My heart will go on. Just don't phunk with it. Because it's a heart shaped box.

Several weeks ago, I was working out and reading and texting and I got a bit dizzy.

So I slowed down and did some deep breathing and then just ignored the whole thing and continued to work out for the next couple of weeks.

And then it happened AGAIN, and I thought, huh, maybe this isn't normal, and maybe those disclaimers that are on the exercise machines telling you to stop exercising and see your physician if you get dizzy actually want you to do that.

So I continued to exercise, at a slower pace, but did ask the husband if he ever got dizzy when he worked out.

The look of what the fuck on his face told me he did not.  His words telling me he did not and that I should probably at least call the doctor made me think I should probably at least call my doctor.

So I emailed her.

And I got a call from her office asking me to come in.

I went in and we talked about what had happened and she was a bit concerned, and I was becoming more concerned, because nobody likes it when their doctor is concerned.  Nobody.  Not even hypochondriacs.  We want the doctor to say, "Psshaw, it's nothing."

We figured it was, in all probability and likelihood, due to my near constant inner ear fucked upedness.  But to be sure, she wanted to run some tests. 

The nice nurse wired me up like a ham radio and ran a test, which the doctor said was fine.  I was supposed to go get a complete echo something or other, though, just to make sure.

On my way out, I asked the nurse if it was o.k. to continue exercising.

She said she'd check with the doctor and meet me at the front desk. 

While I was paying for my visit [where is my OBAMACARE??], my doctor came over and said, "You can keep exercising, just work out at a lighter pace."  I said, "O.k., great."  She nodded and turned away, and then came back. 

Doctor:  I'm sure you'll be fine, but just go slow, because you know how all those athletes have heart problems and their hearts explode when they work out.  We don't want that to happen to you.

Me: . . . .

Doctor: [turns and walks away] [turns back around quickly and walks back] Not that that'll happen to you.  I'm sure it won't.  Just go easy.

Me: Uh. O.k.

So I really slowed down the workouts and went for the next round of testing, which entailed me laying on table in a front-opening gown with wired sticky tabs on me while a surprisingly nice guy gelled my top half up and poked and prodded me with an ultrasound thingy.  He made some small talk and we both eavesdropped on the old woman who was having some weird testing done in the next cubby area over.  She was really, really warm.  Really warm. I'm not sure where, but I simultaneously need and don't want to know.

Nice Guy said I was done, helped me up and said he'd wait outside the curtained area while I cleaned up and he'd walk me out.  It was like all of my one-night-stands had morphed into this moment of me, standing topless and wiping goop off my chest.  Ah, memories.

Anyway, I ended up tossing my bra in my purse, putting my shirt on and hitting the bathroom where I Silkwood Sponge Bathed my torso for about 10 minutes, trying to scrub all the shame goop off.  Which also brought back some memories.

My doctor got the results and my heart is nice and normal, and we figured the dizziness is probably part of the vertigo/inner ear craziness.  So that was good.

I wonder if Nice Guy will call me.

This day is already hella-long and not just because I'm stuck in a time warp where hella-long is still used.

I keep realizing, like I'm in Momento or I'm Dory, that it's almost JULY and I've not spent one afternoon outside enjoying this weather.  What the hell?  I mean, I know that the weather's been alternately 60 degrees and rainy or 95 degrees and humid, and I'm not much for nature anyway, and I hate bugs, but I get that weird I'M MISSING OUT feeling when there's a breeze and sunshine and I'm holed up in the house, ironing a 2 foot high pile of clothing because nothing says summertime like freshly pressed cotton.  Or maybe I'm just sad that I'm ironing.  Part of the reason I'm looking forward to having so many people over all weekend is that it will MAKE me be outside, enjoying stuff.  Or at least I won't be ironing.  I hope.


And a hearty thank you to all for your excellent advice for party activities.  I'm simultaneously amazed/not even remotely surprised at the number of people who enjoy squatting over pressurized water.  I'm debating getting disposable enemas and just passing them out as party favors.

[Many, many years ago, when the girl was small, my cousin and I took her to a nearby park that has water sprinklers/sprayers. There was a little boy who would squat over a near-volcano of water and had such a pleasured look on his face that it was like you were invading his privacy when you were looking at him.  He'd squat there, for several minutes, get up and play with his friends for about 30 seconds and head right back over to squat some more.  My cousin and I could not stop with the uncomfortable laughter, because he really, really, REALLY looked like he could have used some alone time.]

