Not A Dollarshort

Call me crazy, but this doesn't seem quite healthy.

If you met me in person, you would realize in a matter of moments that I'm an only child. This epiphany would not occur because of those tired impressions of an only child being selfish and spoiled. Instead, you would realize that something's just not right with me -- it's as if I missed the day in school when they taught peer socializing.

"Mena has a hard time relating to children her age." This was the lame old mantra that each of my teachers seemed to pass to the next.

"Mena likes to police the other children."

"Mena won't stop performing."

"Mena's a tattletale."

"What's with Mena?"

I'll tell you what's with Mena. Mena had parents who told her, still tell her, that she has a brother named Larry. This started when I around 5 or 6. I wanted a baby brother and they invented Larry to fill the void. Larry wasn't around, they'd explain, because he liked to cause trouble. They got rid of Larry and therefore got rid of the problems. But Larry had reformed, and he was itching to come home.

"It's a matter of time," my dad would say.

My parents are a textbook example of why it is important to mature first, breed later.

Larry was a big joke to my parents, or rather, my dad. Let's say I had a temper-tantrum:

Dad: Larry would be disappointed if he knew that you were behaving like this.

Me: Larry's not real!

Dad: Larry wouldn't want to hear you say that.

I, of course, would just give up. I never really believed them, although in the back of my mind I always wondered "what if?" Of course, Larry was just another way of saying "one was enough" (Me of course being that one).

In a strange way, Larry seems very real. In fact, when I got married, I kind of felt like we were missing someone.

Of course, my dad felt it too, and beat me to the punch.

"Too bad Larry wasn't here to see this."

Mommy, make it go away!

It turns out that, as children, both Ben and I were terrified of crucks -- you know, that horrible car/truck combination Chevy called an El Camino.

When spotting one, Ben went only so far as averting his eyes. I, however, found the need to hide in the foot space in front of my seat. Kind of like the pot calling the kettle black when, in the mid-80s, my family's car was a '72 Buick Skylark.

Well, the bowl haircut didn't help.

Today I made the mistake of telling my mom my camp story.

I told her because (1) I thought she already knew and just forgot (2) I'm so distanced from the event that I actually think it is hilarious and can't imagine not having that story as part of my repertoire of childhood embarrassments. Humiliation is often the source of the funniest stories.

Her reaction was a combination of heartbreak, motherly guilt and rage.

"I told you not to go."

"Why didn't anyone call me?"

"What could I have done to prevent this?"

"I could tell those kids a few things..."

"My baby!"

She did, however, like the cartoon. Although, she did say that the panel where I was reading on the toilet was all wrong:

"I know you and your bathroom issues ... and you would never go to the bathroom in public."

A disgusting, yet accurate point. I did avoid doing that sort of business during my entire camp stay.

I am in good company, though. (17:00)

They also told me I had a brother named Larry.

Eight-year-olds want things they don't need. I wanted a Rock Tumbler. It was the toy's box which won me over -- the pictures of overly-amused children, high on the rush of creating semi-precious gemstones out of grey, dirty rocks.

Imagine the possibilities, I thought in my little head. We had electricity. And my backyard certainly was rife with rocks.

At the store, I begged my parents to buy me the tumbler. They told me that there was already one in my closet at home.

"We'll go home and find it," my dad said while smiling at my mom.

Needless to say, I never found it.

To this day, they think that was a great joke. A couple months ago, they sent me this doctored photo via email.

At least it wasn't a participation award.

I didn't win many awards as a kid. When I was seven, though, I awarded myself a homemade prize ribbon fashioned out of a raveling brown fabric remnant. And with my little white crayon, what did I scrawl on this ribbon? "Winner." That's it. Not "1st Place" or "Good Job!" Just "Winner." I guess I was trying to think of the exact opposite of the word loser, a word easily defined as a kid who has to make himself a award. Now, reward that inner loser in you! Welcome to dollarshort.org