Not A Dollarshort

Hey McFly!

If I haven't already convinced you that I'm a bit of a loon, then this chart that I made last night should seal the deal.

While driving to dinner last night, Ben and I had our second (yes, second) disagreement in about a month about the progression of Biffs throughout the three Back to the Future movies.

The debate starts innocently enough with a question:

Mena: Which Biff is your favorite Biff?

Ben: Haven't you asked me this before?

Mena: Yeah, just answer -- I forgot.

Ben: Fine... Biffco Biff is the Best Biff.

Mena: Oh, that's so wrong. Old Biff kicks ass.

And then, Ben has to point out that Old Biff is too bitter and that he shouldn't be since he's really the older version of auto-detailing Biff -- a Biff who has lost all dignity and now services the McFly's cars.

To which I retort, "Old Biff is bitter because he had to detail the McFly's car. Just because Auto-detailing Biff is all clueless and lacking a spine at the end of BTTF II doesn't mean he's still not a jerk. Wash Marty's pick-up for thirty years and see how bitter you become."

It's as clear as day.

And the chart?

Well, when you're a major procrastinator and have a house to pack, you have different priorities.

So which Biff is your favorite Biff?

I did mention the pigeon, didn't I?

Yesterday was a pretty disappointing day.

We had made the drive to San Francisco to look at two rental properties - one in the frightfully quiet West of Twin Peaks area, the other, near Hugo and Irving.

Our first appointment -- the West of Twin Peaks property -- fell through when the owner decided not to show up.

This was probably for the best since my initial reaction when seeing the house was:

"This reminds me of Bela Lugosi's house in Plan 9 from Outer Space."

After waiting around for a half an hour, we headed to our next appointment where we encountered:

1. The constant barking of a rottweiler-sized dog in the shared unit.

2. A very scary black pigeon living in one of the rooms -- which, at first sight looked very much like a bat, hence my scream "Oh, my God, there's a bat living up there."

3. A kitchen literally the size of my arm-span, if that wide.

4. Did I mention the pigeon?

And yes, I'm usually very picky. But, yesterday morning -- before we left to go the The City -- I made sure to keep an open mind.

So now, I'm completely bummed since I see the process of finding somewhere to live in San Francisco to be a nightmarish process.

We don't need to be in the heart of the city -- we're very open to living in an isolated part -- say, Outer Sunset or, West of Twin Peaks.

We just want something that feels clean and safe.

Oh, and a garage, hardwood floors, washer/dryer and a location close to some sort of public transit.

Yeah, I know -- good luck. Damn us spoiled suburban kids with our champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

Or, as I like to say -- champagne tastes on a beer budget.

But not having to live with a pigeon doesn't seem to be too much to ask

Side Note: My day was somewhat brightened by the aquisition of State Quarter #15 -- Kentucky.

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.

Is that all there is?

Last Wednesday, I spent an entire day in the library of my former high school.

Why? Why, oh why?

Well, as Ben reported, I was finishing work on a small job that I had agreed to do for the school. And, this job involved using one of the computers on campus -- a computer in the school's library.

So, during the course of the day, I sat through about four or five study halls in a seat only about ten feet away from the students.

You know how you'll sometimes hear an elderly person say that, despite their physical ailments, they still feel like they have a seventeen year-old mind?

Well, maybe they should spend a day in a high school library -- ten feet away from seventeen year-olds and their minds. Then, perhaps, they wouldn't be so quick to disregard the differences between their mind and that of the teenager.

Despite the fact that ageism reared its ugly head, I did attempt to give these kids the benefit of the doubt.

For starters, I came into the library with a positive attitude. I believe I smiled more during those seven hours than I did during most of the days I spent in high school.

"Let a smile be your umbrella," I guess.

And, when some oblivious starter jacket rudely bumped into me without a remorseful acknowledgement, I didn't elbow him in the side.

Aww, the kinder, gentler Mena.

Oh, and I spent a good chunk of time imagining that I would come to the rescue of a freshman boy who -- with his fully zipped-up Member's Only Jacket and shaggy hair -- looked like he could have been the only kid in that school who actually spent as much time online as myself.

I guess I just wanted to go up to his desk and say "it gets better than this."

But, wisely, I refrained from my white knight act so as not to seem any more like the creepy stranger using a computer in a high school library.

We're going to be bestest friends!

Last week I mentioned the general problems plaguing my grandparents. Since then, their car was totaled while parked in front of their house and my grandfather has been hospitalized for a blood clot that traveled to his lungs (however that works).

Now frankly, I've had enough of this country music song.

