Game over

Hasbro has finally filed suit against the makers of Scrabulous.

I'd cry, but on the same day that Scrabulous folded, EA Sports launched their own officially-sanctioned Facebook version of the game. Call me a traitor, but I've already switched over to EA's new beta. It's way too over-animated for my taste — downright ostentatious, compared with Scrabulous' basic interface — but it'll do for my procrastination needs. I'm also relieved that the Scrabulous games I was losing badly to my brother and his friend, Timmy, have ended as quickly as a game Risk at the hands of a Ukrainian man.

A screenshot from EA's Scrabble Beta application

The Beetlejuice Effect

For several years, I have observed that there is a strong (albeit anecdotal) correlation between mentioning someone I know in conversation and then coincidentally running into that person just days later. I am spending the summer in the Boston suburb where I grew up, so bumping into old friends and acquaintances is to be expected. But this phenomenon is different: camp directors, college classmates, and friends' friends from middle school have materialized with eerie celerity after passing through my mind. Maybe I just talk about people too much. It seems undeniably strange, though, that only saying someone's name can be enough to call them into being. Like Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Maybe someone will start singing Day-o.

Lost, always

I met one of my dearest friends for dinner on Newbury Street tonight. Of course after exiting the Copley T station, I walked toward Newbury Street and turned right. Wrong. The streets go in alphabetical order and for ten minutes I walked from D to A, only to discover that I was supposed to head towards E the whole time. Equipped with my non-sense of direction, I usually try to intuit the direction of my destination and simply walk the opposite way. This strategy gets complicated at intersections. At least I remembered to look both ways before crossing the street. When I finally arrived, we nestled into a booth and spent the evening sipping Chardonnay and eating créme brulee. At least I am good at pretending to be sophisticated.

What's in a name

My adoring mother and older sister have recently dubbed me "Mini Beast." The name derives from my small stature and proclivity to sometimes do repulsive things, such as eat with my hands or crumple expensive items of clothing into nasty wads on my bedroom floor. Nothing too terrible — but I admit that sometimes my unladylike ways surprise even me.

Do I want to change? It would be nice not to have to iron out shirts that have been compressed to the size of softballs. On the other hand, some of my habits arise from an independent spirit and disdain for blindly following orders. The answer is: I could learn to slow down and value what I have, but I'm sort of proud of my occasionally ogreish behavior. It feels like a holdover from my tomboy childhood. At 21, I would still rather roll in mud than shrivel into some post-modern Emily Post. But young women now have it tough, forced to both succeed at the activities in which boys have traditionally excelled and still act lovely while doing it. Particularly in wealthy suburbs like the one I grew up in, achieving both these ends can be a struggle. Every young woman that I know has developed her own uniquely feminine identity suited for this complex time.

As for me, my mom and sister have put it well: I am a Mini Beast, usually appearing dainty but sometimes acting boorishly. As I seek some equilibrium, I'll take a cue from Grover, another sort of Mini Beast, and examine what he once so lyrically called: "the monster in the mirror." My thoughts and adventures are all, in some way, shaped by my experience as a beasty young woman. Enjoy.