Not A Dollarshort

Silly Dreams.

In 1983, I had two aspirations:

1. Live across the street from Disneyland.
2. Work at Disneyland.¹

I'm able to pin down the exact year -- 1983 -- because it was during this same time that Samantha Smith was writing letters to Soviet leader Yuri Andropov. She was rightly afraid of Nuclear war and wanted to know what was being done to prevent mass destruction.

She wanted peace.

I wanted a annual passport and a Anaheim address.

Because of our different agendas, I was ashamed of my selfishness and superficiality. Why couldn't I be like Samantha Smith and care enough to write to Mr. Andropov? Why was I so consumed with my need for 24/7 amusement.

It's not like I wasn't afraid of Nuclear war. I saw The Day After. And, despite common sense, we were still doing drop and cover drills in school (Although that may have had more to do with the constant threat of The Big One, another source of childhood anxiety).

Despite the guilt I felt over my lack of involvement in affairs of state, I never let go of my Disneyland fantasies. In this screwed-up world, Disneyland was my safe house.

I've gone to Disneyland about once every year since I was three years-old. And now, with the new California Adventure park, we're faced with a dilemma. On our upcoming trip to Southern California, should we go to the new park and create a new experience? Or, should I rely on the pleasure I feel through childhood associations and stick with old-school Disneyland?

Is it wrong that I consider this to be a dilemma? Am I still living in the shadow of Samantha Smith?

^1. Where would I work at Disneyland? It's really a tricky question. My favorite "ride" is The Enchanted Tiki Room. But really, how much Tiki Room is too much Tiki Room? I'd give myself five hours before I'd want to make Polynesian stew.

As an adult, I can't really picture being happy as a Cast Member. Perhaps a waitress job at the Blue Bayou, the restaurant inside the Pirates of the Caribbean, is ideal since it involves indirect involvement in a ride, tips, and a controlled climate.

That choice really disappoints my inner child.

Where would you work?

Can it be that it was all so simple then?

We're purchasing a new car Saturday.

Something wild and flashy. Maybe a Honda Civic or an Accord. Definitely a sedan.

And we've already planned all the places we aren't going to drive it.

We're not going to take it to The City on Saturday.

Certainly not to work on Monday.

Oh, and our trip to Los Angeles? Forget about it.

We're not new car people. We like the comfort of an old car, one where scratches and dings don't mean much. A new car brings the anxiety of ownership -- the constant worry of chipped paint, a dinged bumper or a stolen hubcap.

I've been driving my current car, a 1992 Ford Tempo, since I was a junior in high school. It's been a good car. It's been a reliable car. Sure, the brakes are about to give out and the air conditioner has been broken for years, but that's just part of it's charm.

The worst thing about this new purchase is that my Tempo doesn't even see the trade-in coming.

We'll get in the car on Saturday and it'll be like "Oh, I wonder where we are going. Maybe the beach, or the mall? Maybe to visit family? I'll take you there and wait until you're ready to come home. I love you guys."

And then, we'll betray the one constant in my last seven years.

Maybe instead of anthropomorphizing my car and making it my best friend, I should give the Tempo a darker, more sinister side.

"Yeah, get in ... I've got no airbags. You're going to get hurt. And my trunk? That's mold, baby! You hear my engine sputtering? Oh, don't mind that. You'll know soon enough what's wrong."

Who am I kidding? That's not my beloved Tempo talking.

Really, it's not personal.

He did well on tests, though.

Before Ben left for college, we made a silly pact not to make any friends at our respective schools. We were eighteen, in love, and horribly afraid of what would happen when we were separated by a endlessly long two-hour drive.

It was my birthday the day he left. I was miserable. Because my high school grades were less than stellar, I was attending the State University twenty minutes away from home. And because my parents were disappointed that I didn't go to the schools they wanted me to, they forced me to live at home.

Although my parents and I got along somewhat better than we did when I was in high school, we still had knock-out fights over all those little things that teenagers blow out of proportion.

I didn't really want to celebrate my birthday the night Ben left. Moping around and snapping at my parents was really all that I had energy for. They made me come down for dinner -- Chinese food -- and forced me to "get over" Ben leaving. I can't remember what I said, but I'm sure it was some bitchy comment because it warranted my dad throwing chow mein at me.

