Term Papers, Action Figures, Hotels and Boxers

And so we bring you another episode in the bizarre and amusing life of Chana.

Despite the fact that I am more than wiped out due to the fact that I have not slept in the past two days, I could not ignore my friend's cry for help via Gmail chat. "Does anyone feel like editing and proofreading my paper?" his status read.

Now, I determined that this message had been meant for me, goddess and queen of all things English. And I noticed that just as I read this message, my friend signed off of Gmail Chat. I immediately assumed that he had given up hope, and alone and solitary, would now make his winding way back to his abode, sit morosely in front of the computer screen and pray to the god of words. There he would remain, basking in the bluish light, feeling completely unloved and utterly abandoned. No! I could not allow this to happen. Taking my weariness in stride, I instantly sent out the joyous email informing him that I would be quite happy to edit and proofread his paper.

My assumption, at first, was that the paper had been written and that I need only read it, then correct it. But this is because I had not considered the insane and looney nature of my friend. You see, despite the fact that he had three months to write this paper, that indeed, it was due over spring break, he decided to wait for the absolute last possible minute to write it and turn it in, that is, tonight. The professor will only begin taking off points tomorrow, you see, on Monday. So my friend was in the process of writing the paper and would update me accordingly.

During the course of the evening [while waiting upon the various pages of the paper], I learned about the existence of shomer sluts, ladies who are apparently "super flirtatious and a tease, but shomer," the fact that I am a drama queen, the inability of my friend to rhyme- or spell- during late hours of the night- I present to you his pitiful attempt to amuse me (upon my commanding that he do so.) Read it and weep:

"Roses are read violets are blue
Chana is true, true and true"

See? Roses are read. Like, readable. Now, when is the last time that you have read a rose? Have you ever noticed gentlemen lifting monocles to their eyes, attempting to decipher the delicate and spidery writing upon its curling petals? Perhaps you have seen me dancing about the streets holding roses before my eyes, looking at a writing only I can see? Well, never fear, dear folks of mine. I am not mad. I am simply fulfilling the dictates of my friend, who commands me and informs me that roses are read.

My friend becomes more and more entertaining over the course of the night. This makes sense, as his paper does need to be fifteen pages long at the minimum and I am quite enjoying ripping it to pieces. Well no, I was slightly kinder than that. Definitely the best excuse of the night was when I tore into him for using passive voice.

His response?

"Now I'll be annoyed for a second. I use passive voice when I am lazy. I am tired, and cranky and want this done."

Aha. So let me see. You, my friend, are the one who chose to wait for the last possible moment to write this paper, despite the fact that you had three months of notice. You are the one who is now writing it in solitary confinement, cooped up in a computer lab and frustrated. And yet I am the one who is supposed to feel sorry for you because you are "tired, and cranky, and want this done?" I don't think so...

Of course, that isn't quite how I responded at that point in time, since I didn't think he would take well to hearing the truth. But the truth is quite delightful in retrospect, and now that the paper is finished, all is well.

Oh yes; I see that you have lifted your heads in awe and reverence. The paper is indeed finished. I am a rather mad child, for despite the fact that it is the summer and I am not supposed to have work, despite the fact that I have work tomorrow and despite the most important fact that I have not slept due to the Bar Mitzvah, I decided that it was far more important to assist my friend (I provide the entertainment) with writing his paper from the hours of, oh, let's see, 4:39 PM to 1:23 AM. Let's see, that is about 8 hours and 23 minutes. Yes.

So you are wondering, what could I possibly talk about for eight hours and twenty-three minutes? Oh, lots of things. You see, I couldn't possibly abandon my dear friend to his awful fate. Never! So instead I must amuse him with the exciting doings of the life of Chana. These included hypothetical situations that included the retelling of this story to an attentive and inspired audience, you, my dear readers. Just as Sam and Frodo got through everything by thinking of the tales that would be told about them one day, I managed to force my friend onward to the grand and glorious finish line by suggesting that the hilarity of our evening would be shared with the world and all would benefit from the craziness that is my life (or in this case, our lives.)

So what was so hilarious? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it would be the constant assignation of points. I have a system, you see; Chana's Golden Book in the Sky. I assign points when someone does well and deduct points when I am displeased. During the course of the evening, I believe my friend amassed twenty-two points. Whenever someone says something particularly original, I give them hundreds of points, but alas, originality was not the focus of this evening. Hilarity was, however. I enjoy talking about myself in the third person (cue for all of you to instantaneously assume that my glorious ego has overtaken my mind and infected my brain.) Well, I was able to manipulate my friend into speaking in the third person as well, and that just made my night utterly perfect. For what is a night without referring to oneself as Chana and envisioning the various scenarios one could enact if one only has the time and desire?

