Not A Dollarshort

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!

It was a better idea in theory.

For the past couple months, I've been pesterin' Ben to let me purchase a banjo.

He refuses on the understandable grounds that it would be a waste of money.

I'll give him that. But, with Ben, it's also a matter of principle; he sees my desire to buy a banjo as total confirmation that I'm just like my father, a realization that Ben is not yet willing to accept. My dad could fill a small room with all his musical instruments -- some that he plays, some that he can't and others that are just decorative. Ben, a fairly frugal guy, finds this behavior to be incredibly irresponsible.

But, I say, you can't blame my dad -- he loves music and his motivations have something to do with reality and his daydreams not quite synching. No one in my family could play the harp. But did that stop my father from purchasing one? Of course not.

A couple weekends ago, I met up with my mom to celebrate her forty-fifth birthday. I drove up to Petaluma, took her out to breakfast and we walked around town -- stopping at boutiques along the way. When my mom and I passed the local instrument shop, I told her I just "wanted to take a peek."

She instantly recognized the look in my eye.

Mena: Let's look at the banjos.
Mom: I don't think Ben would approve of this.
Mena: Oh, he won't mind. I'm sure of it.
Mom: If you say so.

She, of course, didn't believe anything I was saying.

After hearing the store owner play "Dueling Banjos," I was convinced that I was meant to play the banjo. Keep in mind that even though I spent my teenage years surrounded by mandolins, guitars and violins, I couldn't pluck out a tune to save my life.

When I told my mom I wanted to buy the Deering banjo that the clerk had just played, she became flushed and took out her phone to call Ben.

As you can guess, I walked out of the store sans banjo and with a whole lot of grudgin' directed towards Ben.

When I got home, Ben said I could buy the banjo as long I didn't use any of our shared funds. Considering that we've shared a bank account since we were both nineteen, it's impossible to find any money that just belongs to me.

So, I had the bright idea that I would make a comic book to sell on dollarshort.org; it would be about the saga of the banjo and it would be great! Everyone would buy it to support the banjo cause!

And then, three panels (only one colored) in:

Mena: Who the hell is going to want to buy this stupid comic.
Ben: People like you.
Mena: I like me and I wouldn't waste a dollar, let alone two, on the story of a me and my banjo.
Ben: Yeah, maybe not.

So, my dreams of being a great banjo player have been crushed and all I have to show for it is this silly, pointless, panel.

What Is the Deal?

If, like me, you're a sucker for illustrations of seemingly insane, flat-headed cats, then you'll love the cover of O'Reilly's Essential Blogging.

Re-reading the above sentence, I can't help but hear the voice of one of those child book reviewers from Reading Rainbow.

Even as a child, I found their delivery to be a bit off-putting. So much so, that, part of my classroom schtick involved me impersonating these kids.

Keys to a good impression:

1. When subtlety fails, shout

2. Be inquisitive of your audience? Example: "Do you like camping?!?"

3. Don't be afraid to confuse enthusiasm with hyperactivity

4. And, most importantly: always sound out of breath

Many a day was spent refining my routine.

Oh, to know me as a child.

Also in my childhood "stand-up" act:

My Flintstone Routine

"What is the deal with canned laughter in cartoons? I mean really, Hanna-Barbera, do you really think we believe that an audience is at the taping? As if there is even a taping!

The Angry Puppet Routine

"What is the deal with angry puppets? I mean really! Have you ever noticed how many angry puppets appear on television? And how do you know they are angry? Of course by the infamous 'quiver and turn' movement. As they turn to look at you, they can't help but shake in disgust!"

Note: This routine required a prop, either a sock or a cloth napkin, which I would use to demonstrate the "angry puppet" in all its glory.

For your pleasure, I present an update (1.5 megs) on an old favorite (courtesy of my webcam, Socky the panda, Dre, and Anil's mad video compression skills)

Foolish Mortals.

From the "it seemed like a good and fun idea eighteen hours ago" department.

The other day, after following a link from Boing Boing to these items, I was inspired to construct my very own miniature tiki lounge. This idea, already a bit too ambitious, was quickly abandoned after a bigger and brighter (and even more ambitious) scheme popped into my head: I wanted to build my very own miniature Tiki Room (as in Disneyland).

It didn't take very long to realize that this was not going to happen. Ben's exact words about the project were "it's going to look like crap." Not that he's not supportive -- he's just realistic. And he's right, I mean really, where would I even get a miniature Jose? Or Michael, Fritz, Pierre and the rest of the glee club, for that matter?

I wasn't ready to give up on a homemade Disneyland-themed miniature, however. I began to think smaller. How about making a model of an attraction without any animatronics, furniture or faux-fauna? How about the Haunted Mansion, specifically the Haunted Mansion stretching room?

It seemed doable.

It wasn't.

Random Vignettes from the past week

At a Thai Restaurant

Mena: Shhh. Listen. Doesn't that sound like Little Fluffy Clouds?
Ben: Um... Yeah.
Mena: You don't even know what I'm talking about!
Ben: Yeah I do. The song. It sounds like Little Fluffy Clouds.

I listen to the song being played in the restaurant. It's the kind of standard Thai melody that is heard in, well, Thai restaurants; of all the songs in the world, it's probably the one that sounds least like The Orb's Little Fluffy Clouds.

Mena: Do you really think the song currently playing sounds like Little Fluffy Clouds?
Ben: No.
Mena: Then why did you agree with me?
Ben: I don't know.
Mena: For the record, I was referring to the woman at the table behind you. She sounds just like Rickie Lee Jones and she's talking about rainbows.
Ben: Oh. I didn't hear her.
Mena: Whatever.

Walking home, ten blocks, uphill.

