Philly

I wrote all about my sister, so it's only fair that I write about my brother too. My brother's real name is Michael. Everyone calls him Michael or Mike, but I usually call him Philly. His middle name is Philip. I think it's only one "l" but to be honest, the spelling of his middle name always tripped me up. Anyway, once when I was being a jerk, i wanted to see if the little kid knew his middle name, so I called him Philly for the hell of it and he answered. Now I just call him Philly and it's stuck, and my mom sort of caught on and calls him that, but really, it's mainly just me. People still ask me all the time why I call him Philly. The truth is, I have no idea. I don't even really like the name, but it's what it is.

My brother is a pretty funny kid, in a different way than my sister. Once, we were talking about a book he was reading in class and he said, "My favorite character is Beat Rice." My sister and I were like, "Beat rice?" and he says, "Yeah, Ramona's sister!" Yeah kid, that's pronounced Be-a-trice. Nice though. I still laugh when I think of my brother and his little weirdness.

When my brother was in the fifth grade, he hated his teacher, Mr. Z. Mr. Z would pick on my brother and my brother wouldn't have any of it. Once, Mr. Z told the class that if they got all their work done, he was going to give them a big surprise. So the class worked really hard and then Mr. Z took them outside for their prize. I don't know why he thought this would be such a great prize, but what Mr. Z did was, he showed them his parents' new car, a PT Cruiser (they were just coming out at the time, but I mean, STILL, who cares?). Well anyway, I guess my brother didn't think much of it, because in front of the whole class, my brother said, "This thing looks like a hearse." So much for the teacher's surprise.

The culmination of my brother's problems with Mr. Z came one afternoon when my brother went over to Mr. Z's desk and saw Mr. Z had a banana - unpeeled - on his desk. (Let me just warn you that if you have a sick mind, this story is just full of possibilities. Just a warning.) My brother poked it and said, "Hey, Mr. Z, your banana's soft." Mr. Z went nuts. "WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING MY BANANA!" was basically what the guy yelled. My brother was in shock, like, why is this such a big deal? "Go get your lunch!" he yelled at my brother. So my brother went and got his lunch and brought it to Mr. Z, who was making a pretty big scene in front of the class. He started going through all the contents - water, sandwich, apple, cookies. He picked up the cookies in their little plastic baggie, and, as my brother puts it, "He squeezed my cookies," so that they crumbled and the cookie crumbs seeped through the bag and went all over the floor. Mr. Z left my brother in the room, as he took all the other kids to lunch, and made him clean up the mess. If you ask my brother about it today, he can still tell it like it just happened to him, and he still acts like it was a horrible offense. "All I did was touch his banana," he says. "And he had to squeeze my cookies!" Man. I'm a sick sick person.

My brother is amazing at impressions too. The kid can sound exactly like Danny from The Shining and say "Redrum" like he's going to come kill you. He's also got a pretty good Bea Arthur from Golden Girls. He does some from Chicken Run, a bunch of other ones. He just picks these random lines from movies and then does them, exactly how they sound in the film. It's uncanny. The other thing, though, is my brother will take a joke and really make you hear it over and over and over again until you want to shoot yourself. Like we were watching the movie Clue, and at the end, we see that a guy who's name was Lee Ving was part of it. So my sister and I thought that was a pretty funny name, like, "Hi, I'm Lee Ving." So we went with it for a few minutes, but then we dropped it. Not my brother. "Hey, what if he went into a grocery store!" my little eight-year-old brother said. "He would be like, Hi, I'm Lee Ving." Ha, Mike, yeah. "What about if he went to a... post office!" And so it continued. He got this huge kick out of it, but we didn't laugh. When we told him that he wasn't really funny, that really busted the kid. I almost feel bad that we didn't laugh just out of pity.

Probably one of the funniest memories I have of my brother is when I babysat him on a Saturday night. I was like twelve, and he was about five or six. Anyway, I started watching one of those insane Lifetime movies. This one was called "Bitter Blood," and if you ask my brother about it, he'll still be shaken up over it. The movie was like a marathon. It went from about six to eleven, a two-parter, about this crazy family. The dad divorces the mom, the mom goes insane and withholds the kids from the dad, she marries her cousin, who's wicked into guns and the army and is just like this complete psycho, and the dad spends the movie trying to get the kids away from their twisted mother and uncle who feed the kids all these weird pills and stuff. Total psycho stuff. Well, I don't know what it was about the movie, but my brother was totally into it. You couldn't pull him away from the TV. We have two couches and a huge chair in the family room, and my brother was sitting on the ottomon, practically on top of the TV, so he would be really close and not miss a thing. Anyway, after all this build up, the final scene in the movie comes, with the dad in a car chasing the kids and the mom and uncle and kids in the car in front of them. And they show it like the dad is going to cut them off and get the kids, because they show the kids peeking out from the back of their army jeep, looking at their dad like he's going to save them. And then bam! The whole car explodes.

For about fifteen minutes after that scene, my brother just sat on that ottomon, completely shellshocked. He was distraught over this movie. My parents were ready to kill me for showing him that. I don't know why it's so funny; I mean the kid was really traumatized, but even while I was watching his reaction, I thought it would be funny someday. Maybe I shouldn't have kids. I don't know.

I guess I really think it's funny when my brother gets traumatized, because I also always laugh when I think about him freaking out when we went to Andy's one afternoon. Andy's used to be this pretty lame-o supermarket in the town next to ours, and we were in the area, so we just went there really quick to get a few things for my mom. Anyway, Andy's used to have this mascot, this elf guy, who saw that my brother was a little freaked out by him. Instead of just kind of going away, the elf just continued to look over at us and come near my brother, totally freaking him out. I swear my brother hated that stupid elf. I have to say, it was a little creepy. But I just keep picturing him completely taken over in shock and this elf basically laughing inside his costume at what a weirdo this little kid was, and then loving that he could make him have such a reaction. I'm not sure who's worse: the guy in the elf suit who clearly wanted to torture my brother, or me, who got such a kick out of watching it happen.

My brother is also like me, in that he's a afraid of birds. Only he's like insanely afraid of them. When he came to visit me in London, he wouldn't go to Trafalgar Square because he had heard of all the pigeons everywhere. We did go to Covent Garden, and we were eating outside on these rickety tables, and there were pigeons all at his feet. You could just tell by looking at him that he was about to have a heart attack. The poor kid kept freaking out and jumping and the table would get all shaky and the people next to us, these proper Londoners, were like, "What the fuck?" when they saw my brother's spasms. Too bad.

My brother would probably disagree, but I've only been really mad at him once in my life. Once, after we had some stupid argument - he probably remembers over what, but I don't - he went to my room and he took my favorite stuffed animal, Pinky. I was like 19 at the time, and I'd had Pinky since I was six. My mom had bought me Pinky in the first grade, when I won the Good Citizen Award. Pinky is a pink (surprise surprise) Gund bear, one of those old ones that is like a hunchback. A totally great bear. I loved that bear, and my brother knew it. So he got pretty riled up at me, and he went and took Pinky and he found this little hole in her butt, which I'd always freaked out about but had stayed very small, and he went in and he started pulling out her stuffing, so that I when I went to find the Pinkster, her butt was like laying out all over my bed. That's when I realized my brother had a pretty good mean streak. I think he still feels bad about what happened, because I made an absolutely huge deal over it and he got in a lot of trouble. In case anybody is wondering about Pinky, I ended up trying to put the stuffing back in her, but I couldn't really do that good a job. So now, she's missing some stuffing and I can just punch her face in and then her butt gets full.