Happy Birthday.

When I finally started school, I played the part of a commuter student marvelously. I was focussed on school and didn't let making friends interfere with my work.

Unfortunately, I never counted on people wanting to make my acquaintance.

Near the end of my first week in my finite math class, I spied a guy in my class staring at me. And not a oh-she's-cute-and-I'm-functional kind of stare. It was more like a I-want-to-wear-her-skin kind of look.

So I panicked because I've spent my life thinking that people were out to get me. This is the girl who would bring a kitchen knife out to get the mail because, well, my family taught me that everyone is a potential killer.

After class, I casually walked to the quad and tried to reassure myself that I'm just paranoid and he's probably a really nice person that I had just read all wrong.

And then I realized that Bjorn was trying to catch up with me.

Bjorn: Hullo.
Me: Yes?
Bjorn: Are you an artist?
Me: What??
Bjorn: I like you art you do in class.
Me: These doodles?

The art that Bjorn was so impressed with was basically pen doodles of flowers on a folder.

Bjorn: Yah. Very nice.
Mena: Okay. Well, I got to go.
Bjorn: No wait.
Mena: No. Sorry. Got to go.

Bjorn wore a long denim jacket that had a picture of a woman airbrushed on its back. Bjorn had an accent of some sort. It sounded a bit like a German accent but I never could tell. Bjorn freaked me out.

Bjorn also was a frequent user of our school's BBS. One day, not long after our brief encounter, I found an assortment of his posts which basically stated all his fetishes including the desire to razor-slice the faces of all the women he's loved.

Since he never tried to talk to me again, I got over my fear of going to finite math. I pretty much forgot about him until my sophomore year when I became friends with a guy named Jason.

One day over lunch at Red Lobster Jason mentioned that he was acquaintances with Bjorn.

Me: Oh God, he's so f**cking scary.

Jason: He's a weirdo. You know he isn't even foreign?

Me: Really? How do you know.

Jason: He went to high school with my girlfriend, Amy. She told me that he never had that accent when they were in school and that even though he had a crush on her in high school, he pretends he doesn't even know her now.

And then Jason did an impression of Bjorn asking a very Bjorn-like question.

Jason: Friend Jason. Tell me it is like to make love to the beautiful Amy. Do yah make her scream?

At that moment, I realized that it doesn't take much more than a stare to figure a person out.

Children of the ... well, you know.

In high school, I used to wear a black beret. What sounds like a fairly obnoxious article of clothing was rather innocuous since I wore in an understated way -- kind of pulling my bangs back and resting it more on the top-back of my head. I never wore it tilted like you would expect from some cheesy French character in an American television show or movie. The beret wasn't that bad and I'm not too embarrassed of it.

I didn't wear it often because my mom was always hiding it from me. She hated it. She said I looked like Che Guevara in the thing. I disagreed. No matter how much you squinted or tilted your head, there was no chance of mistaking a sixteen year-old girl who had a habit of wearing too much red lipstick and a faux-fur black coat with the revolutionary Argentinean guerilla. No way.

But to my mom, that beret was Che all the way.

She's Cuban and part of that colorful group of Cuban-Americans who will hate Communism and Castro until the day he dies (which may never happen). Social classes are a part of life and unfortunately for my mom's family, they just happened to be on the losing side of the revolution.

With the exception of my mother's sister, I have never really known anyone else in my mom's family. A couple weeks ago, though, she informed me that her aunt and uncle will be visiting from Texas. It'll be quite an event since I have never met them and my dad has only met them once -- before my parents were married. Even my mother hasn't seen them in years. To them my mom is still Clarita, a person I have never known. My mom managed to assimilate in an almost fanatical way. Apart from her love of arroz con pollo and Gloria Estefan, my mom's heritage is pretty much undetectable.

So this visit will take place this weekend and we're having dinner at our house. Like the perfectionist she is, my mom is stressing about anything that could go wrong.

To her, that "anything" is me.

