Not A Dollarshort

Sticks and Stones.

Alan Berliner's The Sweetest Sound on P.O.V Tuesday night at 10:00. (Check local listings):

What's in a name? Names are the opening words to our life stories. With intimacy, humor and his own inimitable style, Alan Berliner dives headfirst into the American name pool in search of the treasures and traps hidden in names — especially his own.

And elsewhere: Davezilla challenges the source of wee little sprite named Cricket.

And my name?

It took a while for me to grow into my name: Philomena Frances Grabowski. It's unique and long and clearly a sign that an ancestor is being fondly remembered. In my case, I'm named after my grandmother who was named after her grandmother and so on. I can safely say that I'll probably never run into someone who shares my name. Especially since I tacked on the "Trott."

Luckily, the kids had a hard time making heads or tails of my name -- let alone come up with a clever nickname.

One elementary-school kid always called me "Philadelphia Cream Cheese" which, to no surprise, never made a dent in my self-esteem. I remember telling him to cut it out since it just wasn't funny.

Another boy called me "Mena Grab-my-house-ski" which was probably intended to be some sort of deviant play on emerging sexuality. I didn't get it, and just thanked my parents for a name so difficult to mock.

The only name that has ever stuck is "Mean."

It's because it sounds good, right?

Yeah, but I'm great at television trivia.

Do you remember the television show Sledge Hammer?

I do -- but only in cloudy bits and pieces. I recall that Sledge loved his gun and that his catch phrase was "Trust me... I know what I'm doing." And I remember that I liked this show a great deal.

At the age of ten, I didn't mind if the shows I watched were less than sophisticated. As a child, I watched anything.

Apart from the standard prime-time fare, these were some of my particularly memorable (and quite bad) favorites:

Gilligan's Island
The Munsters
Alice
Divorce Court
Too Close for Comfort
Mama's Family
F-Troop
Three's Company (in syndication)
What's Happening

I even watched Three's A Crowd, one of the Three's Company spin-offs.

That's desperate.

When I think back, I wonder how I possibly could have watched so much television. I remember being outside: roller skating, riding my bike, gardening. I spent countless hours doing arts and crafts with my grandfather. I cooked with my grandmother. We played board games.

I guess we also watched Divorce Court together.

When you're a child, there must be more hours in a day.

Considering that my family was incredibly strict, I'm also surprised that my compulsive television watching was tolerated for so many years.

The fact that my only dinnertime chore was to bring out and set up my personal TV table should have been a good indication that a problem was at hand.

My family eventually cracked-down on my TV watching. I think it may have had something to do with the temper tantrum I threw when A.D, a NBC miniseries, was shown instead of the Cosby Show one Thursday night.

After that, my TV table was permanently retired.

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?

The Worst Christmas Pageant Ever!

One week before I started eighth grade, my family moved from Southern to Northern California. While most kids are terribly shaken when uprooted from their seemingly secure surroundings, I viewed the move as a chance to distance myself from those who made my life particularly unpleasant. The move was a challenge -- a chance to reinvent myself.

Would I part my hair to the left? Maybe. Would I be soft spoken – a mysterious soul with a dark past and even darker brown eyes? What name would I go by? Philomena or Mena? It became abundantly clear that the old Mena needed to be left in Los Angeles.

Minor changes, you could say. Nothing that would be noticeable to a group of children I had never met before.

During the first couple weeks, however, I started to stand out in an odd way. I developed the peculiar habit of speaking with a southern accent. Usually it came out when I was nervous or had to deliver a presentation in front of a group of people. "Y'alls" dotted my conversations. I started pronouncing Mena as "May-na." People asked if I was really from Los Angeles. I started to worry that I was insane.

I once read in a magazine that there are actual documented cases of people suffering head traumas and developing foreign or regional accents. It's called Foreign Accent Syndrome.

Unless wearing high, hairspray-plastered, 1980s bangs constitutes a head trauma, I can safely say that physical brain damage wasn't the source of my new behavioral tic.

Because it's difficult to remember how my eighth-grade mind functioned, I can't recall the truth behind the accent. I know it wasn't forced, but I'm not sure that I didn't exaggerate the words that did come out naturally. In my warped mind, the accent was probably the easiest way to gain attention and make friends.