I don't want to leave with a bad impression of my brother. He's a really good kid. Just this past summer, when my friends came to the Cape, he spent a lot of time with us. We were playing Trivial Pursuit one night, and my brother knew all the answers, but he would say them with all this uncertainty and he would never be confident in his answers, so nobody would listen to him. He didn't even mind. And when my friend Amanda yelled at him, "Man up, Michael!" my brother didn't lose his cool or anything. He just said to her, "Woman down, Amanda." I mean, you can't make this stuff up. I wish everyone could meet the kid. It would just make your day. It really would.

Partner in Crime

My family first went to Disneyworld when I was in second grade. My sister was about four years old. She and I were waiting at this fountain at Epcot Center, and it was pretty hot out. My mom was a few feet away. Right next to us, this woman was eating an ice cream cone. I turned to my sister. "Hey Stephanie," I said. "I dare you to ask that woman for a bite of her ice cream." I don't know why I thought this would be a good idea, or even funny to watch. I mean, leave it to me to find THAT as a way to have fun in the middle of the most fun place on earth for a kid. Forget rides. If my sister could make a complete idiot out of herself, this was my own personal Disneyworld attraction. I was really messed up.

But as messed up as I was, my sister must have been worse, because not only did she do what I had dared her to, but she didn't even question it. She just looked right over at the woman. "Mmmm," she said. "That ice cream looks really good. Can I have a lick?" No shame or anything. I still don't really know how she got up the nerve to do this, but she did it and then when the woman looked at her like she was nuts, she just sat there, still looking at her waiting for an answer. It had to be the funniest thing I saw all day at Disneyworld.

My sister used to have this awful overbite. She would hate when I made fun of her for her buck teeth. That's probably the number one reason I'm going to hell, becuase I constantly made fun of her for her Peter Rabbit teeth. I would ask her if she wanted any carrots. Seriously. The girl's teeth could reach the bottom of her chin. (Okay, so that's an exaggeration.) She would hate when I did this (surprising, right?). I do kind of feel bad about it, because she couldn't really help it. The buck teeth ended up just being a phase, lucky for her. I haven't mentioned the buck teeth to her in a while and I bet she will want to shoot me for even writing this, and she'll probably want to start her own blog to embarrass me. And trust me, she'd have plenty of material... like the time I peed my pants at Ron-a-Roll. (I was like six. Okay, eight. And I was taking a class for this Girl Scout troop I was in... for like a year. And I had to go, but I didn't want to embarrass myself by having to ask the instructor to leave the group and roll across the rink, so instead I took the other route and just peed right there on the rink. They ended up putting up a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign by it and I just continued skating. Horrible. Oh my god, I am seriously embarrassed, even like twelve years later. Jesus.)

Back to my sister. (Can I even recover from an admission like that? I really don't know.)

My sister always is doing these obnoxious things that are pretty funny to watch. When my brother used to have school concerts and stuff, to make the time pass (umm, sorry Mike), my sister and I would try to outclap the other. What this means is, when the song ends and the audience claps, we keep clapping. And clapping. Until we're the only two morons clapping and everyone around us is looking at us awkwardly wondering whether they too should keep clapping. My parents hated that game. We would also try to start applause randomly during songs, like when they sang some random note or whatever. They hated that game too.

My sister and I would also team up against my poor brother. We used to play this spinning game where we'd spin around in circles trying to get dizzy. I know, really fun. Anyway, my brother wanted to join the game but was nervous that he'd bang into a shelf or the wall or closet or something, so he made us promise to warn him if he got close to anything. We promised and he closed his eyes and started spinning. Well, we must have forgotten to pay close attention, because suddenly he was too close to the edge and bam! he fell right into the closet. He was really angry at us for that.

He would also get angry at us when we would just ignore him. The kid was like three years old and my sister and I would just randomly be like, "Wait, do you hear that? Is someone talking?" whenever my brother would start talking to one of us. Then we would look at him like, "Oh my god, who is this little kid? What is he doing in our CAR?" He would freak out and start hitting us, but we found the whole thing pretty funny.

Speaking of my brother hitting us, I have to just write this quick aside: my brother would beat us up pretty badly, but we would always just laugh at him. This made him even angrier. Imagine being a boy trying to beat up your sisters and having them laugh at your attempts. It just really made him try even harder. He'd seriously hurt us, but the look on his face of such determination made us lose it. My sister and I would try to get my brother to hit us, just so we could laugh at him. I feel bad about our treatment of him, I really do. I've already written that we would make my brother be the dog when we played house. We were awful.

My sister used to be a porker. You would never, ever know it. The girl is real skinny now, but she used to have some serious chub. At first, I didn't believe her when she told me she had been fat. I mean, I know I had been there for it, but I just couldn't imagine it. I kept being like, yeah right. But then one day, I found this picture of her from when she was seven or eight, in second grade, and let me tell you, that girl could have put away my brother. In the picture, she's wearing this red corduroy dress and a sombrero, and she's eating some Mexican food at some second grade festival thing. She's just as happy as ever, stuffing her face. I laughed for about ten hours when I saw that picture. The best thing about my sister is that she's not embarrassed by her fatness at that age; it's like she embraces it and laughs at it too. When I asked her how she got skinny, she just said, "Oh. I went on Ritalin." I mean, you have to laugh at that.

Oh man! I can't believe I forgot about this. Forget about that being the best thing about my sister. The best thing about my sister is her infamous gift-giving. My sister has this ability to make everyone feel like they need to appreciate her, and making fun of her is just too mean. Like when she played the violin, she sucked, but if you said it, she would act like you really hurt her. (On second thought, maybe it would hurt a little fourth-grader to tell her that she has no musical talent whatsoever. The only funny thing really is that she once tried to play the flute but failed, and I am convinced that her buck teeth were the cause of her flute downfall.) She'd also do tap dancing, and once she fell flat on her face and acted like she wasn't crying because of hte pain, but because I was laughing at her. Riiiight. But my father ate it right up and I got in trouble. Anyway, back to my sister's gift giving. I swear, not even Maggie and Amanda, who buy their gifts at CVS, are this bad. On any holiday, like five minutes before we were about to exchange gifts, my sister would go into her room and rummage through her crap. She would find some random piece of trash she no longer wanted, and she'd bring it downstairs and present it to the poor person and be like, "I made this for you," or "I thought of you when I saw this."