She's sure that I'm going to try to embarrass her. I don't know where this fear comes from, though. She has to realize that I'm an adult and have relatively good judgement when it comes to family get-togethers.

Sure, I'll make jokes when I'm around her and Ben. Take last weekend, when we cleaning the garage and unearthing all sorts of long-lost belongings -- like my old Chinese Communist hat that was a gift from a friend who visited China. I never wore it, however. It just took up space in a box in my room.

Me: I think I'm going to wear this hat at dinner next weekend. What do you think?

Mom: Don't you dare. You want to see what happens?

Me: Jeez Louise, can't you take a joke? Well, I guess that means I should take the Che Guevara poster down.

Mom: You're so funny, Mena. You and your dad. I've already told him that he better watch how he acts.

Me: Wow, you're setting this up to be one fun night.

The fact she was cleaning my garage and house illustrates how perfect she wants everything to be. She told me to pick out some good Cuban music to play during dinner. I questioned whether it's too much of a cliche.

It'll be interesting to see how the evening turns out.

Candy colored clown they call the Sand Man.

I've mentioned that I scare easily.

I like to attribute my fears to my grandparents' house because, well, growing up in a house decorated in Spanish gothic seems an easy target for placing blame.

The furniture, acquired at estate sales, held the distinction of seeming as alive as the occupants of the house. Every piece of wood was carved with intricate, allegorical designs that usually had some sort of face protruding out of the dark, almost black wood. My two favorite pieces were the heaven and hell chairs, two pieces which, as I saw them, battled over the souls in the house. Carvings of cherubs and angels on one, demons and devils on the other.

No wonder I have such a weak constitution.

Because of this house, I had a difficult time sleeping in my own bed in my own room. To a disturbingly late age, I couldn't fall asleep unless I was in my parents' bed. Even with the huge painting of Rembrandt's The Night Watch hanging on the bedroom wall, I felt safe and at ease when in such close proximity to my mom.

That is, I felt safe when she wasn't doing one of her waking nightmare spiels. She would wake up, not realize that the nightmare was over and then, start talking nonsense:

"Don't put Mena down the well!"

"Where are all these roaches coming from? Get them off of me!"

"The boat's sinking. Don't let Mena go down with the boat!"

Usually something horrible was happening to me. I can't tell you how many times she woke me from a peaceful slumber just to inform me that, yes indeed, I was about to die.

Just last night, I was reminded how much I hate it when people blur the lines between nightmares and reality.

Around 5 a.m., I was awaken by the bedroom light and Ben frantically searching through the bed's covers:

Me: What time is it... What are you doing?
Ben: I saw a huge bug in the bed.
Me: (While jumping up and out of the bed) What? Get it out!
Ben: I can't find it.
Me: How big was it?
Ben: Really big.
Me: Was it a mouse?
Ben: No. I don't know.

After I started to realize that seeing a bug or anything in the pitch black room was near impossible, I started to grill him:

Me: So where did you see this bug?
Ben: At the foot of the bed.
Me: In the dark?
Ben: Yes.
Me: Are you sure you weren't dreaming?
Ben: I don't know.
Me: How could you have possibly seen it? It's so dark in here.
Ben: I swear I saw it.
Me: Go back to sleep, it was probably a dream.

So we get back in bed and then Ben gets all antsy:

Ben: Oh, God I think I feel it.
Mena: Go to bed!
Ben: No really.
Me: Fine! I'm getting up. I can't sleep now because of you and that damn bug.
Ben: What are you going to do?
Me: What else? I'm going on my computer.

I stormed out and went to my office. Even though I was wide awake, I resented Ben for waking me up and knew that in an hour or so, I would be utterly exhausted. Meanwhile, Ben stripped the bed and found no trace of any sort of critter. I finally went back to bed when he told me he hadn't found anything and wouldn't say a thing about what he thought he saw.

Today, my mother came over to help clean our garage and I told Ben to tell her about the fun trait that they both have in common. When he described the bug to my mom, he included a fact that had escaped his initial description to me.

Ben: It was about this big (while holding his hands about 15 inches apart)

If only he hadn't withheld that little piece of information, I would have been able to see past those nightmare shenanigans and gotten a good sleep.