I'm heading out this week to get a sprinkler [that Mt. Tikisoki looks demented and awesome, but $50 is not in my budget right now], some sparklers, bubbles and lawn darts.  Really, really pointy ones.  And untangle our badminton set.  And borrow one of those corn hole games.  And then laugh about the idea that we are all going to corn hole.  Because I am classy like that.  And get a giant watermelon to spit seeds.  Because we are also classy like that.  And because if you can't be foolish with your family, who can you be foolish with?  Besides just the general public, but they tend to be kind of judgy when you're in the middle of your third acappella rendition of The Pina Colada Song. [I'm sorry that now that song is stuck in your head.  I hope you feel my pain.]

Last night, I made the most delicious strawberry sour cream ice cream.  That ice cream maker?  I am its whore. 

These tasty treats . . .

. . . made this.

I'm planning on making chocolate and maybe blueberry and another vanilla for the weekend.  It's SO GOOD.  Also, patriotic.  Except the chocolate.  Unless you count it as being the earth upon which this great nation is built.  Wow.  I should run for office or be in advertising or maybe just shut the hell up.

Sorry for the lame.  Better stuff coming, I swear.

PS Just so you know, I would make out with the the non-mustachioed one - Hall.  Mustaches just scream porn to me.  I would also have to be very, very drunk.

If it's Tuesday, it must be my day to unleash the randomness of my mind. Enjoy.

Let's just get to it, shall we?

************
I have a UFO tweeter following me! JEALOUS? YES, YOU ARE!  When the mother ship lands, I'll put in a good word for you.  Provided I'm not cowering under the bed.  [Historical aside:  When I was much younger and freer, I was in Santa Fe, which is a weird place, and some friends and I were talking one evening about what we would do if a UFO did, in fact, show up.  Trust me when I tell you that when you are in Santa Fe, at night, this kind of thing seems more likely to happen than not.  Anyway, we pretty much all agreed that shitting our pants would be Job One if an alien showed up at the side of the bed.  What do you think?]

************
We are having an ass-ton of family over on July 4th.  Which is great, I love having parties.  It's just that it's dawning on me that we don't have a pool, nor do we live on lake, and I'm pretty sure we don't even have a sprinkler.  I need fun warm weather activities for age ranges 8 - 70.  STAT.

************
I have a tendency to be uber-competitive about somethings - especially things that have nothing to do with me. Also, I do not take kindly to perceived slights [and a slight can be perceived as being pretty much anything some days].  Yesterday I was speaking to the Academic Dean at the girl's new school, and we were going over the girl's course schedule [they want you to fill out a tentative 4 year plan at high schools now, did you know this?  Weird, right?] and we got to the math portion.

Math, this year, has been sticky.  The girl is fucking brilliant at math, but had a complete crisis of confidence and felt she was the dumbest kid in the history of kids who ever added or subtracted, which obviously affected her ability to deal with math and ultimately her final grade.

The Dean and I discussed this, and she suggested that rather than taking the more rigorous, advanced class in the fall, the girl take the regular, more sedately paced math class so that she could get her bearings back.

Great, right?

WRONG.  I had to stifle - seriously, clam down like a motherfucker - this urge to make sure that the girl was in the advanced class, because goddamnit, she's smart.  She doesn't need the slower paced class.  That's bullshit.

Which is completely wrong.  I know that.  It's not as if the Dean said she'd have to go to remedial math or repeat a class, which in any case would have been fine if she needed it.  Except I'm a fucking lunatic, and would have seen it as MY inability to have the girl function well in math class.

Which is even more wrong.  And crazy.   And what's worse is that I was getting bent about the girl not taking Algebra II & Trig and instead taking Algebra II.  Which is a class that is still 2 fucking years ahead of her grade level. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Am I the only crazy like this?  Please tell me I'm not.

************
Over at Circle of Moms, I've given my advice to new or soon-to-be moms, and evidently you can read my answer and vote for me [or just vote for me - trust me, I'm chock full of excellent advice on parenting, just reference above to my excellent parenting ability re: my daughter and math] so that I can be elected . . . Most Awesome in the Universe?  I'm not sure. Anyway, vote here. [I have no idea why the formatting sucks.  Sorry about that.]

************
O.k., so not only was this post full of randomness, but evidently full of questions I need you to answer.  So here's one more:

If you had to make out with either Hall or Oates, which one would it be?  Be honest.