The girl once gave me a half-used bottle of nail polish. I'm not even exaggerating. And if you looked at it at all like, "hey, wasn't this your old keychain?" she would get very offended and claim that she had really thought about her gift. My father was a complete sucker for this crap. She once gave him a piece of posterboard cut up and said it was a bookmark she'd made especially for him. Little did he know that it was lining the bottom of her desk drawer about two minutes before he received it. But she would have these big ceremonies and act like she was giving the best gift EVER. That girl owes me at least like fifteen birthday presents.

It's too bad, because she is a pretty funny person, but I can't really think of what else she did that's hysterical. Most of the time she's doing stuff or reminding me of stuff and I'm falling off my chair laughing at her. Just last break, she had me laughing so hard that I choked and water came like shooting out of my nose. Gross, yes, but worth it. I wrote this entry because my sister commented that she wasn't in my "For Real" post. She wasn't all that happy that she wasn't included in it. And though I originally defended it by saying that that post was strictly for my friends, the truth is, my sister (and my brother, for that matter - and I'll write something about him tomorrow or so), is absolutely part of what makes my life so good and so funny. I mean, when I think back, I can't imagine having to sit through family dinners and holidays without her - we spend the whole time just making fun of everyone (my Aunt Bev is an especially fun and easy target). So that's it. She goes along with my jokes, she won't sell me out, and she'll make me laugh. What a great combination. Seriously. Go back, read that again. That's what I love about her, those three things. Those three qualities are real special. She's got them, and I get to reap the benefits. I love it.

For Real

I want to write something, before I forget or lose my nerve. I know I spent most of my time on this thing complaining or ranting or planning how to rule the world. That's not going to change or anything, but I have to do this, because more than all of my freakouts and rants and ridiculous ideas, this is what really makes my life, and it's important that it gets written down at some point, so that if I happen to die in a mack truck accident or if I just never say it, it's somewhere. If there's an entry to read, this may be it. All the way through.

Once, when I had a really bad day, my friend Amanda bought me a crossword puzzle book. For weeks after, we would go to each other's room and work on a puzzle. We used to argue over who got to write the clues in the book, and if we messed up, we'd give each other a hard time about messing the whole thing up. I still have that book in my desk drawer. The thing is, some days, I'll feel like doing a puzzle, but I can't without her. I've dragged that $1.00 book from room to room to room in the past two years, just as uncomplete as it was when we did our last puzzle. And I will tell you, I'm always real careful with it.

When I got the RA job, my friend Liz gave me a card with a butterfly on it. I don't really like butterflies, but it was a great card. She wrote some of the nicest things on that card, and I kept in the same drawer as the crossword puzzle book. She also printed out a sheet of coloring book paper and colored this random Sesame Street cartoon. I bet anybody who doesn't know Liz doesn't get why she'd do this, but I know her and I don't question it for a second. I put it up right on my wall last year, and when I came back to my room this year, it went right back to its spot.

Last April, one of my favorite residents gave me three Red Sox tickets. This was before I was working for them, so free tickets to an afternoon Sox tickets were just ridiculous. I ran downstairs to Jen and Yeshman's room and told them they were going to a Red Sox game the following afternoon. "And the best part," I sang to them, in this ridiculous voice, "is that they're freeeeeeeeeeee!" And I proceeded to do a horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE ballet dance around the room just in complete elation. And you know what? They laughed at me, but they let me do it. And they didn't tell anyone else about it, besides Liz and Amanda.

I watched all of the Red Sox postseason with Vicky. We began the postseason with glasses of Miller Lite, sitting side by side, and we ended it the same way. It's funny, how I didn't know her very long but couldn't imagine watching a game without her and our traditions. We had serious debates every day about which Red Sox shirts to wear, and she's the only person I know who I can have these kinds of conversations with and still maintain my self-respect.

Last winter, before break, I went to study with Andy at Espresso Royale and he gave me this random piece of metal he'd made in class. I questioned whether he had really made it, or whether he had just found trash and given it to me. I don't think he really liked that I would even wonder about the validity of his metal gift. Anyhow, I've kept it on my shelf ever since. Every now and then I'll hold it and see how smooth it is, and I'll think he must be talented at making random pieces of metal, or it's a very easy machine process. But I'll also remember studying and having class with him and hearing his life theories and plans. For a minute, I'll wish he was back in an English class with me.

My friend Kate and I are always trying not to get killed. We both are horrible at crossing the street, so she's the one person I can't get too embarrassed in front of. She's always just trying to get by, too, and it's good to have someone who's having just the same trouble as you are.

Stef and I didn't spend much time together when she actually lived in Warren Towers, but I feel like I'm closer to her now than before. I can count on Stef for loving Jason Varitek and for driving with me on any adventure I choose, and that's why I like her. And her car.

Marisa introduced me to Chef Chang's, and she doesn't mind that I tell her that's her greatest contribution in our friendship.

Victoria gets herself in trouble, but she thinks about every aspect of everything, and she always is sure to remind me that I'm not as great or funny as I think I am. She makes me think about every decision I make. If it weren't for her, I would never wear nice shoes and still consider flip flops with sequins as formal footwear.

He drives me nuts because he's a Yankees fan, and because I really do wonder whether he's always trying to put one over me, but Paul is a good guy. He'll let me ask any question and he'll have an answer. It might not always be right, but it's an answer. I've been in the School of Education for three and a half years, and he's the best advisor I've had.

I used to think it was impossible to have a genuine conversation with Aaron, but that's not true. He's the most sarcastic person I know, but he's also witty and funny. And Jay Leno's right: you just can't stay mad at anyone who makes you laugh.

Leah and I became friends our first week of school. We were sitting in the GSU - though she argues that we were somewhere else - when we said, "How do you know you're really friends with someone?" And we answered the question by agreeing to be friends. Whether because of that promise or because we really do like each other, we're still friends.

I could write a funny story about Seth, because there are tons of them. But what I really think I will always, always remember about Seth isn't funny at all, and doesn't involve him making fun of me in any way. When my parenst got divorced, I didn't really talk about it with anyone. And Seth and I didn't really discuss anything serious at that time, but his parents were divorced and he would always show genuine interest and concern. Anyhow, when I got back from Thanksgiving, we all met up for dinner and we hadn't seen Seth since he was in the hospital after his lung collapsed. Even though we were all asking about him and making sure he was okay, at one point, when everyone had gotten up from the table to get some more food or something, and it was just me, him, and Dave, he leaned over and asked me how my Thanksgiving had gone. "Good," I had told him. "No, really," he pressed. "How was it?" And in that moment, I knew that even though his lung was a little iffy, his heart was just right.

Brad and Razi took their shirts off when Victoria and I wanted to take pictures on one of our last days on 5A. For that, me and half of the girls I know are thankful.

My friends Merry and Meredith have absolutely no shame when discussing any topic. I'll sit there, dying of embarrassment, and they'll keep talking like it's nothing. Believe it or not, they've taught me to take myself less seriously. I still want to kill them when they're talking really loudly about, well, see, I won't even write it, but even when I want to kill them, I still really want to hear what they have to say.

