Not A Dollarshort

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.

Let's go to Vegas!

My father's a bit flighty. He's one of those people who, in moments of excitement (or insanity), will make rash decisions based on how he's feeling at that moment rather than weighing the practicalities of the situation. You know, the kind of person I'm striving to become more like each day.

When they were younger, these rash decisions often involved Las Vegas.

In the middle of the night, my father would frequently feel an overwhelming urge to get in the car and drive from Los Angeles to Vegas.

"Let's go to Vegas" was his battle cry to my mom. This meant, "Clare, pack up the car and tell Mamma and Daddy (my grandparents) that we're going to Vegas."

"Mamma" and "Daddy" entered the mix because we lived with them and they were my sole babysitters.

One night, for some reason, they didn't consider the implications of bringing a toddler to Vegas and loaded me into the car along with their tan Samsonite luggage.

This was my first trip to Las Vegas. I was three or four years old.

Today, with the amusement-parking of Las Vegas, bringing a child to Sin City is as logical as bringing a child to the Grand Canyon. It's all about water-slides and roller-coasters, pirate ships and pyramids, volcanoes and pseudo-European attractions.

In other words, Circus Circus is not the only option.

The novelty of bringing a baby to Vegas wore off the moment my dad realized that he was tired of gambling alone. Despite my mom's protests, they decided to find a babysitter.

Let me take a moment to emphasize that during my entire childhood, meaning before and after this trip, I never had a babysitter other than my grandmother and grandfather. My family is a worrisome lot and, for the most part, believe that you can't trust anyone.

Apparently, my parents decided that, in times of need, (and when free drinks and money enter the equation) you can trust some people. After calling the hotel concierge, my mom told me to "pack up your Barbies."

For someone who still had a pacifier at four, a trip down a dark hall into a strange room was as bad as it gets. Despite my tears and protests, my parents plopped me down on some shag carpeting and told me they would be back soon. Devastated, I imagined being abandoned and left to fend for myself. Where was I, I wondered, and who was that strange woman with the cigarette and the bad dye-job?

Amazingly, my pint-size anxiety attack passed quickly, and the remarkable happened: I found myself playing Barbies with another little girl. A new and exhilarating experience, I was socializing with someone my age.

Ten minutes later. A knock on the door.

Mom: I can't do it! I can't leave my baby alone!

Babysitter: She's fine.

Mom: She's only a baby!

Babysitter: Whatever.

Me: I don't want to go.

Dad: Let's get out of here.

Sure, it was only fifteen minutes. But what a liberating fifteen minutes.

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."

"Manneeeeeee!"

My ultimate guilty pleasure is The Poseidon Adventure. If it happens to be on television (and believe me, it's on), I've got to watch it. My parents, who have put up with me watching this terrible movie for almost 20 years, are really the only people who truly appreciate my obsession.

A few weeks ago, they were over and I was showing them all the features of digital cable. As I turned to Starz! , I realized it was my lucky day.

Me: Well... this is the Poseidon Adventure channel.

Mom: Really?

Me: Yeah. It came with the package. When we signed-up, they asked what film we would like to see in constant rotation. Of course I chose The Poseidon Adventure.

Mom: You mean it's on ... all the time?

Me: Yes. But I only watch it once or twice a day.

Dad: You're lying.

Me: It's on, isn't it?

After a few minutes of watching Shelley Winters prove that "underwater she's a very skinny lady," I told them them that I was indeed lying, and that the movie being on was simply a coincidence.

If only.

I found this amusing page about the Movieland Wax Museum and their Poseidon room on a freakishly thorough Poseidon Adventure site.

I love this comment:

"The most striking thing about Ernie Borgnine's figure is that it looks less like Borgnine and more like the rapidly-decomposing, walking-dead farmer from Men in Black. His hair is much too long. He never wore a handkerchief around his neck (although the hanky is obviously there to hide some flaw in the wax), and -- although not seen in this photo -- "Rogo" has one bloody arm bandaged (!) and a stripe down the side of his tuxedo trousers (as if he'd just mugged a bellboy for his uniform). Obviously, Ernie is in sad need of refurbishing."

Poor Rogo.

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)

Camp Hell.