So, tomorrow we're getting in the car and heading down to Los Angeles to be with them for a while. Things never seem as bed when you're nearby and, really, I don't need to hear any more bad news over the phone.

Even though we'll be gone for a week or two, I'll be posting regularly and Movable Type development will continue.

These are the times we really wish we had an laptop rather than 3 desktops. Luckily, Ben's iMac is somewhat portable.

Well, at least more portable than the Performa I dragged around in college.

I transferred to another college during my last quarter of my sophomore year. Because I dreaded having a roommate -- let alone one who had already established her set of friends, I met the move with an enormous amount of anxiety.

I'll sum up the rooming arrangement with this image:

My roommate and her former roommate actually had a door sign made that not only had both of their names carved in wood but also the words "friends forever."

Oh, and when this old roommate left (because of personal problems at home), my roommate had taken down this girl's bed and had designated that corner of the room "party central."

Needless to say, when she arrived from Spring Break and found me sitting on the reconstructed bed -- between her Absolut trophies and her Anne Geddes calendar, she was more than surprised.

Don't get me wrong -- she was a nice girl. We were just different types.

I was the type who'd pack up her desktop computer (including monitor) in a suitcase and drive home every weekend.

You know, a loser.

Even Ben makes fun of me for that one.

Friend in a box.

1985 was the year of Teddy Ruxpin, and I, like almost every other child in America, became mesmerized by this small-scale animatronic world of wonder.

Teddy Ruxpin was the ultimate baby-sitter in a box. To a parent, he was a battery-operated storyteller -- complete with 40 taped adventures that illustrated the value of friendship and the benefits of sharing.

To a child, he was an instant friend -- one who shared his fanciful stories, blinked his plastic eyes and moved his mouth as if he was real.

This, at least, is what I think having Teddy Ruxpin as my friend would have been like. I really can't say since my parents never bought me one.

No, that doesn't sound too bitter.

While I wasn't the quintessential spoiled, only child, I'd have to say that Santa was usually very generous at Christmas. Living with two sets of "parents" (my grandparents and my parents) usually meant a boatload of gifts that guaranteed an obscenely gleeful Christmas morning.

However, there were some toys that I was destined never to own. The rock tumbler (you already have one). The Easy-Bake Oven (too dangerous). The Ouija Board (toy of the devil). The ventriloquist's dummy (also the toy of the devil).

To my parents, Teddy Ruxpin fell into the devil's spawn category -- and, to a certain extent I would have to agree that he was a bit creepy.

He was evil in a Snuggle sort of way. You know, cute and innocent to mask his sinister plans.

Well, that's at least how my family viewed Snuggle.

In spite of his seemingly evil ulterior motives, Teddy Ruxpin was really quite a neat toy and he remained in the top spot on my Christmas list.

The sophisticated traveler.

I bought a poncho two days ago.

Not just any poncho, mind you. This one puts the "Aye!" in "Aye Dios mio!"

I could end this post after the above sentence because, frankly, nothing really good can come out of a story that begins "I bought a poncho yesterday."

But I won't.

Instead, I'll mention that yes, it is a tad ugly and out-of-style. I wouldn't say that it's hideous -- but I would definitely say it's a bit more Native American¹ than my usual attire.

Still, I can honestly say that this silly poncho has brought me an immense amount of joy during the past couple days. You see, this poncho is basically a glorified blanket. And, for someone who is as sleep deprived as myself, its tight knit is more comforting than its out-of-style looks are unsettling.

But why did I buy it in the first place?

The sad beatnik.

I trick-or-treated up until the ripe old age of sixteen.

The last year I went -- junior year of high school -- I was a beatnik. I ironed my hair, put on a turtleneck and a beret and spent the day at school talking the hip talk and looking really relaxed.

That night, I went trick-or-treating with my best friend, her boyfriend and his best friend, Frank. Frank was exactly the sort of person that the phrased "the lights are on but no one's home" was penned for.

That, oddly, didn't dissuade me from being "in love" with him throughout my entire junior year.

Of course because this is a Mena story, the feelings were never reciprocated and the big joke within my circle of female friends was that he had propositioned every one of us but me.

Ha. Ha. The ironies of life and teenage love.

But I digress.

As the night progressed, and we continued the glorified begging for food ritual, I began to feel pangs of sadness. The source, unknown, I quickly began to try to cheer myself up.

Despite my brave attempts -- eating butterfingers straight from my pillow-case -- I was soon a walking mess.

Choking back tears between bites of fun-sized chocolate bars is hardly the way to spend a night out with friends and I was determined to snap out of one of my "moods."

It didn't take long for me to realize the source on my blues.

I heart plaid.