Bev and I ate breakfast every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday last year, and she didn't get mad when I always ran late. She didn't mind when I spilled something on my shirt every day and obsessed over it for the rest of the breakfast. And, she didn't laugh too much at me when I freaked out over being front row at the hockey game, fearing that the players would bang right into the glass. She also watched every March Madness game with me and was rooting for the UConn men just as much as I was, and she believed just as much as I did that they would really win it all.

I met Radhai when I went to London a few summers ago, right at the beginning when I was really homesick. She thought I was a major loser for being so homesick and actually considering returning to the States rather than finishing out the term, but she still hung out with me. She would say the most ridiculous things, like when we were in the park having a picnic and she said, "You get the biscuits, I'll cut the cheese." She would laugh when I (jokingly!) made fun of her for being Indian, and she would eat ice cream bars and grapes with me when it was a thousand degrees out and there was no air conditioning. I haven't seen in since August 2003, but I feel like if I ran into her on the street tomorrow, we could sit and have a real conversation and laugh for hours.

I knew Dan before I really knew him. We were on the same RA staff, but it wasn't until he started having breakfast with me and Bev that I got to talk to him. We really became friends the night I went into his room and demanded he help me. He made the mistake of listening to me, and he's been stuck listening to me ever since. Sometimes I wonder if he wishes he had class at the time when Bev and I ate breakfast, or if he wishes he hadn't been home that first night that we played cards and he helped me plan my life. His life would be simpler, I'm sure, but mine, well, I think mine would be less complete.

Maggie used to wear this Lafargeville teeshirt every night. When we were first roommates, I believed it had some special significance because she literally wore that thing every chance she got. Finally, she told me she got it at the Salvation Army or something, I think. She got it because she liked the number 13 on it. She also liked Claire's jewelry store, which drove me nuts. But she would wait in the burrito line with me at Warren and she didn't mind when I added obnoxious items to her to-do list daily. And, perhaps most importantly, she gave me the name Roomus.

Dave T. Gallie doesn't wave. He won't do it. I'll be maybe five feet away from the kid, and he still won't wave. He just doesn't like to do it. Dave would spend hours in my room sophomore year. I'd say, "Dave, umm, I'm doing work now." And he would say, "Okay." And he would just sit there and look into space. We'd have great conversations - I'd tell him all my stories, these horrible random stories that nobody else wants to even sit through. And the thing about Dave is, he would ask if I had any stories for him, every day. He didn't talk much, but he let me share every story I thought of. He let me do whatever I wanted. I smelled my feet in front of him. I would spit my gum out into my empty water bottles in front of him. And you know what the best part was? He still came back the next day.

William James is the author of my favorite quote. He wrote, "Wherever you are, it is your friends who make your world." And when I think about my friends, when I think about all of the jokes, all of the times they've helped me out or listened to me or laughed at me, when I think of all of the memories they hold for me, I can't help but believe he's absolutely right.

Snow Day & Losing My Religion

When I was a kid, I used to think that if I showed patience and waited for my mother to come into my room and tell me whether there would be school for the day, that I would be rewarded with a snowday. Don't ask me why, but I believed, I guess in some weird way, that I controlled the superintendent, and, apparently, the snow. But the thing is, I never showed patience. I would always wake up and have to - just HAVE to - tiptoe to my window, lift up the shade, and see.... pavement. Grass. No snow.

Then, the worst thing would happen: I'd go back to my bed and have, like, twenty minutes to sleep. And I would lie there, completely awake for the first fourteen of the minutes, and then, when I only had about six minutes to go, I'd get all tired again. And I would hate myself for having to get up a half hour ago to check the stupid window, and I'd be sure I'd jinxed myself, and then I'd be in a bad mood all day.

The only thing that could possibly be more troubling than no snow would be some snow. Don't ask me why, I'm probably like the only freak out there, but I really didn't like school delays that much. See, I would get up at 6 whatever, then I would have either a half hour, hour, or 90 minutes to sleep in. But I wouldn't be able to fall asleep until about twenty minutes to go. Then I'd be so off schedule, I'd freak out about whether I was going to be late. And I'd always be afraid of falling and my mom always wanted me to wear boots and a hat and all and I had to tell her that juniors in high school didn't do that. The worst ones were the 90 minute delays, because I had some complete mental breakdown and could never add 90 minutes to my wake up or breakfast time to calculate when I would have to get all that stuff done. So basically, I had extreme anxiety over snow delays.

I did love snow days, just like every kid. The kids in my neighborhood used to go sledding in the backyard of one of our neighbor's houses. The hill was actually pretty steep. I'm still surprised that our parents didn't freak out at us, because there were trees everywhere that we could pretty easily run into, and if we had, this story would become completely horrible. (Oh wait, listen to this: in class the other day, my TA was telling this story about a student she helped. She goes on and on about how much he improved in reading, and everyone was thinking about how great this was. And she says, "Yeah, he was a real success story... I mean, apart from the fact that he was murdered... it was good, you know." WHAT? All of us in the class tried hard not to laugh, but come on. Really. My professor goes, "Well, other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?" I love that line.) Anyway, so the sledding was pretty fun.

The only thing about snow days is that as I got older, I had to go out and shovel. My mom would get so mad at me if I wasn't shoveling correctly. I don't know how you can mess up shoveling, but I guess I did. My sister though, she would never shovel. Even when she got older, she never would. That really got me mad. In fact, it still does. When I was little though, I liked shoveling and would shovel with my little red Minnie Mouse shovel. I bet my father loved that I would just go around to the sides of the driveway and shovel by taking little chunks of snow and putting them back onto the black pavement. I was a real genius.

I don't really have any other snow memories, except for last year when I went to West Hartford one night with my mother and a sudden snowstorm came on, and I swore at least fifteen times that night that I was going to die. I have never really believed in praying, but I was seriously contemplating starting at that moment. My mom just panics when it's time to drive in snow or ice, and in her defense, everywhere we looked cars were spinning out and crashing. So my mom's like freaking out and then I'm freaking out and so I say to her, "I'm going to talk to God, okay?" And she looked at me like I was a freaking weirdo. Seriously, if we were not about to die, my guess is she would have really given it to me for saying such a weird thing. Anyhow, I said outloud, "So God, I know I haven't really talked to you before or anything, but I think now's a good time. Tell you what. I'd like to get home. Make a grilled cheese. See the Sox win. Okay? Great." And my mother just about killed me. "That is NOT FUNNY!" she started yelling at me. I couldn't tell if she was yelling because she thought yelling would make her feel better or if she was seriously considering the freak that she was in the car with. But either way, she wasn't happy. I also called a friend of mine and told her I was going to die most likely, and that she should get a box from my room and dispose of it before anyone saw its contents. My friend was really good about it though. She asked me if she could have my CD collection. The thing is, I'm pretty sure she was joking, because I don't even have a real CD collection; I have like a dozen horrible CDs from when I was like twelve. The only person with a worse CD collection than me is Amanda. She would have to pay someone to store those suckers for her. I once rode to Vermont listening to the Best of 1981 and James Taylor's Greatest Hits. Unbelievably painful.

