(photo from Boston.com)
Manny makes Roommate happy!
How to Ruin a Roommate 101:
Prior to Roommate moving in, spend a goodly amount of time on the phone with her, bellowing on about the various fortunes of the Sox and Pats and how certain players are playing, behaving and/or not amounting to a bucket of baseballs in a trade.
Spend every Monday Night Football Patriots’ game on the phone with Roommate (in New Orleans) and interject calm game commentary with anguished shrieking and screams of “Fuck YOU, Peyton Manning! I don’t care how many MVPs you win! Big Willie Style owns your ass!” And when Roommate declares, “The Manning’s house is near here. I walk by it a lot,” request that she make with the flaming bag of dog poo.
Do not discuss the Miami game. The Miami game never happened.
At 1:30a.m. on a Monday, field calls from Roommate, intoxicated during a Mardi Gras party, wherein you reassure her that no, no matter what the mean boys are telling her, Manny was not traded to St. Louis. And that yes, the Varitek/A-Rod throw down happened this year. Tell Roommate to drink some water.
When Red Sox win World Series (still weird to type), run down to Kenmore Square, barely remembering your shoes. Answer cell phone call from Roommate (“Where are you? Kenmore Square is on TV! Are you there? Are you wearing a Sox hat? I think I see you!”), in a calm and dignified manner. “Calm and dignified” meaning, of course, alternatively weeping with joy and screaming your fool head off.
As Roommate begins her long and arduous drive North from New Orleans and calls you as you sit in Grandstand 18 at Fenway, watching the Sox get their butts handed to them by the inexplicably fearsome Orioles, (“I can’t believe you’re actually at the park. They’re like famous. And you’re like hanging out with them!”), reassure Roommate that you do not, despite your blustering, actually know the players but that if Tim Wakefield doesn’t stop giving up gopher balls, you’ll have no compunction in marching your ass down to the field and pinching him until he cries.
When Roommate arrives in Boston, discuss, in detail how Ty Law’s release from the Patriots has thrown a monkey wrench into her plans to seduce the All-Pro cornerback and make him her baby daddy. Agree that such a development would be a welcome change from the usual drivel in your high school’s alumni newsletter. Vow to find a way to get Law signed by New Orleans if not the Patriots so Roommate can at least visit him when she makes the occasional trip back down South. Agree that the Saints could use Law, as well as Roommate as she is mobile and possessing of all four appendages, seemingly all one needs to play for the Saints.
Discuss with Roommate, over a six-pack and fireworks, how one or the both of you should hold out for a boyfriend with Patriots season tickets. Self-explanatory.
When driving to Connecticut in a borrowed truck, and Roommate, eager to learn the intricacies of baseball, asks you what makes a person an effective or ineffective closer, subject Roommate to a thirty-minute diatribe about velocity, location, sweeping curves, knee-buckling fastballs and devastating change-ups. Go off on a tangent about what made Pedro effective and observe a moment of silence for his departure. Finish off with a rousing rendition of “Why Keith Foulke Hates Fun.” Apologize for long-windedness.
While assembling Scandinavian furniture in your sweltering living room, cataloguing bruises obtained by lifting boxes of said furniture, drinking 7-11 Slurpees with vodka and watching the 8th and 9th innings of last night’s Red Sox/Rangers game, observe Roommate screaming obscenities at the television, questioning the manhood of the Rangers’ catcher, squealing with gleeful love over the replay of Manny’s grand slam, warning the Rangers of Papi’s potential terror and berating the Red Sox bullpen. Sit back and smile at a job well done.
Meet Colleen, y’all. She’ll be the long-suffering Roommate referred to herein from now until the duration. You’ll love her. Trust me.