God knows how, but it worked.

A couple years passed and the accent faded from my speech and memory. During my senior year in high school, though, "May-na" came back.

Senior year was about reinvention, you'll recall.

I needed to find a way to stand out.

Performing in plays seemed like a pretty decent way to gain attention. Unfortunately, my acting abilities lack the certain charisma and naturalness that prevents an audience from wanting to gouge their eyes out with sharp pencils. In other words, I make Melanie Griffith look like a classically-trained thespian.

But because my school was small, Catholic and lacking in the arts department, anyone who enrolled in the drama class would be guaranteed a role in some sort of school-sponsored play.

At sixteen, I was reduced to a bit-part, character actor. In our production of M*A*S*H, I auditioned for the role of Hot Lips but was instead cast as Congresswoman Goldfarb. You don't remember a Congresswoman Goldfarb in M*A*S*H, you say? Exactly.

Whoever Goldfarb was, she became Southern when I took to the stage.

Every charcter became Southern when I took to the stage. I equated acting to speaking with a different voice.

During my "acting" period, I began socializing with the class misfits, outsiders who were lovingly referred to as freaks. None of us ever landed the good roles, and when it came time to audition for the big Christmas play, we decided enough was enough and convinced our teacher into letting us put on our own little three-act.

Honestly, our teacher didn't need much convincing. She wanted us out of her hair so she could focus on the real play. As the cheerleading director, she could never quite mask the contempt she felt toward us. And because we frowned when others perked, we were reduced to weirdoes who couldn't act.

Although we would be producing, adapting and acting in our own play, we would still be considered a drama-class sponsored production. This way we got the grade and she got the credit for putting on two different plays.

Teenagers should never be trusted. That's the moral of this story.

Burned by the fact we weren't good enough to perform in the "real" play and unable to control our teenage dislike of authority, we took an unknown play about the joys of family and the Christmas season and turned it into a disturbing performance piece.

Some highlights:

The play opened with the song "This Is Halloween" from A Nightmare Before Christmas. Why? No reason at all.

I played my character as an oversexed, alcoholic Southern woman who resented her husband and hated her kids. I think the description of my character in the original play was: Mother, early 40s.

The boy who played my husband decided he wanted his character to be an overzealous, card-carrying, shell-shocked member of the NRA. He carried an unloaded rifle throughout the entire play.

Santa was into bondage. He actually wore leather and carried a whip. And, he screamed all his lines.

At random times, we would just stop performing and stare.

Mid-way through our play, before even seeing our pain-loving Santa, the principal walked out in a huff. Coincidentally, half-way through the play, while on stage, I started to rethink the quality of our opus. Mortification set in soon after that.

I felt guilty. Dirty. I felt like I violated an innocent audience. I wasn't an actor. I wasn't even a good Catholic girl.

After it was all over, I tried to rush out of the gymnasium without anyone noticing, recognizing, or reprimanding me. As a parent blocked my exit, I realized that this night was never going to end.

I expected the worst.

I got something a little different.

Parent: So are you really from the South?
Me: Um... No.
Parent: Well, you're always playing Southern characters.
Me: I don't think they're supposed to be Southern. I'm just a horrible actor. I'm sorry.
Parent: Okay. Well. I've got to go.
Me: I'm sorry!

Needless to say, the accent doesn't surface anymore.

How about some linguine you fat f***!

While looking at a calendar tonight, I was struck with the impression that May 9th held some sort of significance for me. You know the feeling -- a date stands out for some reason and you don't have a clue why.

And then, I remembered. Ten years ago -- on May 9th 1991 -- I was "asked out" by my first boyfriend.

And yes, 1991 was ten years ago.

So I have this date in my mind and I realize that it's taking up precious real estate. May 9, 1991 is an illegal squatter, inhabiting the neural stoop where my zip code should be. Of course, because of this, all I can tell you about my zip is that it has a nine and a couple of fives in it. I think.

So this first boyfriend -- his name was Tim -- asked me over the phone "if I would go out with him." I of course, answered with an ecstatic "sure." Ours was a deep relationship. He asked me out because his two friends were going out with my two friends and, I guess, wanted a little eighth grade action.

Of course, I wasn't that kind of girl.