Anyway, the point of the story above is that praying works, I guess, because I got home alive and I seriously thanked God like a bazillion times on the way home. I haven't really talked to the Big Guy since. I think it's because my mom got pretty upset at me when I started telling God that even though I didn't really think his son was as significant as some, I would do my best to respect him more and stop saying "Jesus Christ" in response to every annoying thing that happens.

That hasn't happened. I bet every single Bible thumper or really, any Christian is probably rightfully offended at what I just wrote. I can't believe I did. Right now, I'm considering going back and changing it all. The only thing is, I don't know that it's all for me. I mean, you believe what you believe, I'll say what I want to say, I'll respect what you want me to. I really will. That's my PC ending so I don't get any crosses showing up on my doorstep. I told my roommate that I was afraid of Jesus and she tortured me by putting Jesus stamps in my bed and in my drawers. She thought it was pretty funny until I started putting pictures of boobs in her books, so that when she got to class, they'd fall out on the desk.

Anyway, I had an original point to this whole rambling mess, but I'm too tired to write it effectively and build up to it, so I'll just lay it out there: if people really wanted to see more kindness and happiness in this world, they would declare snow days more often. I'm looking outside now (okay, wait, now I just did) and I'm telling you, there's something to it, with the streets all white and covered nicely and nobody outside. It's like everything's quiet and still, after this huge storm. And even when it was all coming down like crazy, it's something to see. I love it anyhow. I think I really do.

No, really - don't be this girl

Where do I even begin with this?

A while back, I wrote about my brilliant idea about annoying people. I had this plan, basically to mark annoying people by shooting them in the leg. Sure, it sounds horrific and inhumane, but it wouldn't be to kill anyone. It would be to let the person know, "Hey, you're annoying" while at the same time letting everyone else know, "This person is annoying. You should stay away." Anyhow, that was the basic set-up of the plan.

Today, I met someone who not only qualifies for this procedure, but really for whom it does injustice. I mean, to truly teach this person how annoying she is, and to truly warn anybody who might have to interact with her on any level, she should really just be shot right in the head. I'm probably going to get in a shitload of trouble for this. I won't say her name. I'll call her Dimwit, which is a compliment in her case. This girl couldn't find her brain if you gave her a map, compass, flashlight, yahoo mapfinder, and a personal guide. Actually, when I think about it, this might be an unfair test, though, because I'm doubtful that there actually is a brain in that fat head of hers. That's how bad she is.

Let me give you the background. Seriously. It will be good for me to vent.

I had Dimwit in a class with me during my sophomore year. It was an English class, and she asked THE most inane questions, ever. She would just raise her hand, and completely shamelessly ask, "So, I was reading the syllabus, and I didn't really understand what you meant by "Papers are due at the beginning of class." Is that the begining of class, or is that the beginning of class?"

I wanted to just flick her forehead multiple times. Actually, that sounds like a pretty good thing to do to her, instead of the whole shot to the head kind of thing. Just constant forehead flicking.

Anyhow, I was convinced that this girl was an idiot because of all the stupid questions she asked. And it wouldn't be horrible if we just had to sit through her stupid questions, because hey, there's obvious humor in someone else's stupidity. But it was the WAY she asked everything: totally out of place, completely randomly, and in the most annoying whiny voice ever. Oh, and she always wore pants that were at least two sizes too small and you could always see her underwear and where it ended and began. Apparently even her mirror couldn't deal with her.

So she was a year ahead of me. I was so glad to hear this, because it was one less year that I would have to tolerate her existence. And then, this morning, when I went into my first class, we were going around doing introductions, and I heard a familiar voice. That familiar weird pacing of words. That familiar complete inappropriateness. And I knew. I didn't even have to turn around. The Dimwit was back. I swear, I had to stop myself from screaming. Not just the, but at least like ten times throughout the class.

Maybe you think I'm being too hard. Maybe you think I'm just being my normal bitter self. No way. I'd give anyone one second talking to her, and you'd know: this is the most ridiculous person I have ever met in my entire life. You seriously want those seconds of your life back. You actually feel cheated every time she talks. Let me give some examples of her complete ineptitude at life:

This morning, in front of a class of 60, she got out of her chair, made a huge commotion shuffling down her aisle, crossed the room right in front of the professor, who was in the middle of talking to the class, and asked the TA for a copy of the assignment sheet. We weren't even going over the assignment sheet! We had gone over the assignment sheet like a half hour ago! I mean, really honey, the ship had passed! Even more ridiculous, we had about fifteen minutes to go, when she could ask the TA for the paper after class was over. Or how about asking during the ten minute break we had a few minutes ago? Don't those sound like logical options? Nah. Why not be completely retarded about it? (And as an aside, my friend hates when I use retarded to describe people without mental handicaps, but I sincerely believe that I'm not violating that here.)

Here's another gem. The class I'm taking is about educational methods. So the professor gives an example of what he might be teaching, and then talks about how to teach it. At one point, he gave an example about Christopher Columbus. He wanted to know how we could get kids to talk about Columbus, and so he started to give a brief history. Like a two sentence summary about trading, Ferdinand and Isabella, and 1492. People talk for about five minutes and give ideas, and the professor's satisfied, and we get ready to move on.

Not so fast!

"Excuse me?" this stupid whiny voice asks.

"Yes?" asks the professor, completely unassuming at this point. She hasn't really made it known how dumb she is. (Have you ever wanted to warn someone? Every person I've seen her interact with today, I've wanted to warn them. Just be friendly about it. I feel like someone could legit sue me for not warning them. I would honestly plead guilty, and consider myself a safe bet for going to hell just for doing that to them.)

"I'm just confused." Whine whine whine. "I thought Columbus was actually from Portugal."

I swear, like 50 out of the 60 kids in the room all silently were like, "What the fuck?" And if I had to bet on it, the professor was asking himself the same thing. You wonder how people like her get through life. You really do.

She continued to ask outrageous questions like that. I can't even give her stupidity justice. I was actually considering asking one of my friends to come in and fake observe my class, just so she could see for herself the ridiculousness of this girl. I can't even say it's funny though. You pretty much just want to kill yourself for having to live through it.

You'd think it would be bad enough having Dimwit in one class, but no, the gods smiled on me and I have her in two. Six hours, twice a week, I get to see her fat face. Someday, I'm going to ask someone what I did to deserve it.

I'm not even going to get into all of the stupid things she said. She just was continuously interrupting and interjecting and throwing her stupid self all over the place. I kept wanting to just slap her across the face, repeatedly. Or poke her with a fork, over and over again. These are the thoughts that legitimately ran through my head. I'm telling you, it got so bad, she actually made me consider whether I was the crazy one. This is how dangerously deranged she is.

At the end of class, she told the teacher (who was, of course, mid-sentence - but who cares, right?!), "I need an A."

WHAT THE FUCK?

"I'm sorry?" asked the teacher. She had gotten a taste of Dimwit and was done. She had practically pleaded with me and this other girl not to leave her and Dimwit alone. I bet she had these awful visions of dying in that CAS hallway - either just from the sheer force of Dimwit's stupidity or as the result of using the staples in her handouts to slit her wrists. And you know what? I wouldn't have been surprised either way.

