solution.

Gosh, I love the holidays.

So, it is simply remarkable that this past holiday weekend was not only crisis-free but also, dare I say it, pleasant.

My father drove my grandparents up from Los Angeles since their health and age prevents them from making the drive themselves. And, Ben and I managed to share the weekend in such a way that we felt both of our families were being well-represented.

At one point, when my mother, Ben and I were playing frisbee in her warm and sunny Sonoma County backyard, I wondered when the pod people had stepped in.

There were dogs a plenty, pretty flowers and even a singing bird.

Sidenote: In true Grabowski spirit, my family's parrot (a mitred conure) sings three songs: Cool Water, Skinnamarink-y dinky-dink, and the theme from the Pirates of the Carribean.

Now, here comes the part filled with Catholic guilt:

Of course, I still feel guilty for not attending Easter mass. This was the first time that Ben or I have missed a hard-core holiday church service.

We tried to justify our absence by saying it was a protest over the way the Catholic Church is handling the recent scandals.

But really, we were just feeling lazy.

Still, for someone who went through 14 years of Catholic school, I fear that my payback for missing church is a-comin'.

Let's just hope that God's wrath was wrought when, after an hour and a half of play, our game of Oregon Trail crashed.

We had just reached the homestretch and my character had already survived a snake bite, two gun-shots, and a nasty infection!

Yes, let's hope that was our punishment.