He dumped me soon after he realized this fact.
(and after I got him a Bulls Starter jacket)

But, I got over it.

Eventually.

I mean, how easy is it for a 13 year-old girl to get over her first boyfriend?

A few months ago I saw Tim at an Italian restaurant in Tiburon. I was with Ben and his sisters so, if any trouble arose, I had my posse. Of course, I wasn't even sure it was him since people change from fourteen to twenty-three.

Although I was almost positive, I needed some sort of confirmation:

Me: Ben, go over to that table and that guy if his name is Tim.
Ben: No!
Me: Yes! Go over and say your wife wants to know.
Ben: No.
Me: Say "Mena got over you and got married. How do you like them apples, buddy."
Ben: Oh yeah, I'm really going to say that.

Needless to say, Ben didn't have the desire, and I didn't have the guts to make this night very interesting.

So, I guess the moment was lost. And I soon realized that no matter how much I've moved on, that vengeful 13 year-old girl looking for payback is alive and well.

God bless her.

I met Mavis Beacon.

So, my parents didn't move in with us. (see Ant & the Grasshopper) Instead, they put their belongings in storage and rented a furnished townhouse. It's only for a month, they say, while they decide what to do with their lives.

One good thing about my parent's upheaval is that all of their "memories," the belongings they didn't want to put into storage, are at our house. This means countless hours of looking through old letters to Santa, photo albums and other familial memorabilia.

Tonight's browsing highlight:

Do you remember Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing? If not, think cutting-edge typing tutor for your personal computer. My dad worked at the Software Toolworks (later known as Mindscape, now The Learning Company), the company that created Mavis Beacon.

There were certain perks associated with being the general counsel's daughter. One is having your 'tweens historically documented alongside a marketing icon.

I think I was eleven in this photo. It was taken right before my family moved to Northern California. No, I'm not the sickeningly cute blonde at the bottom page. Try the awkward "isn't she a little too old for this picture" brunette in the middle.

I know, being on the cover of a software catalog is pretty cool. And I'm sure I would have been the envy of all my friends if only the catalog came out near the time of the photo shoot. Instead, it came out in 1994, when I was sixteen years old.

This was my brush with fame.

At least I got to keep the outfit.

Stickers! Stickers! Who wants Stickers?

In 1983, with one single act, I became the most hated child in Mrs. Giordano's first-grade class.

What was the act? None other than the ultimate playground betrayal -- I was an "Indian giver." What did I give and then so callously take away?

Stickers -- really pretty ones with purple flowers.

Why did I do it? Well, I just realized that I wanted them back.

Horrid little person, I know.

I'll never forget the mob of children who surrounded me -- some with tears, some with looks of scorn. I remember one little boy in particular who looked at me with tears running down his cheeks and saying:

"You're nothing but an Indian giver, and I hate you!"

I don't blame him. It was a horrible thing to do. And I'm sorry Anthony.

In an effort to amend past wrongs, I'm offering you the chance to receive a brand new mini-book of 16 high quality art stickers. You'll get a book featuring the works of Sargent, Toulouse-Lautrec, Chagall, Renoir, Cassatt, or Degas.

What do you have to do in return?

Well, email me a playground or childhood story. The theme?

Kids are mean.

Interpret that in any way you'd like. I tell you, though, I prefer true stories where you are the underdog rather the bully.

I'm offering between 10-15 books, so supply is limited. I hate flexing my subjective opinion, but those books are going to my favorite stories.

And, if I get a lot of good ones, I would like to post them somewhere.

Spread the word! I want to read your stories.

Now, go and write.

We didn't even get a gift certificate out of it.

Everyone has that one story, the story that they have told countless times. They'll recount in vivid detail to most anyone who is around to listen. It's the story they'll tell for the rest of their life.

Many of these stories occur in childhood.

My dad's oft told tale involves being locked in an accordion case. You're probably are asking yourself how does that happen? Well, in a way similar to children locking themselves in old refrigerators. Hide-n-seek gone horribly amiss.

Luckily my grandmother found him in the nick of time.