"I really need an A," Dimwit continued, while the rest of us wondered how she even thought she was going to survive long enough to cross the street, "because I really messed up last semester. I got ADD." Oh no, kiddo. No no no. I mean, this girl isn't even eligible for ADD. This level of disesase needs muzzles and straight jackets and electric shocks.

I honestly have never, ever, EVER met anyone as socially inept and as moronically stupid as this girl. I wish I had something redeeming to offer, but I don't. I once knew a girl in high school who just made herself a punchline, but at least she meant well. It was like you had to feel bad that she didn't have many friends and that she acted so weirdly. (Once, she did an interpretive dance for the entire swim team and then fell flat on her face during a "difficult" move. I mean, she was a texbook trainwreck.)

I know I sound mean. I have even considered, several times while writing this, that I should go back and make it seem nicer. But you know what? I'm tired of being nice. I'm tired of having to smile through her ridiculous questions. It is an insult to anybody to have to listen to her. Forget being a few cards short of a deck. This girl couldn't play a hand of Go Fish. Not the brightest bulb in the box? You'd need to wire her to the largest freakin generator on the planet to get her even to flicker. There are just no words.

All I can say is this. At the end of the semester in May, when I have completed my student teaching and my classes and have my diploma in hand, when I have had to listen to her week after week whine and complain and just tolerate her existence, somebody is going to have to physically stop me from going up to her and flicking her right on the forehead. Just one flick. Consider it my leg shot. That way, at least for the moment, I would feel satisfied that she knew she was a complete waste of space, and everyone around would recognize she was a loser. If even for a minute, I'd feel I had contributed in some great way to the world. I'd made my mark. Right on the dead center of her stupid fat forehead. Flick! Knowing her, she'd look around - right past me - and be like, "I'm confused. Did someone just flick me?" Yeah, you stupid fuck, I'd tell her. Somebody finally did.

The Failure? Failure! Rant

When I was in sixth grade, I took a very difficult math test and got a 68. On the way home, my mother asked me how I had done on the test. "Not very good," I told her. "I got an 83."

Now, here's the thing. I have no idea where I got that specific number from. 83 is the year I was born. My locker was 283. 83 is a grade that isn't that great but isn't a trainwreck either. It's not good enough to get any praise, so I would minimize the guilt I'd feel for my lie, and it isn't bad enough that I would be in trouble with my folks. Looking back, the choice of 83 was pretty good.

Except for one catch. I had forgotten - or maybe I had just put it out of my head - that it was parent's night at my school. Whoops.

When my mom came back from parent's night, she came into the family room to see me. She didn't say anything about the math test, so I dared to think that I was in the clear. I mean, knowng my mother, if I had messed up this badly, she would definitely have given it to me already. So I was beginning to breathe again, giving myself this sense of security in my undiscovered lie. My mother continued to talk about the night, saying which teachers she liked and all. She talked about my English teacher, who was a pretty big weirdo. She would be talking in a normal volume, and then she would start to get VERY LOUD ALL OF A SUDDEN AND THEN JUST AS QUICKLY she would get really reeeeeally quiet for emphasis. Weirdest talker I have ever met. But anyhow, back to the math test.

So my mom talks about how she went into the math class, and Miss Elliott told the parents about our math test. "She said that nobody had done well at all, and not to worry, that this didn't indicate failure or anything," my mother told me. I remember being really relieved, like, maybe I wasn't a mathematical moron after all. And then it came: "So as I was walking out of the class, I went over to her and said, 'Yeah, now Elana's 83 looks pretty good to me, and she's not even that great in math!' And Miss Elliott looked at me like I was crazy and said, 'Hmm, I don't remember Elana getting an 83.' "

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

There are several things in that exchange that make me cringe. First, my mother has always been the type of parent who will talk to teachers. Some parents, they go to this open house, sit through the little presentation, and move on to the refreshments. Not my parents. They would ALWAYS talk to the teachers about their kids and find out if we were doing our work. God I hated that. So that was the first thing that got me going that night. My mother, always having to talk to the teachers. Jesus. But before I could get too angry at my mom, I had to think about my teacher. What the hell, Miss Elliott?

It turned out that my mother and Miss Elliott had gone to see the gradebook and there it was - my 68. My mom was pretty ticked, but she didn't get as mad as I thought she would be, probably because she knew the real humiliation was coming: Miss Elliott wanted to see me the next day during recess. Wow, this was just getting better!

So the next day, you would think that Miss Elliott would have been able to keep it quiet and just subtly wait for me after the bell had rung and everyone left. But no. Like ten minutes before the class ended, she goes, "Oh, Elana, remember, you're seeing me after class is over and during your recess because you failed the math test and told your mom a fake grade and most humiliating for you, I found this all out because your mother stayed behind to talk to me specifically about you during parent's night." Ok, or she goes, "Elana, you're staying during recess," which was basically the same thing, because nobody could figure out what I had done and why I was staying, so I had to kind of shrug and explain that I was a moron in math. Anyway, I don't really feel like going into details about that meeting, except to say that I spent most of it squirming uncomfortably while she lectured me on trust and honesty and I concentrated on the hot pink lipstick stain on her teeth and wondered why she had named her daughter Mariah, if it was a tribute to Carey.

I don't really miss Miss Elliott.

I once wrote about my AP French teacher, who drove me insane, and whom I'm sure I drove insane in return. I was pretty bad to her, but recently I thought about another teacher I had my senior year. Mr. West was a new teacher to Glastonbury, and he was a pretty nice guy. He looked like a giant - I mean the guy had to duck whenever he entered a doorway - but he had a fiancee and he didn't seem to want to intimidate anyone or give anyone a hard time. The only thing was, for some reason, nobody really liked him.

I can't explain why. Maybe it was because he had this doofish quality to him. I don't know. I mean, he definitely had the doofish quality, but I don't know if that's why people had issues with him. But my friend and I never really gave him a hard time, and so I think he kind of liked us. He thought up some pretty good projects, too. It was a statisics class, and he had us make paper airplanes - whichever design we could come up with - and then fly them and chart the statistics for their flights. That was a pretty fun assignment, only my "friend" who was my partner was a jerk and made my job picking up the airplane and bringing it back to him and recording the data while he designed, made, and flew the plane. Thanks, pal.

His best idea was making this Family Feud game for Christmas. It had nothing to do with statistics, and we just played it the day before vacation. I still think that was the best game ever played in a high school. I give him a lot of credit for that game. For the rest of the year, he was okay with me.

The class, however, was a mess. First of all, we had this girl in the class who was - how should I put this delicately? - just not someone whose underwear you'd want to see hanging out. Luckily, we never saw it. Instead, we saw her butt. I mean, it was awful. It was just awful. Even thinking about it now - grosssssss - and I try not to actually THINK about it, but just think about it to write about it, and the whole thing is actually a pretty big failure. Just like her ass, really.