I did it! Suck on that, Ben & Jerry's!

Who doesn't love ice cream?

You?

Then you are dead to me.

I'm a huge fan of ice cream and frozen yogurt and even sherbet in its proper setting [tiny metal bowls at a sticky luncheon].  I've also become something of a foodie, and, when the latest Costco coupons came in the mail, found myself yearning for an ice cream maker.

***Dooododdoododooddoo*** [Memory music Intro]

When I was a small child, we were at our aunt and uncle's house and their neighbor, a loveable gruff old guy who was missing the tops of a couple of fingers, asked us if we wanted ice cream cones.

Of course we said, "YES!" and went into his house where he said he'd make us home made ice cream cones. Visions of a hand-cranked taste sensation went flying through my head.  I had never seen such a thing, but had read about people making ice cream, and was thrilled I'd join the likes of Nancy Drew or The Bobbsie Twins in having REAL. HOMEMADE. ICE CREAM! 

I told Old Neighbor Guy we usually got ice cream at the store or ice cream stand.  He couldn't believe we'd never had home made ice cream cones, and proceeded to make them for us.

By scooping store bought ice cream onto store bought cones. 

[No, there was no weird perversion here, although now that I re-read this, it kind of seems like a completely viable intro to a Lifetime movie.  "Suniverse's Story: When Ice Cream Won't Wash Away the Shame."]

***Dooododdoododooddoo*** [Memory music Outro]

So anyway, I had ideas about ice cream.  And was pleased to find an ice cream maker on sale at Costco.  With a coupon!  Further sale!  We'd be MAKING money by buying this thing.

So the husband bought me an ice cream maker, and I made ice cream and now I'm sharing that recipe with you.

PS It was DELICIOUS.

Vanilla Frozen Yogurt 
[Adapted from David Lebovitz's superlative ice cream recipe book, The Perfect Scoop]

Makes about 1.5 quarts.  I'm not sure how much that is, but that's what the recipe says.


Ingredients
3 cups yogurt [regular / strained / Greek style]
2/3 cup sugar
Vanilla

Directions

1.  Decide which type of yogurt you are going to use.  Strained or Greek style yogurt will make a creamier, denser frozen yogurt.  If you are going to strain your plain yogurt, realize this is going to add a day to your recipe, since you're supposed to strain 6 cups of plain yogurt through cheesecloth [which you have to go buy, after deciding that a paper towel probably won't cut it] in a mesh strainer [which you actually have, since the husband bought you a graduated set for Christmas] that is placed over a bowl [you know what a bowl is] and set in the fridge for 6 hours or overnight in order to get 3 cups of yogurt.

2.  After you have strained the yogurt, add the sugar and vanilla and mix thoroughly.  Or have your kid mix it.  I added I don't know how much vanilla, because the girl was doing this part of the recipe.  Let's say 1 tablespoon. 

3.  Open up your ice cream maker box.  Read the directions and realize you have to freeze the cylinder for 24 hours. 

4.  Fuck.

5.  Wash out the parts of your ice cream maker and dry thoroughly.  Place the cylinder in your freezer.  Decide that frozen margaritas are a much better and quicker method of enjoying summer.

6.  The next day, have your kid go get the cylinder from the freezer.

7.  She drops it on her foot.

8.  In a move sure to win you Parent of the Year, yell at your kid for being clumsy and ruining EVERYTHING.  As icing on the cake, don't ask if her foot hurts.

9.  Calm down.  Apologize.  Continue to feel like the shittiest parent in the world, including those who are on reality shows.

10.  Regroup and set up the ice cream maker. 

11.  Press start and pour in the ingredients and . . .  that's it.  Your work is done.

12.  Keep peeking into the ice cream maker, wondering if it's working right.  Keep pushing the ice cream around with your rubber spatula.

You don't actually have to do this.  Except at the end, to get all the ice creamy goodness out.

13.  Step away from the ice cream maker.

14.  After 20 minutes, turn off the ice cream maker, scoop out the delicious goodness and try some.  Wonder why you've been paying out to ice cream makers like a sucker for all these years.

It's so sweet and tasty.  Actually, it tastes almost sour cream/cream cheese-y.  So GOOD.

Store any leftover ice cream [HAHAHAHAHA] in a freezer-safe container.

Week in Review - Good news or else.