Unfortunately, I'm my father's daughter and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

One of the first signs that my family is dysfunctional is that my dad, at 45 years old, still goes by the name Junior. For that reason alone, Ben has adamantly stated that we will not, under any circumstances, name our child Benjamin. I say, different middle name and the child can't possibly be a "junior." He says he never wants to take that risk.

Side note: I learned the hard way that Junior wasn't my dad's given name when, one day, I called his work (a law firm) and asked the receptionist if I could speak to Junior.

So, my story involves my mom, "Junior" and me at a Waldenbooks circa 1987. I was ten at the time and actively involved in gymnastics. "Actively involved," in my case means being horribly uncoordinated and enrolled in a gymnastics class. Actively involved also means that, everywhere I went, I was constantly turning pathetic off-balanced cartwheels or trying to do, or rather, mangle the splits.

The second indicator of familial dysfunction is that my father, whenever we're at a store or public forum, will wander off. No, he's not "special." He just gets distracted easily and is always looking for something interesting to do or see. When he wanders off, you'll usually find him at a candy vending machine or looking at magazines.

Like I said, I'm my father's daughter and, on that day, in that Waldenbooks, I wandered over to a bookcase -- probably 5 feet high -- containing cassette tapes. While checking out their selection limited to oldies and classical music, I found myself slipping into an awkward splits position. Of course, not being acquainted with balance, I grabbed, for support, the first and biggest thing I saw: the bookcase.

Yet another side note: This was also the year of the Boots. They were a pair of white leather, rhinestone-studded, calf-high boots that I lived in for the most part of 1987. They were gaudy and I loved them. On this fateful day, I, of course, was wearing them.

The details are sketchy, so I only recall a horrible loud noise, the falling of cassette tapes and a feeling of unimaginable panic. When I gained consciousness, I realized that I had been pinned down beneath the bookcase.

As I lay trapped under the case, in a state of shock induced by embarrassment, rather than pain, I decided that I would rather have people think that I was injured, or better yet, dead, than acknowledge the mess I just caused. My plans were soon interrupted by the shriek of my mother:

"Oh my God, Junior! It's Mena!"

Before this revelation, my mother had observed the aftermath with a sense of pity for the poor child and her parents. When she saw my little white boots peaking out on either side of the case, her disconnected pity soon turned into a very personal and visible sense of horror.

Junior soon came running from the back of the store and he and a clerk lifted the bookcase off my mortified frame. After realizing that I was shaken, but not hurt, my dad helped me up and out of the path of destruction. People were gathered around, displaying mixed looks of confusion and disgust.

I don't blame them.

I mean, what grown man goes by the name of Junior?

And you thought you didn't need to know how to make friends with a ferret.

"How to Hold a Crocodile" by The Diagram Group holds the distinction of being one of my favorite childhood reads. Its "hundreds of practical tips, fascinating facts and wisdom" entertained and somewhat frightened me for a few good years. Some of my favorite entries: How to magnetize a walnut. How to surrender. How to tell the sex of an earwig. How to follow the language of the fan. How to avoid nightmares. How to make a camel dung cigarette lighter.

M-I-C (See you in court) K-E-Y (Why? Because you're liable).

In an act "not related to several high profile accidents at the park," Disneyland will begin stationing full-time paramedics at both its California parks.

Accidents at Disneyland, along with other Disneyland-related legends, have always been the grist for my family's gossip mill. My dad and I are two generations of native Los Angelians, who take pride in the fact that we're always the ones at parties who convince everyone that Walt Disney is buried, or rather cryogenic'ized underneath the Pirates of the Caribbean. It's not true, by the way.

Most of our interest in Disneyland-related accidents stems from the Park's fanatical desire to maintain their image as, well, the Happiest Place on Earth. This of course requires a fast-acting crew of spin-doctors and re-imagineers.

My dad and I have this long-standing joke that when an accident occurs on Disneyland property, the first one in the hospital with the settlement check is none other than Mickey himself.

Of course, we picture him doing that annoying white-gloves-over-mouth pantomime, a behavior that is probably first on the syllabus at character-training school.

I love Disneyland but I can't stand Mickey Mouse. And I can't think of anything I would hate more than Mickey Mouse appearing in my room -- accident or not.

CNN link via Boing Boing.

Here's a sweet picture of me to wash the taste of the "Mickey's hospital visit" picture out of your mouth.