Real Quick

- In the movie "Shall We Dance," (don't ask) they show Jennifer Lopez's character as a kid, and as a kid, I guess Jennifer Lopez was fat and Asian. Who knew?!

- In the same movie (and every other movie he is in), Richard Gere did his grating "let me whisper and act like I'm about to cry" voice whenever anything remotely serious happened. For instance, someone asked Richard Gere's character how the weather was. "Rainy," he said, in this awful, downcast raspy whisper, like it was the end of the world or something. Somebody has to stop him. He does it in every stupid movie he's in, and every stupid time I want to rip my ears off. It's gotten so bad that he even beats out Drew Barrymore and Leelee Sobieski for most annoying screen presence.

Okay so maybe not Leelee. But beating out Drew and her lispy half-smile is no easy feat.

- I have to make another away message plea. Can we please put in a petition to end the "love you baby" additions to away messages? Yes, you can be taking a test, studying, eating, going shopping, relacing your tennis shoes, AND loving your most wonderful boyfriend 4eva and eva, but no, nobody really cares.

About any of it, to be honest.

- Remember yearbook inscriptions? Kids nowadays are out of control with their abbreviations. Everything is written for short, so that you can't read a freakin thing when you try to snoop through your little brother's yearbook. Completely indecipherable. I can't get over this one: HAGS. It's short for "have a good summer," which I found out a few years ago. Here is a classic: HAGS & KIT :) We R BFFAEAE (Keep in Touch :) We are Best Friends Forever and Ever and Ever). GMAB & CTS.

(Give me a break and cut the shit.)

That's it. Told you it'd be a quick one.

The Puma Breakdown

Today I decided that I would become a lawyer.

And get a master's degree in public relations.

And become an expert on educational policy.

And take the LSATs, GREs, MATs, and my finals all by December 20th.

Incidentally, deciding all of these things in such a short period of time is hazardous to your health.

A few notes about losing your mind (aka trying to figure out what to do with your life):

1. Apparently, nobody thinks I should be a lawyer. Not one person was like, "Oh yeah, a lawyer, I can see that." Tell them I'm going to become a bum, "Oh yeah, that sounds good!" but a lawyer? No way.

Maybe they think I'm stupid, because everyone who saw me with a law school course catalog also told me, "Don't go to LAW school unless you want to be a LAWyer."

No, I'd like to be a DOCtor. Jesus.

2. The Student Union is not the place to have the breakdown.

I've never had a nervous breakdown before. Well actually, that's not true. When I was a junior in high school, my Latin teacher assigned this project to our class. We had to put together a human skeleton by cutting out these bones from construction paper. Well I couldn't figure out what was the fibula and what was the tibula, nor could I tell the arm from the leg. So I was really screwed. Well, I had a breakdown in my kitchen. My mother thought I was nuts. But I couldn't take it. All over a skeleton!

Anyhow. So today I had this breakdown, in the Student Union. And pardon me, but when I'm having this breakdown, I don't take the time to notice everyone around me, apparently watching the breakdown. Okay, so by everyone, I'm only talking the guy sitting next to us. So later tonight, I'm walking back to Warren and I stop in Campco. I'm about to get in line when this guy gets there the second I do. He goes, "Oh, go ahead, I know you're having a tough day." I gave him this weird look because how would HE know? And then he says, "I saw your episode in the GSU earlier, I was sitting next to you." OH. Apparently I had an "episode." Good lord. Now I can be labeled psychotic by some person who's never even met me. Faaaabulous.

He was nice after that though.

But still. He thought I had an EPISODE. Aren't those just for people with like seizures and Tourette's?

That reminds me of this time that I told this guy I was going to my next class, Special Ed. It was actually "Teaching Special Education," but the guy refused to believe me. So, now I have two guys walking around BU thinking that a. I have psychotic problems and "episodes," and b. I am part of the special education program at Boston University.

Disclaimer is that it's not wrong to be in either category, but let's face it, if you're not really part of a. or b., it's probably best to remain firmly in c. none of the above. Now I'm d., both. Marvelous.