Oh. And if you couldn't tell from the title of this post, we watched Blue Velvet last night. After watching that movie (and subsequently reading the David Foster Wallace essay w/r/t David Lynch and Lost Highway, Blue Velvet et al.), I'm lucky that a bug was all that Ben dreamt about:

"Frank Booth's in the room Mena! Get out!"

Now, that wouldn't be funny.

For the love of the game.

Last night, I found myself unusually drawn to a televised baseball game. It was the San Francisco Giants versus the Arizona Diamondbacks, a game that stretched into eighteen innings. Although I didn't watch all eighteen, I was glued to the set for its last three hours (it was about five hours, in total).

Rather indifferent about most sports, I have oddly developed a fondness for baseball. I watch baseball for all the wrong reasons, though.

Take last night, for example. I watched because I wanted to see how long the game could possibly last. I pictured a game well into 40 innings -- the players staggering off the field, pleading with their coaches to bring an end to the madness. I wanted to see what happened when they ran out of pitchers. I wondered how late it could get before even the diehard fans went home. I had to see which player cracked first.

Baseball doesn't work like that, I guess.

Oh well.

I'm like a little kid when it comes to baseball. Ben, whose baseball career spanned the ages of eight to sixteen, answers my questions with gleeful authority. Of course, my questions aren't always the most hard-hitting or rulebook guided:

"Why does the pitcher get to wear a jacket when he's on base?"

"What's wrong with metal bats?"

"Why can't the pitcher psych out the batter with a fake pitch?"

"What song would you have played when you come out to bat?"

Although my appreciation for the game is somewhat marred by the triviality of my interests, I do have a sincere respect for a game so dominated by statistics and records.

So much so, that I have challenged myself to the task of learning all of the stats of one baseball player.

My love of statistics first surfaced when I was eight years old and I discovered my father's almanacs. I spent hours pouring over facts and figures pertaining to history, sports, geography and celebrities. I learned about the deadliest earthquakes, floods and hurricanes with dread. As a patriotic duty, I memorized state birds and mottoes. I would comb through birthdates, looking for the oldest living celebrity. I lived for useless data.

When the almanacs served their purpose, I moved onto The People's Almanac Book of Lists.

Even though these books were published in the 1970s and I was reading them in the mid 1980s, my love of lists allowed me to see past their dated content. The Book of Lists read like an extended trivia supplement to a 1970's People magazine. Even so, I swallowed the dated fluff whole.

After all, what's more interesting than a list of Paul Williams's ten favorite children's books?

But why a sheep?

In college, I had an English professor who always brought an unopened Diet Pepsi to class. Without fail, he would spend a good couple minutes wiping the can's rim until it passed his inspection and was suitable to open.

One day, without prompting, he casually uttered these words:

"Somewhere, somehow, a sheep may have sat on this can. You'll never know."

Because of this one man, I can never drink a canned beverage without picturing a sheep doing very bad things to an innocent aluminum can.

Party of two.

Yesterday, at Ben's sister's graduation, I was reminded that Ben and I managed to squander those years often recalled as the best of one's life.

You see, Ben and I didn't have many friends in college. Co-dependence has a way of zapping any personality from a person and rendering them, to the outside world, unlikable. We were unlikable because we didn't mask the contempt we felt toward our peers. Our college, a small private university in California, was about as diversified as an episode of Friends. The people were pod-like, exact replicas of those we had to deal with on a daily basis at our small private high school. Because of this, we treated college as a work experience where we overachieved and stuck to our inner circle of two.

When I look back, I realize that there were probably people worth knowing. We just didn't try hard enough. Being so seriously committed to the Ben-Mena unit forced us to devote all of our time and effort to our relationship -- so much so that we didn't have any energy to expend on anyone other than ourselves.

And where did it get us?

We're, for the most part, friendless. Ben says I, subconsciously, drive my friends away. He's right, for the most part. I have lost more friends through my lack of contact and interest than I thought was possible. I can't understand why, though. I justify it by saying that people change -- drift apart -- and it's difficult to keep a friendship going when interests differ. But really, I'm just lazy and selfish.

