I thought
my life was so ordinary that I wrote my sixth-grade autobiography about my cousin Jenny. In class we all hand bound our autobiographies, and I gave mine to my parents for their anniversary. My dad took it as a sure sign I would get into Yale. This Yale thing was a big deal to him, because we were the only Jewish family in the world who could become fourth-generation-Yale in this century. Dad figured that out. It was all up to me, and my little brother, Marc.

Bored

Marc and I felt no presssure, though, because in our eyes everyone went to Yale. So at night, while our parents worked until 9:30, Marc and I would completely ignore our homework. We'd order out pizza or Chinese food for dinner, and read the "Britannica" until someone came home to tell us to go to bed.

After a while I noticed that the kids in school who had a lot to talk about all talked about TV. I told my parents I needed a TV. Mom told me to call an electronics store and have them deliver one. This was the type of thing the spare Visa card in the kitchen drawer was good for. The TV came right away, but I never remembered to take it out of the box.




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