3. Telling people you are having a breakdown does nothing to help you.

Try telling someone you're having a breakdown. I bet you the first thing they say is, "I'm having such a bad day too!" And then they tell you that their pet goldfish died. That kills me. I mean, your pet goldfish died. Big whoop. I bet you never even talked to your pet goldfish, but it dies and bam, suddenly you had this siginficant relationship with your goldfish (who probably, by the way, hated you because you made him swim around a tiny bowl, just back and forth back and forth every single day. And you know what really kills me? Those things the pet stores sell, that are supposed to liven the place up. That's like giving a person a one room apartment and putting a coffee table in there. THERE! Now it's not boring for the rest of your life!) But my point is, nobody really wants to hear about anybody else's breakdown. People are too busy having their own breakdowns to care about yours.

That's not to say that a few people will care. But most of them will just tell you, "Oh, you're fine," or "don't worry, it will work out," probably all the while secretly saying to themselves, "Wow I'm glad I'm not where SHE is. I'd shoot myself." OR they tell you that law school is only ONLY ONLY if you want to be a LAWyer.

4. Don't tell people WHY you're really having a breakdown.

People lose sympathy when they find out that you are a shallow and money-hungry. They really do. When people asked why I had suddenly decided to give up teaching and become a lawyer/policy expert/author/rich person, I made the poor decision to tell them the truth: it was all about the Pumas.

I'm not proud of it, but it's true.

This all began because I wanted - dare I even SAY it - two pairs of Pumas sneakers. That's right. TWO. I liked them both. I could see myself wearing a lot of stuff with each pair. Well guess what? I can't AFFORD both.

And it hit me, as I looked at the shoes, seeming sad that they wouldn't be being ordered and shipped to me, I won't EVER be able to afford Puma shoes. And then I started thinking about my Gap bill, and I realized that if I were a teacher, it would be hard to shop at Gap. As someone devastatingly told me today, "You'll have to shop at Old Navy."

Die.

Just watch me die.

Apparently, telling people that you want to enter the law profession to afford Puma sneakers is the wrong way to earn sympathy.

Who knew.

5. Don't hinge all your hopes on the parents.

A few minutes after deciding I was going to go to law school, I called my dad, the lawyer. As I figured it, I needed to take the LSATs December 4th, which left me little time to study. I needed a plan.

"Hey, can you tutor me in the LSATs?"

"Who is this?"

"Umm, your DAUGHTER."

"Elana? You're not going to be a teacher anymore?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I want Puma sneakers."

"That should make a good personal statement."

"Personal statements mean nothing without good LSAT scores. Can you help me?"

"No."

"Is that a 'no, but I'll think about it' or a 'no, you're driving me insane, shut up and get on with your life and I'll just buy you the Pumas'?"

"It's the second one, except without the part about me buying you Pumas."

That's how it went. No LSAT tutoring. Which meant no taking the LSATs on December 4th, which meant no LSATs, because the course for the February 12th LSAT already started, and no LSAT meant no law school application which meant no law school which meant no law degree which meant no high-power, high-paying job which, in the end, meant no Pumas. :(

A few hours later, he called me back. He says it was to make sure I was okay, because I seemed a little "out of sorts." In other words, I was having an episode. I, however, think that he was calling to make sure that I hadn't charged any shoes to his credit card.

"You really want to be a lawyer?" he asked.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You really want to abandon the whole teaching thing?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You really want those Puma shoes?"

"Yes."

"Just checking."

"I just want someone to give me a million dollars."

"Me too."

"You're my dad, you're supposed to give me a million dollars."

"Hmm. My dad must have missed that memo."

"You think you can give me a million dollars?"

"I'll get back to you."

With the million dollars scenario looking bleak, we talked for a little while about all my school stuff, about teaching and law and plans and what makes sense economically. I finally came to my decision about what I'm going to do with my life - for the next year, anyhow.

"I feel much better," I told my dad.

"Sounds like you had a pretty tough day," he said.

"You can say that again."

"Sounds like you had a pretty tough day."

I hung up with my dad after he made a few more stupid jokes like that, and then I decided to reward myself for having made such a momentous decision.

I decided to order my Puma sneakers.

I went to the website, found the exact pairs I wanted. Click. Click Click Click.

As I waited in anticipation for the page to load, I pictured walking around campus with my beautiful shoes, all peaceful with my newfound sense of calm about my future. Success, I thought, was sweet.

And then it happened. Big red letters appeared.

Sorry, this item is SOLD OUT.

And just like that, my quest for my Pumas ended.

Life. It really gives it to you sometimes.