As you may have noticed, I've been a bit cranky [What? No! You've been a regular bundle of joy!].  I've decided this week to focus on positive news, because otherwise the screaming will start and never, ever stop and I just don't have that kind of time, you know? You know.

Here we go.

Chinese artist/dissident Ai Weiwei has been released after three months in prison. He was ostensible arrested and imprisoned for tax evasion. He's now under house arrest and a gag order.  Not complete freedom, but I imagine it's probably miles better than being in a Chinese prison.  Or any prison.  [Has anyone read World War Z?  Do you get the feeling that it's perfectly reasonable that the zombie apocalypse would start in China?  I do.]

The inimitable J.K. Rowling is going to start selling the Harry Potter books as e-books.  To do so, she's setting up a site called Pottermore.com set to launch in July, where she'll not only have the books for sale [available in October] but also allow you to join a house, play games, gain points and get all kinds of dirt on the Harry Potter universe that she wasn't able to include in any of the books.  Professor McGonaggal's backstory? SIGN ME UP!

A woman who suffered the devastating effects of borderline personality disorder when she was a teen in the 1960s has spent her life as a therapist and psychologist who developed treatment for the most depressed patients.  What's even more remarkable is that she did so while suffering from the effects and did not openly discuss her fight until this past year at a conference on mental illness treatments.  I take heart that this woman was able to manage her illness and used her compassion and understanding to make a difference in so many people's lives.

Sneaky, sneaky.  Birds which were thought to be extinct have been found in areas of the rain forest that suffered from deforestation.  A triumph of nature, even though I think birds are creepy and evil and scary. 

Suck it, oppressors.  Women in Saudi Arabia have taken it to the streets and are defying the driving ban by tooling around posting video of themselves online.  I love that they're doing this - and that Facebook is being used for more than people's latest updates about their pets' crazy antics.  No one cares what your dog did.  Not even your dog.

[PS  I'm glad to find that you thought I did a good thing by not taking the candy, but it still irks me that I had to pay for the book.  I hate that getting screwed feeling.  I emailed the teacher, and got another lengthy email back, which left me feeling even more dissatisfied, so I'm just going to let it go.  I can't keep dwelling - although I am a world class dweller.  Maybe I shouldn't keep dwelling, is the thing.]

What good news do YOU have for me, friends?

He just needs to stop. Seriously.

Scenes from a marriage:

SCENE ONE

The husband: I'm gonna light the grill.  Is the chicken ready?

Me:  Almost.  Hey, I haven't been able to light the grill the last couple of times I've tried.  Is that ignition thingy broken already?  What the fuck?

The husband:  I dunno.  It worked last night.  I'll check it out.

[A minute or so passes.  I rinse and season chicken.  The husband is out on the deck, making fire, like a real man. He comes back into the kitchen.]

Me:  Did it work?

The husband:  Yes.  It works fine.

Me:  Well, what the fuck?

The husband: . . .  Did you turn the propane on?

Me: . . . .

The husband: . . . .

Me:  . . . No.

The husband:  Well, see, you have to turn the propane on -

Me: Shut. The fuck. Up.

END SCENE

**************

SCENE TWO

[We don't have cable, so we usually end up watching Hulu or Netflix or DVDs. Every once in a while, we'll watch something on one of the regular channels that come through the air.


The other night, it was The Hardy Boys.]

Me: Oh, my god, they're driving a Rape Van.

The husband:  This acting is terrible.  Is that Valerie Bertinelli?

Me:  Yes.  Parker Stevenson looks as good as I remember.

The husband:  You know what we should do?

Me:  What?

The husband:  We could totally make this into porn.

Me: . . . .

The husband:  Just hear me out.  You can leave the show as it is - wooden acting, terrible plotlines, cheesy dialog.  They've already got the porno music; you just add in sex scenes.

Me: . . . .

The husband:  Seriously.  I mean, listen to that dialog.  And Valerie Bertinelli as some multiple personality chick, where one of the personalities is a crazy biker?  This writes itself.

Me:  Are you kidding me?

The husband:  No.  See?  Right there, where they go off to "take care of it," even the Hardy Boys could get some guy on guy action. Wouldn't you like to see that?

Me:  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  NO!  I mean, Parker Stevenson, sure, but not Shawn Cassidy.

The husband:  It's a gold mine.

Me:  I seriously doubt that.  The acting is terrible.


*************

SCENE THREE

The husband:  I need new pillows.