Mena: I don't get it!
Ben: What?
Mena: Why am I not losing any weight? We walk everywhere!
Ben: Well, where are we walking from now?
Mena: The European Food Market.
Ben: And what do you have in that plastic bag?
Mena: Beef Piroshkis. Point taken.

Watching televion, a 1-800-Collect commercial featuring Mr. T.

Mena: Do you think Mr. T's agent allows him to shave his head?
Ben: Doubt it.
Mena: Can't Mr. T ever go on a vacation from being Mr. T?
Ben: I fear he may be a bit typecasted.
Mena: Poor Mr. T.
Ben: I think he's fine.
Mena: I bet he pities the day he shaved that mohawk.
Mena: He "pities the day!" I didn't even intend to make that joke!
Ben: Yeah, that's some good stuff.

All Alley Cat. All the time.

Mena: Listen to this.

I proceed to play Al Hirt's rendition of Alley Cat.

Ben: Oh God, that's annoying.

Mena: You know what it sounds like?

Ben: What?

Mena: Me. This song is like being trapped in my head.

Ben: Yeah, I could see that.

Mena: I am Alley Cat.

Ben: Well, it's cute in an annoying sort of way. That's not bad.

Mena: I don't want to be Alley Cat.

Words of Wisdom.

It's impossible to force someone to sing.

It's even more impossible (yes, there are degrees of impossibility) to force Ben someone to sing the harmony in a song they really do not like.

"Tonight You Belong To Me" (277k wav) is a fun song that all couples should sing.

Life's too short to hold on to dignity^*.

^* I learned this lesson the hard way last week when, halfway through a business meeting, I realized that I had big chunk of chocolate stuck to the massive cowl-neck part of my turtleneck (the neck of the sweater can cover my entire head). Apparently, the piece of chocolate had fallen into the collar on the last occasion I had worn the sweater -- no doubt while laying on the couch, eating chocolate and watching Classic Hollywood Squares.

Apron Strings.

The scene: My parent's house.
Characters: Me, Ben, Mom, Dad

Mom: Oh, I a surprise for you.

Mena: What?

Mom: Something I found while cleaning the garage.

Mena: Not that stupid fake ID again! I told you already -- I never used it!

(I really never used it)

Mom: No, this is something you'll like.

Mena: It better be. Don't trick me.

Emotionally, I'm like a formerly-abused dog who constantly flinches at the sight of humans. I never quite know when a parental trick is on the horizon.

My mom pulls out my old report cards and an 8x10 photo from a folder.

It's one of those novelty photographs that you'll find at amusement parks -- the kind of photo where they superimpose a magazine cover over a picture of you or your child.

Ben: Oh! That hair! It's so sad.

Mena: American Baby? I'm about ten years old!

Dad: I know, isn't it tragic? Why did you let us do this to you?

Mom: She's still my baby.

Mena: Baby of the year? What were you thinking?

Mom: But she's still my baby!!

Dad: I'm so sorry.

Ben: That hair is really bad. And your cheeks -- are you hoarding food?

Mom: If you don't think she's the cutest kid in the world, you can just send her back home to live with me.

My mom doesn't actually say that last line aloud. But I already know what she's thinking.

After all, I'm the baby of the year.

I'll tell you where you can put your change.

Want to spend a fun-filled day rediscovering and embracing your loathing for your fellow man?

Well, then, throw a garage sale!

Last weekend, Ben and I headed up to Sonoma County to help my parents throw their garage sale. We were given appropriate tasks based on our qualifications.

Ben, because of his math and computer science degrees, was the "bank," the person who handled the money and bookkeeping.

And I, because of my intense don't-you-con-me nature, was given the job of "enforcer" and "negotiator." Basically, I was theft-control and the person who stood to be insulted with ridiculously low barters.

Nine hours and a $111.65 later (our cut), I saw the world in a much darker light. The greed! The horror! The absolute seriousness of garage sale shoppers!

To make your life easier, here are some of my tips on throwing a successful garage sale:

1. Get a good night's sleep.

2. Despite their cute-sounding name, "Early Birds" are bloodthirsty beasts. They'll ring your doorbell at seven in the morning, three hours before the sale is set to start. Do not yell at the Early Birds. Dirty looks are fine, though.

3. Never shake children who are inappropriately touching the merchandise. Parents don't like that.

4. Patio furniture is king. Many a family will look at their children as possible trade-ins for a high-quality patio sets.

5. If you are particularly fond of an item, stand firm on the pricing. If you're lucky, it won't sell and you'll be able to bring it home with you.

6. Garage sale shoppers aren't too fond of being sprayed with hose water.

7. People who insult you with an offer of $65 for an almost new $600 mattresses, boxspring, frame set are ridiculously presumptuous.

8. At 4:30, just sell them the f**king mattress for $65.

9. If you and your family intend to have screaming fights about the garage sale, do it inside of the house. Very special tip: Never include the phrase "stop conning me!" in earshot of the garage sale patrons.

10. Wear sunblock.

Goofus.

There are two sides to every story.

Mena: Excuse me, Ben. When you have a moment, could you direct your attention to my half of the room?

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: No hurry, dear.

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: Ben?

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: Here's my question: What are the technical limitations behind why we can't have an exclude category in MTEntries?

Ben: Would you shut-up? I'm trying to kill all these processes and I don't have time for you.

Mena: I'm sorry for bothering you. But, I do not think I merited that response.

Ben: Argh! You're so infuriating!

I walk over to Ben's desk and put my hand on his shoulder.

Mena: Okay, I have a solution. We'll draw an imaginary line. And, for a certain amount of time, neither of us will disturb each other. How does that sound?

Ben: Stupid fool.

Mena: You know I have an inferiority complex. Comments like that really hurt.

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: (Silence)

Ben: (Silence)

Mena: Hey Ben, look at this! Simplicity now makes a male pilgrim costume pattern.