Miscellaneous

You know what is a tough problem? Sometimes I get a grilled cheese in the sandwich line. Some wheat bread and provolone, grill it up please. That's it. It should be simple, but the sandwich people never get it right. They always take it out and the cheese isn't melted, it's just warmed. So I end up eating a cheese sandwich.

A good question would be why I don't just ask the sandwich-getter to put it back on the grill for a few minutes. I don't really have an answer for that.

I just stand there and hope that the person leaves the sandwich in a few seconds longer. I don't know why I have these confrontation issues, but I guess I do.

Another thing I never speak up about is when the dining hall people just slop on the food onto plates. They get sauce everywhere, dripping off the plate and it looks like they're feeding dogs, but they don't care. That really gets me. But how do you say to somebody while handing them your plate, "Excuse me, but could you please put the food on so it looks like a human will be eating it for dinner?" You can't. Because these things should be obvious, and plus, I bet if they knew they were doing something like this, they wouldn't do it. It's like my dad says: jerks don't know they're being jerks. If they did, they wouldn't be jerks.

It doesn't make me feel any better though.

Last week I went to Newbury Street and I saw this woman with a baby carriage. She was trying to lift it up these stairs, plus she was holding the kid. She's got the carriage basically dangling on the stairs, about four of them, in front of the GAP. SoI ask her if she needs any help, and you know what she does? She says, "Oh great!" and just drops the entire carriage right onto me. I swear I have tire marks on me. I didn't like her very much. And her kid was this skinny drooly thing too, not even a cute kid.

I was once at an event and there was this family with a baby. I told my dad, "That is the ugliest baby I've ever seen." Man was it ugly. I can't help it. The baby can't help it. Worst of all, the parents can't. It's pretty bad though. Think about how many people just love babies. Babies are usually pretty cute, but this one was just awful looking. The kid might turn out to be okay looking and all, but for right now, he was just hideous. I wish I was exaggerating. I mean, if I have an ugly baby, I'm going to be pretty upset because you have to hold it all the time and everyone always wants to see the baby. So if I'm walking around and somebody comes up and asks me to see my baby and I show this person the baby and the baby's ugly, I don't want to have to deal with the reaction. And I don't want to have to shield my baby from everyone, because I think that can lead to serious problems.

Something else that really gets me are people's dogs. I hate when I go to someone's house and their dog is all over me. I just don't like it. And I really hate when small dogs yip all over the place and jump up on you over and over again. And if you don't like it, people are like, "Oh, are you afraid of the dog?" as though you have some fear. No, I just don't like your dog. But you can't say that. So you have to smile and pet the dog and act like he's the cutest thing ever even when he's jumping all over the stupid place. I like my friend Amanda's dog though. That dog doesn't bother anybody.

Maybe it is because I never really had any pets when I was a kid. Well that's actually not true. I once had a hamster. I begged my dad to get me this hamster at the pet store, so he did. My mom flipped out when we drove up with the live box. The thing is, I was a little afraid of holding my hamster because I guess I don't like live things that much, especially live things that are in the same family as rats. Gross. But I wanted this teddy-bear hamster. Probably because my friends all had them or something. I named the hamster Samantha. At the time, I thought it was a good name, because you could call her Sammy. But you know, I think Samantha is a pretty funny name for a freakin rat. My dad though, he never got the name right. He'd always call her Hammy. So she became Hammy the Hamster.

Actually, she became Hammy the Obese Hamster. This thing became the fattest hamster ever. I'm not even joking. She became so fat that she couldn't live in her cute little hamster house anymore. We had to go back to the petstore and get her a fishtank because she was too damn fat for the house we had bought. We got her an exercise wheel, just like parents get their fat kids exercise wheels so they'll get thinner. But just like the fat kids, she never used the wheel. We got her this hamster ball but she didn't like that either, so she just sat around. I didn't really play with her though, so maybe she was eating out of depression. Like that emotional eating stuff. I'll never know. The thing lived longer than any hamster though, even though her cholesterol level was probably through the roof. Hammy died during my 6th grade Christmas party. Someone went over to see what she was doing, and per usual, she was doing nothing. So I didn't even care until another friend went over and said, "Elana, your hamster is dead." And then we all poked at it, and my mom told me to stop and so I did and then my dad buried her in the backyard. No ceremony, nothing. It wasn't because she was a fat hamster she didn't get a ceremony, it was because it was too cold out. I don't know where she's buried. It's not like I'd go out there and have a chat with her or anything, but I think that she probably deserved a little better from me.