I have decided that all of us need to come in miniature action figure sizes. We could all have particular talents. Imagine carrying around little miniature Chanas who could fit into your pockets. As my friend dryly remarked, I'd be "quite popular amongst the college set." This because I could be the quintessential editor and proofreader. Now, what talents would you have? Suppose that you could fit into someone's pocket a la The Indian in the Cupboard. Perhaps you could whisper all the answers in math to your human host. Or blow up little bombs inside his shirtpocket, creating a diversion that would allow him to escape the classroom. Who knows what. But wouldn't it be lovely if we were all action figures?

Oh, I know you think that I am on a sugar high. And perhaps I am. After all, I do have two refrigerators filled to the brim with cakes and cookies. That is the loveliness of a Bar Mitzvah, after all...

Oh, the drama of this evening! The fights, the tears, the passion and the conflicts! My friend made a joke that I took as an insult; I was mad at him, then insulted him back, then apologized, the continued our conversation- I mean, how many emotions can one feel in one night? Oh, I have run the gamut and all is very lovely.

Well, my dear people, my friend is now the proud owner of a 16.5 page paper and a profound sense of weariness. Add to the cocktail the fact that his computer quit on him, which means he had to hang out at the computer lab till two in the morning and....well, you get the general idea. Basically, my friend is wiped out. And if he is not, it is because he has consumed illegal quantities of caffeine in the form of coffee or soda or energy drinks.

But not as wiped out as the insane and irrepressible Chana!

I have one more story that I have been informed per Ezzie I must share with you (and it is this story that led my friend and I to the conversation about shomer sluts.) It took place as I was packing up and readying myself to go home after the Bar Mitzvah.

So I'm at the hotel and we're packing up because we're going back to my house and I've got one of those rolling trolleys (or dollys?) and this other guy, probably a couple of years older than me is standing in front of the elevator in his boxers. Except that being me, I don't realize they are boxers because I just assume they're rather short shorts.

So he pushes the button and gets in and I ask if it's okay if I get in as well (because I have the trolley and all) and he says sure, then asks me how my evening's going, "Must be better than mine, right?"

So I say "Oh, what's the matter? Your evening's not going well?"

So he sighs and says, "Well...so I had this bottle..."

(And I think, this is an alcohol story)

"of water...and...well...so it spilled all over my pants...so it looked like I pissed my pants, so obviously I had to change...and then my room key didn't work...so I had to go to the front desk in my underwear"

(It is at this point that I become aware that he's just wearing boxers)

The elevator opens and we both step out and he says "Yeah, I'm going to be pretty mad if the card key doesn't work now" and I can't help it, I start laughing.

And he's walking down the hallway and goes, "Hey, that's not nice; you shouldn't be laughing at me" and I say, "No, no, I'm not laughing at you; I'm laughing with you, at the stituation" and he says "Good call" and smiles and I continue, "I'm just laughing at the situation. I think you're handling it incredibly well...if it were me, I'm sure I'd be rather depressed by now."

At this point as he walks down the hallway he says, "Yeah, you can come to my room and we'll cry about it together" and actually looks over his shoulder to see if I'm going to follow him to his room and motions to me a little and I shake my head and laugh and go to my room with my trolley type thing.

Ezzie finds this story extraordinarily amusing, mostly because he thinks it would make a great commercial. The girl, all dolled up, beautiful makeup, exquisite clothes, her hair in curls...and the guy, wearing a t-shirt and boxers and informing her of the tale as they ride the elevator upstairs, and then, after knowing her for all of three seconds, deciding that they ought to develop a...closer relationship, shall we say?

Honestly, I swear this stuff only happens to me...

In the words of my cousin, "Now if you really wanted to make things even funnier, you should've told your Uncle [his father] about this guy, and his whereabouts. Then the guy would've really had a night to remember. *evil smirk*"

I love my cousin rather a lot.

But the person who summed it up most amusingly was my friend (the same friend who is now the proud possessor of a 16.5 page paper) who informed me that he was "glad to hear I didn't sleep around with strange men."

Ah yes. Let us inscribe that on my gravestone.

"Here lies Chana, who did not sleep around with strange men."

What can I say; it's my new claim to fame.