Now, we have to find a way not to go completely mad. Ben and I work at home (for the same company) and literally spend 24/7 together. Although we haven't driven each other crazy yet, we're starting to notice that the lack of socialization is seriously affecting our dispositions.

We need a change of something and we need it fast.

What do you suggest?

This one's for all my homeys.

From Snails and Slugs : Controlling these pests is a challenge:

One time-honored device is the beer trap: a shallow pan or saucer (a plastic butter tub is a good depth) sunk about halfway into the ground and filled with beer. It lures the slugs with the scent of malt and yeast. Cut a few 1-inch-square doors at the soil level and use the lid to deflect rain, thus preventing dilution. Adding a dash of baker's yeast makes a beer trap more effective. Avoid the impulse to empty the trap each day, as most slugs are attracted by the dead bodies of their own kind, but the beer will lose its potency eventually, so refresh it every two or three days.

Under bizarre circumstances, I found out that my mom was employing this method of slug control in her own yard.

While Ben and I were visiting my mom, I spied a 40 oz. malt liquor in her refrigerator.

At the time, my parents were living apart and I became concerned about who exactly was visiting my mom while I was away.

Me: Mom, whose 40 oz. is that?
Mom: What?
Me: The malt liquor? Whose is that??
Me: Oh, that. I use it in the garden.

Of course, at that moment, the only thing I could associate with a 40 oz. and soil was the image of a gangsta pouring a brown-bagged St. Ides over the grave of a fallen comrade.

I think I saw that in a movie once. Was it Boyz N the hood?

Since I knew that nobody, with the exception of our dear little bunny, was buried in my mom's backyard, I pressed on:

Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: Snails and slugs are attracted to malt liquor. They then drown in the stuff.
Me: That's certainly a humane and pleasant way to die.
Mom: Well, what else can I do about it, Mena?
Me: I don't know.

You'll notice I always have objections but never the answers.

All-American.

Last night, we went to see the Giants play the Expos at Pac Bell Park.

It was our second time at the Park; last September, during its opening year, we managed to purchase the worst possible seats attainable. They were last-row, left-center field bleacher seats with nothing but a hand-rail separating us from the public walkway.

Yes, I know it's a baseball game and not the opera, but since I have some major issues about people hovering over me and I value a good amount of personal space, a seat where you're beer-dripping close to the main walkway is a nightmare.

Because of the crowds, in general, and then the purchase a horrible $4 lemonade that was nothing more than ice-water with a few lemon wedges, my frustration overcame any desire to participate in such a all-American activity such as attending a baseball game.

And then they announced the National Anthem.

Last September, I could hardly be patriotic about this country. Because Bush was winning popularity poll after poll and much of the country actually considered him presidential material, I had no desire to sing, let alone stand for the Anthem.

Ben and I remained seated.

I can't describe how uncomfortable I felt.

Although I'm one of those people who, when outside of the country, won't admit to being American, I didn't expect to be viewed as flag-burning communist. These, were the looks we received.

In preparation for last night's game, I resolved to not only stand, but to belt out the Anthem in all it's jingoistic glory. Although I can't support our administration and I can't be too proud of our country's actions during most of its history, I still live here and am able to live a good life.

By 7:00, I was starving. The food lines were incredibly long but I needed food to ward off my impending bad mood. Ben went to get us sandwiches and I stood in line for some $5 Garlic fries. After about 20 minutes of standing in line, I heard singing. As I looked to my left, I noticed that although there was indeed singing, hardly anyone was standing.

What's with that? I thought. Is this a new movement against the Anthem and the country? Very interesting.

And then I realized they were singing "Oh Canada."

If I had been at my seat, I, like an American traveler with a maple leaf patch sewn on my backpack, would have probably stood for the Canadian anthem in an effort not to seem anti-American, but pro-Canadian. But, that's another issue.

When the National Anthem began, I assumed that I had lost my chance to redeem myself and prove that, yes indeed, I'm American.

As I stood in line, a box of four Krispy Kremes (for two people) in hand, waiting like a herd of cattle for greasy, saturated-fat rich garlic fries, I understood a greater truth:

It doesn't get more American than this.

* Are you patriotic?