And then I found five dollars

A few days ago, I printed out these articles for my politics of education course. About five articles, approximately 40 pages. (By the way, don't you love it when people say "approximately 43 pages?" approximately 43??? 43?! People need to use how to use the word "approximately.") Anyhow, so I print them out, but I had cleaned my room earlier, so I had moved the printer around to get under my bed (which is a scary thing. I have to admit, I'm 21 years old, and sometimes I get really afraid of reaching under my bed. Not because of monsters. Because of possible bugs.) So I had moved the printer and in the process, I had moved the little plastic print tray on the side - that thing that sits there and holds all the printed pages in a neat, ordered way. It's funny, how much you can miss something as simple as that when you don't have it.

Or not at all.

So I push print, go downstairs, and come back to my room about 15 minutes later. What greets me? Oh, about 50 pages all over the place on the floor. It looked like someone came in and played 52 pick-up with my floor, only with full 8x11 pages with lots of similar looking writing on them. Thiiiiis looked promising.

I begin to put all the pages in order, right? Yeah, not so fast, Nancy Drew. I took another look and guess what, all the articles were from the same journal, yes, but different ISSUES. And here's an added bonus: they all were from pages five - fifteen. So I had five page fives, basically, and five page sixes, and you get the idea. Saweet.

Have you ever been really angry at yourself? That was me. I was so annoyed at my stupidity. I started mumbling self-deprecating swears at myself, which made it all worse, because I reminded myself of some homeless drunk wandering around asking himself where all his money went to and scaring young children (ok, scaring me) and quite frankly, I think it's sad when you remind yourself of a homeless guy. So I tried to stop talking to myself, and instead I just made these awful grimaces.

I'm about twenty minutes into this glorious project - I'm reading the last line of each page and the first line of the next to match them all up - when I notice the top right hand corner of the paper. It has an entirely different number. Hmm. So do all the others.

Yeah, that's right. They were all in a book or some sort of collection, and they all have different, sequential numbers in the top right hand corner. Five minutes later, I'm done.

I'm finally feeling better about the entire incident when I get ready to staple all of the articles, the most satisfactory of finishing touches. And then what happens? I find out I'm all out of staples. Seriously. Does this stuff happen to other people?

In other upsetting news:

A month ago, on Columbus Day, I decided I'd had enough of the piles of crap in my room so I cleaned everything. I even went under my bed and organized all my stuff. I ended up getting rid of tons of stuff, filling up tons of bags and throwing them away.

Fast forward to October 23. I'm working the World Series (which, ps, the Sox won) and I go to get some gloves. Hmm. Can't find them. (Do you KNOW where this is going?!) Whatever, I think. I have to clean my room again anyhow because believe it or not, in two weeks of working like a crazy person and watching games until midnight only to be back at the same table by 6 PM that day, well, I haven't had much time to make sure all my stuff is in its place. So I figure, whatever, in a few days, I'll find everything.

Well, we're at the few days. So I go looking for my winter hats, gloves, mittens, scarves. Nowhere. I decided I have to take apart my room, because they have to be here somewhere, right? They're in a Gap bag, I know that much.

So then on Sunday, I finally get to finding them. And I'm at the bottom of one of my bins and I see the elusive red Gap bag. Sweeeet!

Hold up there. You know that line that people use all the time, where they say, "It's like someone said, okay, take a big step forward, claim your prize, and then you took the step and suddenly it was like, 'whoa there, not so fast!' just to you, so you have to go back?" Okay. Maybe I'm the only person who's used that, but that's what it felt like. Because I figured, everyone else who finds a red Gap bag gets to have their favorite hats and mittens in it.

Only I find a red Gap bag full of garbage.

Yeah. That's right. I threw away a bag full of winter stuff. And I kept a bag of garbage.

It's not even funny, really. I mean, there was a good chunk of money in that bag. I'd collected that stuff over years. I have a favorite hat and mittens, and actually, it hurts to write that I won't have them anymore. It was this pink and cranberry colored thick stripe thing, and it was great. Wow. What a set. And now, it's all in a junkyard somewhere. Oh man. I'm pretty upset about it all to tell you the truth.

I can't believe I did that.

Don't think laughing about it makes it any better.

It doesn't.

