Not A Dollarshort

The Officer's Mess

Last week I spent some time in New York, followed by a conference in Chicago and finally Charlotte, North Carolina to visit my parents and grandparents (we are not from North Carolina -- they moved there three years ago because of a job my father got). Anyway, a lot of travel was followed by a relatively restful weekend with my family (sans Ben) in which my mother and I shopped and I got my first pedicure ever. Yeah, all nice and normal stuff.

On the last day of my trip, my mother and I went to a chain store called Steinmart, some sort of store that has clothes and furniture and is pretty different from any places I've been to California. Anyway, it was at Steinmart that I saw the most awesome painting ever.

I love Westies and I love whimsy. This seemed straight out of Disneyland. So, I called Ben and asked his opinion on the picture. Since I couldn't get GPRS working on my phone, I couldn't send the picture of the painting I took. Based on my description I could tell Ben probably would want me to pass. He was interested, yes, but unsure of how it would look in our home.

So we went home.

Later that night, as I showed my dad and grandparents (who responded that "that crap isn't going to hang in our house."), I finally got the picture uploaded to my blog for Ben to see. Pretty quickly we both decided the picture was too good to pass up. So, my parents and I jumped in the car and rushed to Steinmart which would be closing in about ten minutes.

When we got there, I rushed to the back of the store and asked a clerk if the painting was in stock. But instead of describing it, I showed a picture on my cell phone I took earlier that day.

Salesclerk: Wait. Are you the one who just called about this thing?
Me: Yeah, that was my dad.
Salesclerk: Oh, okay. I couldn’t believe there would be two people wanting that tonight.
Me: Yeah, well. I like Westies
Salesclerk: Okay...I’ll get it.

My parents then asked if there were any other prints of this caliber and she proceded to show them a beagle in miliitary attire along with The Officer’s Mess (my painting).

Salesclerk: We had to remove these from the sales floor because of complaints.
My parents: What kind of complaints?
Salesclerk: People were saying they were offensive.

Offensive? I’d give on tacky or weird, but offensive?

Anyway I got the painting, carried it back with me on the plane to California and propped it against a chair in our living room. Ben and I love the thing and the fact that it makes us smile every time we see it. People who have visited our house smile and laugh at it. It’s a conversation piece — it makes us feel good. If that’s offensive, I’m all for it.

When in North Carolina, I told my parents that it was my goal to get that painting in the background of an upcoming photo shoot Ben and I were going to do for a periodical. Luckily, when the photographer came over, she loved The Officer and it’s now predominantly in the photos (though there are some photos that we took in another room — we’ll see which one they choose).

Note: The reason I'm so dressed up in that picture from the shoot is because I'm wearing my prom dress from high school -- Ben and I started dating because I asked him to the prom.

By the way, the artist behind The Officer’s Mess is Thierry Poncelet.

Good stuff.

Eigo?

I told myself after our trip to Tokyo in January that if Six Apart decided to take funding, I would force myself to take a Japanese language class so that, the next time I was in Japan, I'd be able to wipe that "I'm so stupid that I don't understand your language" look off my face.

Ten months later, we're back in Japan and the only phrase I can speak (and poorly at that) is "nihongo-ga wakarimasen" which is, as you could probably guess, "I don't understand Japanese."

Remember that Chris Farley Saturday Night Live sketch where he's on a Japanese game show but can't speak Japanese? And as he misses question after question and is about to be electrocuted as penalty for losing he keeps on shouting "I don't speak Japanese!"

That's basically how I feel -- but probably a bit less eloquent than Farley's character.

The other day, while sitting in a room for about eight hours straight and surrounded by others discussing work stuff almost entirely in Japanese, I found myself trying to will myself to speak, or at least understand, Japanese. It's a safe bet to say that I wasn't too successful and, after all those hours of intense Japanese, I realized that I was basically the human equivalent of a golden retriever who relies on intonation to tell whether his owner is happy or mad or is posing a task/question. I would add, however, that I think that I have a better grasp on the nuances of tone. Like, when I guessed that someone was discussing internal company politics just from that "my hands are tied" sort of expression.

Most dogs wouldn't have a grasp on that.

I should add that while we're in Japan we're almost always accompanied by someone that speaks English fluently. So, much like a child, I've become dependent on someone else ordering food for me, giving directions in taxis or interacting with any sort of person in service. It is those times when I happen to be alone (and this counts for about 10 minutes of an entire week-long trip), that I find myself suddenly trying to will myself invisibility.

In the Tiki Room, no one can hear you scream

After seeing Andy's take on the next three attraction-based Disney movies, I couldn't resist from creating my own dream movie poster. And don't think that I don't already have a pitch in my mind. The Tiki Room! is sort of Jurassic Park and The Birds meets Norma Rae. But, you know, with really mad birds who are tired of performing on demand.

I think it has potential.

We saw The Pirates of the Caribbean on Friday, and I must say I enjoyed it far more than I thought I would. I had no plans to see the movie but after reading a couple glowing reviews about the film and Johnny Depp, I couldn't resist. If you're a fan of the ride, you'll certainly appreciate the references. The art direction was fantastic and the subtle references were extremely amusing. And, Johnny Depp was Johnny Depp, which is always worth the price of admission.

Subject: Remove

Once, long ago, after receiving a particularly personal, dramatic, too-much-information type of email from an acquaintance, I was about 87% tempted to reply with a blank email with "Remove" as the subject. Since that time, however, I have nourished that 13% strength into a good 30-35% tolerance for inbox melodramatics.

Resisting the urge to respond to personal emails with "remove" or "unsubscribe" has been the gauge I use to measure my humanity.

I think I'm doing well.

Dementor

Tonight, while walking down University Avenue in Palo Alto, we spied some Christmas Carolers. As we passed them, they seemed to get quieter and quieter as if they were losing their voices. Only after we crossed the street, their volume and tone returned to joyeux. At that moment Ben called me a dementor -- as in Harry Potter -- and I could only agree that I sap all joy from people. It has a lot to do with the cold I'm suffering from, I guess. Yeah, that's it.

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.

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.

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.

And then, I brought out the old photo albums. At this time, I realized (a bit too late) that I can be babied but can no longer be a baby.

And just when I think I'm going to end this with a "life's short and then you die," I force myself to come up with some sort of optimistic ending that says something about the great journey ahead:

I can rent cars now!