Anyhow. So there was this other girl in the class, Katie. I had never been in a class with Katie, but she seemed nice enough. Only she really had it in for Mr. West. Whenever he would give any tests back or any assignments she didn't like, she'd really give it to him. Once, when he was explaining a concept, she couldn't understand it. Other kids in the class were even trying to explain it to her, but she just wasn't getting it - or willing to. Mr. West was being really patient with her, but she just kept giving him such an attitude. She actually said to him, "Listen, I don't get it. Forget it. Just forget it. Just stop. Forget it. Just forget it." It was a mess. Mr. West's face was like, "What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

That face was second only to the face had made the day he asked Katie to stop eating her Fritos. Let me just set it up by saying that our class was at 8:20 AM, so how anybody could eat Fritos at 8 AM is beyond me. Also, I hate Fritos, so the entire incident just made me kinda grossed out. Oh, and, Katie smacked her food, so that when she ate anything, the entire class heard every bite. So Mr. West said to her, "Hey, Katie, no eating in class."

"Yeah," she said to him, like she'd say to any of us. She kept eating the Fritos though.

"Umm, Katie? You gotta put those chips away."

"Yeah." Crunch crunch crunch.

"So, today, we're going to be starting regress-" CRUNCH CRUNCH - "regression equations and" - COUGH CRUNCH CRINKLE OF PACKAGE - "Katie, seriously, put the chips away. No eating."

"Right." Goes on crunching. The girl was a legend, I tell you.

Mr. West kept on talking, every few minutes stopping to ask Katie to stop eating. The whole class just kept looking from Katie to Mr. West, wondering which one was going to crack first.

Mr. West kept his patience, but I bet he really wanted to turn around, hurl the chalk at her fat face, and just yell, "JESUS CHRIST YOU STUPID BITCH STOP EATING THE FREAKIN FRITOS ALREADY!" and just punch her. If I were Mr. West, I would have wanted to go right up to her desk, take the bag out of her hand, and the chip out of her other hand - already on its way to her mouth - and just ate the rest myself, even though I absolutely hate Fritos, just to make my point. But clearly, Mr. West was a mature man.

"Katie," he finally said, "would you puhhhhhleeeeassse stop eating those chips?"

"Sure," she said. She flattened out the now-empty package and put it back into her bag, laughing the entire time.

Mr. West's face was ridiculous. He looked defeated, dumbfounded, doofish. Looking back, though, I can't tell if behind his look he was really thinking, "Man, I want to kill her," or something twisted - but understandable, no? - like that. That's the thing about Mr. West. You just never knew what he was really thinking, because he was so busy being nice and staying calm. Maybe what made me like him so much was that I just thought that no matter how doofish he seemed, he would never, ever have done what Miss Elliott had six years earlier. He would have just smiled and nodded at my mom, and then the next day been like, "83?" and that would have been that. The guy was remarkable, really.

Something completely unrelated to math, but related to failure, is that I have always wanted to have my own cooking show, or craft show. Oprah had this show recently where she asked celebrities what their wildest dreams are. Teri Hatcher gave the most annoying answer, saying that her wildest dream was to become involved in some humanitarian effort. Maybe I'm just a horrible, horrible person, but I think, "Come on, is that REALLY your wildest dream?" I hate when people pull crap like that. For me, my wildest dream is hosting a cooking show. I don't even think the crafts make it there. I realize that this being my wildest dream - not, say, skydiving off Mount Everest (can you even do that?) - makes me a freak, but whatever. That's it. It might help to say that I don't really know if I can cook, having had limited - albeit successful - experience cooking. The truth is, I love the Food Network. I don't know that I love food as much as the Food Network, but I really just like the idea of cooking. When I was a kid, I would pretend to be having a cooking show while I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I know, I know, ridiculous. Also, sadly, true.

The other failure which I wanted to mention is Annie Camden. Has anybody watched 7th Heaven? Talk about a screwed up show. And at the head of it all is the mom of the show, Annie. This woman is a complete freak. She should sue the writers of the show for making her seem like a complete crackpot. One episode, when her dad dies, she recognizes the value of life and becomes ridiculously happy. Her big bang-up scene? Dancing around the kitchen table with her four year old twins, singing some nursery rhyme. And when I say dancing, it's more like hopskipdying. Here's a real gem from Annie: "You want a piece of me? I brought seven kids into this world, I can take one out." I've never seen this actress - Catherine Hicks - in anything else, and my guess is because everyone in casting probably thinks that they're hiring a loose canon nutcase, and who can really blame them, when every day she's on TV having some breakdown crying or happily dancing around her kitchen table, possibly in the same manic episode? So Annie Camden - and I'm sorry, but Catherine Hicks by extension - is a failure. Her husband on the show, Eric, is also a failure because whenever he says ANYTHING, his eyes tear up and his voice gets shaky. These people are ridiculous.

Also, Arissa on Real World-Road Rules Battle of the Sexes II is a failure. The girl has failed at every mission, she cries like a baby and singlehandedly lost thousands of dollars for her team. So last night, it was time for her to stand up and accept that she no longer deserved to be contending for the end cash prize. Only Arissa didn't do that and instead, Ruthie went home. This just didn't sit right with me. Completely unfair. She was a moron. She is a moron. She has this moronic face too, that just kills me every time she talks. And you know what is really great? She KNOWS she sucks, and she knows that she's being sent home next. Why not save everyone the week? Nah. Stick around.

What a loser.

What also got me last night was that the guys' team, which had previously acted with some sort of idea of friendship and fairness, really pulled a bad one last night. Eric had more DQs (disqualifications) than the other four on the team, but he and his BFFAEAE, Mark, got together and made a swift move to keep Eric there. I could go into more details and analyze the wrongdoing, but that would really jeopardize my status in all this as the evaluator of failure and instead just paste a big loser sign on me, so forget it. (Incidentally, my brother just entered this category by running downstairs - almost skipping in delight - and telling me of this grand scheme he thought of for strategy for next week's episode, based on a thirty-second preview clip. When I told him that the idea was a good one, he literally pumped his fists and said "Yessssss!" and went in for a high five. Sorry, Mike, but fair's fair.) But the point is, Brad went home and Brad didn't deserve to go home, and I hope they all miss him because his voice is hot. It's this weird voice, and since MTV reruns everything like a bazillion times just to make sure that nobody in freakin Timbuktu misses anything, check him out. I could listen to him forever. Which I know seems really weird, if you know his voice. I don't know.

Last, I have to comment on the "I'm Carrie Bradshaw" phenomenon. Maybe I should break it gently to all the girls out there who believe they're Carrie Bradshaw: Carrie Bradshaw is not real. There are two people who can claim to be Carrie Bradshaw: Candace Bushnell, woman CB (hint hint) was based on, and Sarah Jessica Parker, who played her. Other than that, nobody is Carrie Bradshaw. Even those two women claim that they are not Carrie Bradshaw. So please. No matter how many times you claim your heart's been broken, and no matter how many fashion trends you claim to have created, you're not Carrie Bradshaw. Life is not Sex and the City. Sure, I like the show and all, but people wonder why it's gotten such a bad rap. Duh. Because every time you turn around, someone is saying, "I can't help but wonder..." and talking about how their situation is just like Carrie's. Yeah, I just bet.