Me:  I just bought new pillows a few months ago.

The husband:  These pillows suck.  They're too flat.

Me:  I purposefully asked and checked on pillows to get you pillows that would be comfortable because you sleep on your face.  Those are the pillows.

The husband:  I don't like them.  I need new ones.

Me:  Well, go get them.

The husband:  I can't go get new pillows.  I don't know what kind to get.

Me: THE KIND THAT YOU LIKE.

The husband:  You're better at picking out pillows.  You're the pillow expert. 

Me:  So even though you hate the pillows I just got you, you want me to pick out new pillows for you.

The husband:  Yes.  That's the rule.  You're in charge of pillows.

Me:  You deserve bad pillows.

Karma is a bitch. So am I. Two will enter. One will leave.

Kismet         [If it's fated]
Inshallah      [God willing]
Fate              [Destiny]
Karma          [You know this one]

All of these things conspired against and/or with me last week to keep me from sliding from bitchdom to jerkhood.

Let me explain:

As I may have mentioned a time or a million, I have been PTA president this past year at my daughter's school.  So I've spent a lot of my time and money on crap for this school that, quite frankly, sometimes was done grudgingly.  But I did it.  I did it and you know what? In the end, I'm glad I could help out.  I like to organize things and I like to be in charge and I like to make a difference.

I do NOT like it when I feel like I'm being dickslapped by the universe.

I spent hours and hours and money on the end of the year party for the school.  Fine.  Even though I thought it was ridiculous, I stepped up when no one else did and organized it.  I ran the set up and I ran the party and I oversaw the cleanup.  I worked my ass off for that school.

At which point I found out I owed the school $50.

The girl tells me that somehow she's had someone else's textbook for one of her classes all year, he's had someone else's, three or four other people have different books registered to them and no one seems to know what happened to hers. Obviously, there's been some sort of mix-up in registering the books.  OBVIOUSLY.

The teacher sends me a nice, very detailed email about the missing book.  And the note that he is truly, truly sorry, but I have to pay $50 or the girl's grades won't be sent to her new school.

FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING BULLSHIT. 

I'm sorry, did I not just spend countless hours dealing with school crap that, had I billed at even a reduced rate for writing and NOT legal work, would still mean I was a couple thousand dollars in surplus for who owes what to whom? And didn't I just spend money on party donations? 

I don't blame the teacher.  Much.  I mean, I get it, it's district policy. 

But I was pissed.  The secretary was on my side and felt bad that she had to take my check.

So the entire drive to the school to hand over my $50 check, I kept thinking, "Fuck this.  I know there's at least $50 worth of candy & stuff from the party that I can take to even shit out.  I DESERVE $50 worth of candy." Even though I knew the kids were going to use the stuff on their trip to the amusement park a few days later.

Except as I was thinking it, I was getting that shame feeling, like I knew I was doing something really, really, really wrong.

So I dropped off the check and went to the storage room, because I had told the staff I needed to stop in there and I had to keep up appearances and not say, "Yeah, I changed my mind.  I'm not taking $50 worth of candy in return for the $50 book check."  I wasn't going to take any candy because that would result in me waiting for karma to turn around and kick me in the ass HARDER than the $50 check.  Which it would. And frankly? I've got enough on my plate.

And you know what? The fates had my back - because the candy was gone, so I wouldn't even be tempted [and in the throes of PMS? I WAS TEMPTED.].

Tell me, truly, would you have taken the candy?  I like to think I wouldn't have, even if it was there, not only because I am trying to be a better person, but also because I kind of fear the retribution.  What about you?

Not as erudite as I thought.

Last week I got an email asking if I wanted tickets to go see Bizet's Carmen.  Well, sure.  I actually like opera and classical music and getting dressed up and going places. 

Granted, this wasn't New York or DC or even LA.  It was a Midwestern performance of an opera which, for some reason, I thought was Italian.  It's not.  It's French.  Strike one for my aura of smartitude.

Anyway, the tickets were cheap. 

So yeah, sure, the husband and I decided to go.

We get to Will Call and find that the tickets are so fucking cheap because the seats are in the LAST POSSIBLE ROW of the balcony.  I knew they'd be in the balcony, but last row? COME ON.

Did I mention to you that I get vertigo?  And not the Jimmy Stewart kind [which, seriously @modinkpeeb ? Jimmy Stewart is in no way sexier than Cary Grant.  NO WAY.].  The swoopy kind of vertigo.  It's not fun. 

