Not A Dollarshort

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.

Everything I know, I learned from Goofus.

For as long as I can remember, I've had this reccurring dream in which my house is threatened by fire or flood or some other sort of natural disaster and I have only minutes to gather up my prized possessions into one fairly small black hefty bag. Sometimes, in especially stressful situations I'm not even given a bag.

When I went down to Los Angeles last month to gather up the few belongings from my childhood home that I could logistically bring back to San Francisco, I was reminded of this dream. Of course, the black hefty bag was replaced by a Honda Civic and the threat of natural disaster was replaced by a looming escrow.

Obviously, I couldn't bring back everything that held a memory. And what I could bring, had to be small. As I sorted through what remained of my books and toys, I discovered my stacks of Highlights For Children, a magazine that played a prominent role in my life during the years of 1982 to 1988.

1988? Would that make me an eleven year-old kid reading Highlights? Yes. And alas, that is a different story.

While paging through the old issues, I found myself searching for each instance of everyone's favorite feature, Goofus and Gallant. With scissors in my hand, I snipped each strip out and placed them in a folder bound for our apartment. While I sat cutting and reading, reading and cutting, I began raising some important questions.

First, are Goofus and Gallant brothers? Or, as Ben suggested, are they the same person being portrayed in parallel universes? Is the flip of Goofus's bangs supposed to indicated something sinister? Or, is it simply the key to the mystery? In some panels, Goofus and Gallant are shown interacting with identically drawn parents. But, if they are brothers, where are all Gallant's Goofus-imposed bruises?

What we know: Goofus and Gallant are obviously presented as morality and etiquette lessons. We're supposed to follow the example that Gallant sets, and live our child lives in as non-Goofus of a manner as possible. However, I can not imagine any child, without parental guidance, reading the panels and not being inspired in the slightest by Goofus's antics. I for one, seem to recall learning a great deal from Goofus. He taught me lessons in negotiating, communication, conservation and sharing responsibilities.

Gallant, on the other hand was the sort of kid who'd remind the teacher that she forgot to assign homework. Sure, he was nice to small children and old people, but he was still a bit of a sycophant -- always trying to win points with his parents and his parents' friends. I mean, really, how removed from childhood was Gallant that he could find himself uttering these words in this situation:

And look at the face on Gallant in this scene. Could that face be dripping with any more pretension? And, once again it's aimed to please his mother. And what is she serving the family? It looks a bit like a hedgehog's skeleton. At least Goofus is in touch with his feelings.

But no matter how many times I found myself nodding in agreement with the wisdom of Goofus and rolling my eyes at the Gallant approach to life, Goofus would do some totally inexcusable action that would show just what an asshole he really was.

And then, being like Goofus didn't seem so cool.

I spent some time today thinking about whether I was really, truly shaped by Goofus. Echoing through my head as I threw my clothes on the floor and pretended not to hear Ben was the singular question: "Am I Goofus? Am I Goofus?"

When I asked Ben his opinion on the big question, he laughed and quickly replied "Um, yeah. You're totally Goofus. But that's fine with me."

It's because Ben is Gallant.

And then it all makes sense.

Goofus and Gallant are probably really brothers and Gallant only puts up with all of Goofus's shit because he loves him and understands that Goofus is really tortured and probably has a bad self-image or something. And, Goofus doesn't seriously injure Gallant because he respects him and wishes he could be a better person.

Or maybe I'm just projecting a bit.

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?

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.

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.

Hawaiian pizza and the meaning of life.

After the events of September 11th, I didn't think I could ever blog one of my childhood stories again. They were all too silly. I kept on thinking: Big deal, kids picked on me. So what?

There was one story, however, that I kept thinking about.

It's not heart-wrenching or tragic. It's just a little tale about me finding myself at the tender age of eight.

This is the story.

Have you ever had a moment like this?

A Memorex Moment.

I believe I've been listening to a bit too much NPR.

It's a weblog entry! It's a MP3! It's both.

I present: Radio, Radio (1.9 megs)

About a month ago, when my parents were faced with sudden homelessness they began stockpiling all their belongings from their house to our garage. Sorting through my mother's memory box, we unearthed a dusty old Scotch brand C-60 Cassette tape.

This is a story about what was on that tape.

But I'm a cheerleader.

Give me a "L!" Give me a "O!" Give me a "S!" Give me a "E!" Give me a "R!"

I present Adventures in Cheerleading.

If only I could digitize my performance at one particular painful cheerleading competition. It's really quite embarrassing to watch. Out of sync and out of touch of what's it like to be cool, I stumble along, trying to prove to myself that I'm really not that bad. At one point, I'm trying to do the Arsenio Hall "whoop, whoop, whoop" hand motion. Instead, it looks like I'm having some sort of nervous fit and hitting the air.

I think our coach was a bit sadistic.

She made me do a solo cheer.

I had to say "help put the eagles where they belong," and the other girls responded "in the sky." I begged Mrs. Hagar not to make me do it because I'm really not that good at shouting. My voice cracks and is all wobbly at any volumes louder than a whisper.

But I had to do it, and now it's a Memorex moment.

"Mommy, you were a dork, weren't you?"

The worst part of the pep rally experience documented in the strip is that I'm pretty sure the chanting began with the boy I had a crush on since the 4th grade. If you guessed that my liking him was a source of embarrassment for him, you win a prize.

I guess that the best way to prove that the crush isn't mutual is to publicly humiliate them.

The last I heard of Steve, he was arrested for chaining himself to a Redwood in Humboldt County.

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.

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.