Actually, let me leave you with - wait for it - my own failure.

Boston University has finally entered the modern world and thank the sweet Kenneth Elmore, I will have cable television when I return to Warren this Thursday. When discussing the cable addition with some other RAs in the office before break, a few said, "Oh, I'm gonna have to get a coaxial cable." I was like, "Wait, we need to get a what?" And this other RA, Mike, a very nice guy, goes, "What, did you think you'd turn on your TV and cable would just come in from the air?"

Umm, yes?

Yeah, I know, moronic. I can't help it. Remember, I thought I could have my own cooking show while making peanut butter and jelly.

And you know what really just ices the whole freakin cake? In my family, I'm the person that they go to for technical and computer questions. I'm dead serious. My mother has said to me, many times, "Can you look at this computer? You can fix this." Right. Me, being a person who once answered the question, "What's your version of Windows?" with "Microsoft," and who still doesn't really understand what an operating system is anyway.

Failure? Failure.

The Ball Theft

A quick pre-note that has nothing to do with the ball theft:
Have you seen those Blockbuster ads that say that there are no more late fees, with everyone celebrating? Right. Well anyhow, today I went to Blockbuster and rented a movie. I hand the guy my card and he types a few things and then looks up at me. "You have a $2.29 late fee," he says. "Wait!" I said. "I thought all late fees were gone!" I cite the new campaign and everything for some support, but to no avail. "Uhh, no," he says. "This discount doesn't apply to YOU." I almost laughed. I felt like those banners that they unveiled in the commercials should have had an asterisk: "NO LATE FEES***" and then in small print: "Unless you are Elana, and then you still owe late fees." Seriously. This has to be a Blockbuster policy. Somebody there hates me. I'm sure of it.

Back to more important news. The Doug Mientkiewicz Ball Theft:

Before the barrage begins, I need to get a few things out: first, I like Doug Mientkiewicz. I'm not crazy about his name, basically because it takes me like ten extra seconds to type the damn thing, but I like him. I think he's a good guy, a nice guy like the Dauber (minus the drunk driving) who just wants to play hard. Second, and perhaps more importantly, the only reason this debate can even take place is because THE RED SOX WON THE WORLD SERIES.

That said, Doug Mientkiewicz has got to give the baseball back. It's that simple. Here are the counterarguments, courtesy of the Mr. and Mrs.: possession is nine-tenths of the law and there's precedent for private ownership of significant baseballs. Oh, and, the struggling family could use the money to put in a college fund for Junior Minky.

Let's paint the picture for a moment (I loooove this part!). Keith Foulke takes the ball. Tosses to Mientkiewicz. Blur here, when time really stops and everyone in the world focuses on the fact that the Red Sox just won the World Series.

Well, everyone, it seems, except Doug Mientkiewicz, who made sure to keep his glove tightly closed around the baseball, who remembered to store it safely in his locker before the champagne showers, and whose wife's first words to him were, "Where's my Bentle- I mean, the baseball?" Everyone except Doug Mientkiewicz spent the following morning with their family and friends, with all of the Red Sox fans who couldn't wait to congratulate their heroes. While even Pedro Martinez pretended to be a loyal Red Sox, Doug and his wife went back to Fenway to get the MLB seal on their newfound - and self-described - "retiremend fund." While the rest of his teammates waved to fans from parade floats and thought about how much happiness they had brought to the city (hell, even clueless Manny Ramirez came up with an editorial gem about how happy the fans made him), I can only imagine what Doug was thinking behind his moviestar smile: "Hahahaha suckers! You've all been waiting 86 years for a championship, I've been here two and a half months, played about thirty minutes total, and I've got the most important part of Red Sox history back in my safe-deposit box!"

In the end, what made "ballgate" so horrendous a crime against everything Red Sox (and ps - why does everything have to have "gate" added to it? Did I miss the mandatory -gate memo? Give me a break already. Someone should declare a freakin gategate just to get over the stupid phenomenon), what made the case so clearly against Doug, was the calculation involved in every move. I mean, think back to that pigpile in St. Louis, with all of the Red Sox celebrating around each other. Jason Varitek, kneeling on the ground, overcome with emotion. David Ortiz and Kevin Millar, Doug's fellow first base mates had their arms free from clinching baseball gloves to bearhug their teammates. Kathryn Nixon, Karen Varitek, even Shonda Schilling rushed the field to congratulate their husbands. Jodi Mientkiewicz asked her husband where the ball was. It was like they had this emergency plan for when his team won the World Series, just like an escape route: Grab the ball, hold the glove, I'll get the purse. Ridiculous, really.

And what kills me even more is that it isn't like Jason Varitek or Tim Wakefield got the ball, guys who had been with the Sox and really given a lot to the Red Sox and Boston community. Nah. Let Doug take it, a fresh Red Sox, who hasn't even played a full season with the team, whose last name fans are still trying to learn how to spell and pronounce. The truth is, the guys who really deserved to keep most of the valuables - and who actually owned ten tenths of them - didn't: Curt Schilling and Derek Lowe donated game gear, Orlando Cabrera gave the glove he had used for the entire postseason. There are more, and you know what actually, I'm going to look up what was donated. Hold on a second.

Here's the list, courtesy of the Baseball Hall of Fame website: Red Sox jersey worn by pitcher Derek Lowe, 2004 WS; Red Sox cap worn by Pedro Martinez, 2004 WS, Game 3 winner; Red Sox cap Johnny Damon, 2004 WS Game 4; Bat used by Johnny Damon, 2004 WS Game 4; Bat used by Manny Ramirez, 2004 WS MVP; Glove used by Orlando Cabrera during 2004 WS; Spikes worn by Curt Schilling during 2004 WS, Game 2; Spikes worn Keith Foulke during 2004 WS; Red Sox home jersey worn by David Ortiz during the 2004 WS.

Nothing from Doug Mientkiewicz. I wonder if it's because he and Jodi are planning to fund not just Junior through college, but all of the little Minkys, so they decided to keep everything - even the folding chair from the clubhouse - or whether it was just because nobody really was interested in any keepsakes from a guy who had been with the Sox for not even three months. Nobody knows.

The bottomline is, there's just no excuse for Doug or Jodi Mientkiewicz. It's just plain insulting to say that he needs to fund his kids' college education when he's making more money in a year than most Americans will make in their lifetime. Now, after he's taken considerable heat for his statements, he's backed off and said it was all just a joke. I want to believe him, and part of me knows that Shaughnessy must have taken some of his jokes and made them seem like serious, defensive statements. I get that. But at the same time, the fact that there has to even be this huge debate between Mientkiewicz and the Sox just doesn't feel right. The solution seems simple to me: Mientkiewicz returns the baseball and pays for Junior's college with the bonus he received from winning the Series - which he was fortunate to be a part of. Bottom line is, the longer this thing goes on, the uglier it gets.

The only person I can think of who could possibly feel good about this whole thing is Kevin Millar. Suddenly, not only has everybody stopped complaining about his supposed lack of defensive skills at first base and started hoping for his return in 2005, but those Kentucky Fried commercials aren't looking so bad either.