So we climb and climb and climb stairs and finally get to the BACK of the place and sit down and I'm deep breathing [o.k., almost panting, whatever, I'm starting my water aerobics this week, let's relax, o.k.?] and trying not to look down except you know what? DOWN IS WHERE THE SHOW IS.

So I spent the show with my head turned sideways and looking out of the bottom corners of my eyes.  I highly recommend this viewing method next time you are at the opera.

ALSO - why the fuckity-roo do operas have to have those supertitles?  I first saw them about 15 years ago when we went to see a Wagner opera [of course I don't remember which one.  It was in German and had a boat.  Das Boot, maybe?]  I mean, I've got the libretto so I know what's going on, and I may not be fluent in the language, but I don't need to see exactly what words the people are singing, I can get that from the whole ambiance of the play, and also? The person in charge of the supertitles at Carmen? Was high or drunk, because they never matched up with what was going on.

So I kind of felt all superior and thought, "Screw these infidels, I'm not looking at the supertitles anymore because I am SO ABOVE ALL THAT [And not just because I needed a sherpa to get to my seat.  And also not just because it made me dizzy to look at them.]."

Until I recognized Carmen's first big number, Habanera, in Act I.  Because I recognized Carmen's song from Sesame Street.



I get props for it being Denyse Graves singing on Sesame Street, right?  [If you have never seen this, please do.  It's amazing.]

Then in Act II, I recognized the Toreador song from Gilligan's Island.  I was pretty mortified and leaned over to mention this to my husband, who said, "That's o.k., I recognize the songs from Bugs Bunny."  Yeah.  We're together.

At the end of Act II, I asked the husband if we could leave, because it had already been well over 2 hours of sitting with my head twisted & there were two more acts, which meant at least 2 more hours and frankly? I was more than willing to just get a DVD and watch the last two acts.  Don't get me wrong, I really love the music and I am a HUGE fan of live theater, but I realized that I am a huge fan of live theater on the main floor only.

So we left, after I carefully made my way down down down down down the stairs. 

I highly recommend classing up your day with opera to see how much of a rube you are.  I bet I win.

This is going to be completely incoherent. You've been warned.

I keep hearing/seeing/reading all about what to do with your kids now that school's out, so I'm jumping on the advice giving bandwagon.  Here is what you do:

Wait until your kid is 12 or so, and then all they'll need you for is rides to someone else's house, or a large enough room for your child and his or her friends to sit around and watch movies, play video games or talk.  Until then?  I believe Valium offers the best ratio of relaxation : ability to continue to monitor your child.  Good luck with that.

***************

I got an ice cream maker this weekend.  I haven't used it yet, but I'm planning on making vanilla frozen yogurt tonight.  I know, fancy, right? Except I was going to put in crushed up chocolate covered pretzels [three kinds of chocolate!], but someone ate them all.  I think crushed up Heath bars are going in instead.  Has anyone made ice cream/frozen yogurt before?  I'm not sure why I'm so hesitant to do this.  It's actually freaking me out.

****************

I'm starting a water aerobics class this week.  It's called Arthritic H2O.  I hope I can keep up. 

Seriously.  I'm more than a little concerned. 

I did get really cute water shoes from Lands End, though.  I had some cute ones, but cannot find them anywhere.  Who would steal water shoes?  Water fetishists?  I don't want to know.

******************

I read 3 books in the past couple of weeks! THREE!  One of which I'd already read, so I'm not sure I can count it.  One which was so fluffy the pages were made of cotton candy.  And one which was good and aggravating - London is the Best City in America.  Good, because it was well written and captivating.  Aggravating because I'm not sure how I feel about any and all of the characters.  Has anyone else read this yet?  Please do so, if you haven't, so I can talk to someone about this.

******************

I watched The Philadelphia Story with a few people on Twitter last night.  I'd forgotten how good it was - and how much movies tend to suck now.  I mean, I know that there were shitty movies since there were movies, but even the supposedly good ones now are not talky or smart enough to be considered that good.  I need witty banter, not dick jokes.  Unless that dick joke is a work of art.  The dick.  Or the joke.  Either one.

On that note, I'm out. 

Week in Review - School's out for summer.

Hey! Guess what! So much news happened this week!  Unlike every other week where NOTHING EVER HAPPENS EVER.