On Tuesday, Ben and I attended the Weblogger User Group meeting in Mountain View.

Although I hadn't attended a meeting for an organized club in quite some time, I was amused to discover that meetings in the "adult world" do not seem to differ much from any sort of high school or college club meeting.

I think all clubs have basically the same attendees with just different names and faces. There, of course, is a clear range of members with two different types of people being on either end of the spectrum.

Those who take notes and those who make jokes.

After an incredibly long stint at trying to be perceived as an adult, I'm pretty happy to report that I reverted to a very watered down of my seventeen year-old self just for one night.

During the meeting's baffling thirty minute discussion on what to name the Weblogger User Group (How about Weblogger User Group?), I was reminded of a pathetic story that really captures the mood that surrounds any sort of club.

When I was thirteen or fourteen I would frequent Prodigy's club message boards. While the memories of the actual interface are really sketchy — I simply remember a lot of yellow and a sort of BBS/Message Board — I do remember that the club areas covered a range of topics but seemed to focus mostly on movies, musicians and hobbies.

Let me preface this story by mentioning that, yes indeed, I was a dork. Being online at thirteen in 1991 is a whole lot different than being online at thirteen in 2001. Throw in being a girl, and you've got a train wreck of awkwardness (which perhaps has never quite left the station).

Anyway, while on Prodigy, I'd search for newly-started clubs in the hopes of being a charter member and, if I was early enough, a member with a position and title. Like their counterparts in the offline world, most of these clubs took themselves a bit too seriously and had members who were desperately hoping to take on the roles of president, secretary, treasurer, publicity etc.

Give a thirteen year-old girl a title and she'll be quite happy.

Unfortunately, for me, I was always a tad behind in joining most every club and was usually nothing more than a lowly member.

One day, however, I found a club with untapped potential. Hardly any members (yet!) had joined and the much-coveted "secretary" position was available.

I knew my chance had come.

So, I emailed the club's president and within a couple of hours, I was an elected official.

To avoid further embarrassment, I should probably refrain from mentioning that the club was about plaid.

Yes, the fabric.

No really.

It was the "I Love Plaid Club."

Within a few days, the club had exploded in size. The majority of the members joined for no other reason than to be part of a club. No one really knew what to talk about once they joined and quite often, you'd see an awkward post mentioning plaid for the sake of well, mentioning plaid.

People LOVE being in clubs — it's a sense of belonging thing, I guess. And, on Prodigy, this fact was constantly being demonstrated by the sheer silliness of club topics and the sheer volume of members.

This is important to note with regard to my story.

You see, one day the president and founder of the plaid club decided to let his members onto his little joke and posted a note on the club's board. It basically read something like this:

"I can't believe how stupid you people are! Who wants to talk about plaid? I formed this club to see what losers would join. I mean, really!! You're all a bunch of dorks. Get a life."

Now consider how stupid you'd feel if you were a member of this club. You didn't really like plaid that much but just wanted to be a part of something.

Now think how stupid you'd feel if you were the club's secretary.

Harriet, Oh Harriet.

In high school, I kept this photo of The Kids in the Hall's Dave Foley in my locker. It was a Xerox copy of a photo from an old Rolling Stone that I had borrowed from the library.

The wonders of pre-Web (at least for me) fanaticism -- a time when, if you wanted to get a picture from a two-year old magazine, you had to do a bit of work.

This was during the 1993-1994 season, a wonderful time when the show was on Comedy Central, HBO and CBS.

While all my friends were lusting over Brad Pitt (who I could never, nor will ever find attractive), I was obsessing over some short guy with beady eyes who liked to cross-dress.

To each his own, I guess.

I'll proudly admit my Dave Foley crush to anyone.

The prior-to-Dave-Foley crush is a little bit more embarrassing:

Mike Myers

I kid you not, I kept a Mike Myers scrapbook. I collected photos and articles around the time of So I Married an Axe Murderer, the movie where I thought he looked his absolute "best." I even had the soundtrack, which with Suede, Big Audio Dynamite and The La's wasn't half bad. But don't get me started on that damn Spin Doctors song.

Oh, and I memorized that "beat" poem he performed in the cafe in the movie.

I still remember most of it.

Okay, on a scale of 1 to 10, does this make me a google-plus-one dork?

And I knew all sorts of weird facts about his life -- like how he met his wife, Robin, at a bar across the street from Second City in Toronto.

Let me just tell you that by the time Dave Foley and The Kids in the Hall entered my life, I was ready to move to Canada and set up residence near a comedy club. I couldn't imagine an easier way to meet my dream man.

After that, for the longest time, I wanted to be a Canadian comedian.

The dreams of a teenage girl.