Also, in additonal upsetting news (and I haven't even TOUCHED on the election), I saw the movie Ladder 49. I've told a lot of people I saw this movie because it was very upsetting to me. I mean, they show you this great guy, a nice - a QUIETLY nice - guy. By quietly nice, I mean that he wasn't pointing out to everyone all the time how nice he was, but he was the type of guy who was just nice. You'd want to be friends with him. Like, I'd want him to be my kids' dad. I think he'd be great at family barbecues and always playing with them and stuff. I'd want him to teach my kid how to ride a bike. That's really what it comes down to I think - you know, when you meet a guy, think, "Would I want him teaching my kid to ride a bike?" (Girls who take this too seriously will actually do that and freak out every guy in a 50 mile radius.) But I mean, it's a pretty good test of someone. You don't have to have him be the kid's father (i.e. your husband) but just think, would this guy be nice to a kid who's nervous trying to balance himself on a two wheeler for the first time while going down a really big hill for the first time in front of all the neighborhood kids and her dad's video camera? And would he be the kind of nice guy to come help the poor kid up after she thought a car was going to run her over (god only knows why) so she swerved into the grass and a brambly bush? I mean, would he be good in that situation?

And the thing is, to get back onto Ladder 49 and away from my bike trauma, this Joaquin Phoenix guy, he would have been great in that situation. I feel like he wouldn't have been cheesy but he would have been like, "ehh, you're still okay" or something like that. In the movie, he played that kind of guy.

So you root for him, and you root for his family, and you hold your breath while he fights all these huge fires and you almost cry when he gets all burned up and gets a little freaked out by the job. And then you think he's going to be rescued.

Yeah, well. You're a naive stupid person.

That was me. Only add like buckets of crying all over the place. I looked around the movie theater and all I saw was a whole lot of tears and snot. I'm not even joking. Then they play this song at the end which makes you just want to crawl in a hole.

I'm a masochist though, so I went home and got the song and played it over and over again. And then to add to it (whhhhat the fuuuuck?) I decided to go to the movie site and watch the trailer or something. Like to put pictures to the movie. It's like I wanted to be sad, only I didn't. I had to go through things in my life that were good. I actually - seriously - said to my friend on the way out, "The Red Sox won the world series. I should be okay." That's how bad it was.

Don't ever see it. Not because it's not a good movie - it is - but because you don't want to feel the way I felt. Some people say it's a good thing to be able to be that sad about a movie - just like I always want to cry when I see a fat person eating by himself - they're like, "oh that means that you actually have this huge heart and you really care about people" but you know the truth? It's not that good, because you get sad real easily about stupid things, like a John Travolta movie!

I feel like I should watch Jerry Maguire. Life is always better after you watch Jerry Maguire.

I went to buy some shoes today. I was very excited about these shoes. I wanted red sneakers. They only had them in kids. Stupid jerks. But I went to another store and found some other shoes that I liked. So I actually bought them, and as I'm paying, the girl goes, "Oh, PS, these aren't waterproof so when you're going to be wearing them, and what you bought them for, like casual days when it's raining and stuff and when you just want to walk around a lot and not worry about your shoes, well, they're useless for that." Or, she said, "By the way, these aren't water resistant," but the whole first part was definitely there - just not vocalized. So I had to buy this spray stuff for my shoes so they don't get ruined.

I wasn't really happy about this, but I felt like I had to complete the transcation. Does that ever happen to anyone else? Because sometimes I feel like people have invested all this time in me, I have to go through with it even if I don't want to (umm that sounds really bad like sexual assault. good god.) But here's an example: last year, I went to Express and tried on a whole bunch of clothes. A girl working offered to get me all these different colors and sizes and stuff and she was being very helpful. I didn't want to buy anything in the end though. But I felt like she'd given me all this help and all this time, so I had to do something so she'd get a little commission or something. So I bought this shirt. Two weeks later, I brought it back. Only to a different Express, so she wouldn't see me. It's sick. I bought the shirt KNOWING I would return it.

So today, I knew I wasn't going to keep the shoes or the stupid spray. But I bought them anyways and then I went all the way to Copley to a different store to return them. Like 15 minutes later. And, the guy there was like, "You just bought all this." And because I didn't want to get into it, I said, "Yeah, I bought them for my friend, but she just called and said she found them in another store so I can return them."

It's a sick thing. It really is.