I am taunting you with information about my past at Kelley's Break Room.  Go on over and check me out at Name That Job! What prior job did I actually have? Oh, you have no idea.  I bet.  Go.  Guess!

I'm organizing the inaugural 1940s Twitter Movie Night on Sunday, June 19, 2011, at 9:00pm EST.  The movie is The Philadelphia Story [thanks to the lovely @Mrsped for the assist in selecting the movie]. We'll all be watching the movie and live tweeting how awesome we think the whole stinking thing is. Use the #1940sMovie hashtag. Join me, please, so I don't feel like I have some sort of social disease.

The girl is officially done with middle school.  HOORAY.  The giant end of the year party is over.  I am almost officially done being PTA president. Oh, sweet relief.  Seriously.  So sweet.  Like a vodka ice pick in my brain sweet.

I am still PMSing like crazy! You may not consider this to be big news, but I assure you, everyone in my path will be talking about this for a LONG TIME to come.  A LONG TIME.

Evidently hockey fans in Vancouver take shit pretty seriously [and also may be PMSing?].  So seriously that the past couple of times that the Canucks went to the Stanley Cup Finals and lost in Game Seven, these bastards rioted in the streets.  Seriously? It's HOCKEY.  Let's keep the rioting where it belongs, on the ice.

This sounds like a particularly bad idea.  The Tennessee Valley Authority wants to revive a half-built nuclear reactor that's been in mothballs for the past 23 years.  Yeah.  Have these scientists seriously never seen a science fiction movie? How is that possible? I would like to direct them to that fine 1950s documentary about giant radioactive ants, THEM!. Who knows what kind of radioactive vermin are going to come shooting out of this thing? 

The Tea Party is trying to bring some younguns into its fold by hosting a summer camp.  Why do I get the feeling that this is going to be eerily reminiscent of Jesus Camp?  Or maybe God Camp?

What the hell? I don't get people.  I mean, I like Joss Stone and think she's a great singer, but can't fathom that someone - someones, I guess - would want to kill her.  I mean, she's pretty harmless so far as celebrities go, right? That's a lot of rage.  Maybe they weren't thrilled with her acting in the The Tudors?  I have no idea.

And finally, the winner of the Freedom contest is:

Flannery said...

To be unconventional, to question authority, to make choices unencumbered...freedom.

You all had amazing answers, truly, and I ended up randomly picking a number.  Because who can make that kind of Sophie's Choice?  Not me. That's for damn sure.

Flannery, please contact me with your info so I can send you . . . a surprise.  I'll take a photo when I put together the package and then share it with you all next week.  No, it's not just because I haven't picked out exactly what the gift is.  Not completely, anyway.  I've got ideas. LOTS of ideas.

What news do you have for me this week?

How to make PMS your bitch. Or be a bitch while PMSing. I'm not sure how this is going to go.

I wish I wasn't one of those women who had to deal with PMS. Or, really, anything except maybe making out with Johnny Depp on a regular basis [how pissed am I that I didn't it make it my mission back when I was young and hot to go after him? I could've kicked Vanessa Paradis's ass].

Anyway, I try and stay on top of my PMS by doing all sorts of calming bullshit, like doing yoga every morning [yes, while watching the news], and eating right and getting enough rest and not immediately telling my husband that I hate every single thing about him and my fervent hope is that he start RIGHT NOW to either change who he is or make enough money so we can divorce and I can break up Johnny Depp's non-marriage to the mother of his children.

Some days it goes better than others.

Yesterday? Was not one of those days.

It began thusly:

Wake up at 5:30am because the alarm went off, even though you haven't gotten up at 5:30am in . . . are we closing in on a year now? Maybe.  Fuck.

Roll over.  Try and fall asleep.  Realize it's not working.  Hate the husband because he's able to sleep.  Hate the wind for blowing a cool breeze into your bedroom.  Hate the fact that your pillows are just a 1/4" out of place.

Give up and get up.

Go get your paper in your nightgown and fuzzy slippers and Helena Bonham Carter hair.  Wave at the passing car.  Who cares? You're married and going to stay that way forever because nothing good ever happens to you.

Do yoga while watching the news and hating Matt Lauer more than anyone on earth right that minute.

Realize you hate Al Roker even more.  Debate going back to George Stephanopoulous, but know that you'll punch the t.v. if you do and you can't afford a new t.v.

Wonder if you'd miss the t.v. if you punched Matt Lauer.

Turn off the t.v.

Eat oatmeal and a banana while going through your email.  End up with oatmeal specks on your keyboard and screen because you can't believe the garbage coming through your email.

Sigh and get down to work.  Hate having to work.  Hate not having enough freelance work to make a dent in your enormous pile of debt.

Wonder if you can have an IPO or a garage sale.  Decide which would be easier.  Probably an IPO, even though you technically don't have anything to offer.

Eat a healthy, balanced lunch of chicken & veggies & undressed salad with only brown rice as your carb.  Put your dish in the kitchen sink.  Return to your desk and begin to do your work [read blogs].  Open two links from your reader.  Get up, go back into the kitchen and get 2 of the homemade chocolate chip cookies the girl made earlier in the week.  Eat them pretty much en route to your desk, which is MAYBE 15 feet away.  Sit down.  Open up a new link, but don't wait for it to finish loading before you jump up from your seat to go back to the cookie jar and snag another cookie.  Start to replace the lid before a hand that looks like yours but couldn't possibly be grabs another cookie.  Manage to get back to the desk before you finish eating them.  Feel sick to your stomach from all the sugar and flour.

Ignore every phone call you get because you cannot handle speaking to one more person today.  They all suck.  Completely.  Wonder why does everyone WANT something from you? WHY???

Eat another cookie.  Feel sicker.  Sigh and put your head down.

Hope that you get your period soon because this is ridiculous.

***********************

PS Freedom winner announced on Friday. GET READY TO RUMBLE, BITCHES.

PPS I'm not even sure what the hell is happening here.

Freedom may be just another word, or it may actually be a parallelogram.

Freedom.  What does it mean? [I know, don't I sound JUST LIKE a 10th grade Social Studies paper?]

To my idiot neighbor, it means he's allowed to yell, "DAVE. . . . . . . DAVE . . . . . . . DAVE!" at the top of his lungs at 9:00pm on a coolish evening when everyone else's windows are open.

To my daughter, it means she's got 1.5 days left of school and she can almost taste that sweet, sweet nectar of not having to put up with the rules and regulations of the public school system for 12 WHOLE WEEKS.

For me, it means not having to screw my psyche into being someone I'm not. It means being me. 

To many others, to this country, it means a lot more. Juneteenth is coming up fast, and I love the whole story in a sad, amazing way.

And not only is that celebration of freedom coming up, so is another amazing one:

Do you know Unmitigated Me?

Why not?

She's awesome, and I'm not just saying that because I have actually met her in the real world outside my computer and maybe think she has pretty shiny hair.  She's also got a great job and is inviting the WORLD to see the ACTUAL, FOR REAL, NO LIE, Emancipation Proclamation.

The real one.

Perhaps you've heard of it?

Here's her post.  The Emancipation Proclamation is going to be at The Henry Ford Museum, which will be open around the clock from Monday, June 20, 2011, at 6:00pm until Wednesday, June 22, 2011 at 6:00am.  I'm totally going to go and check it out AND make the girl wake up at the butt crack of dawn DURING SUMMER VACATION to go see something educational.

Because how awesome would that be to see?  Not just the Emancipation Proclamation, but that look of OHMYGODWHYAMIAWAKE? on a teenager's face.

But mostly the Emancipation Proclamation.

Now, class, what does freedom mean to you?  A prize for the best answer [and by prize, I may or may not mean a random something or other lolling around in my house].  [But I probably do mean that.] [FREEDOM!]

An Area for Concern . . . Or Maybe . . . What Now?

I'm a little worried about myself.

I know, when AREN'T I worried about myself?

But.

The past few days I've gotten a little . . . forgetful.  More forgetful than usual.

I spent several minutes wandering around the parking lot the other day, trying to find my car.

I keep mistyping things.

I'm always forgetting words.  The ones I'm trying to say.  You know, "Hey, can you give me the . . . thing . . . you know, that thing . . . that I need," which usually ends up being something as esoteric as the remote control or a napkin.

Plus, there's the usual stumbling and bumping into the walls that I do.  Which I wouldn't worry about too much, except it seems like it's getting worse.  Whereas I used to just walk into the corner of the wall on my way into the bathroom, now it seems like the coffee table is out to get me, as is the dishwasher and, frankly, the side of the car. 

I'm fervently hoping that the Alzheimers gene floating in my paternal pool isn't making a spectacularly early entrance.  I realize that I've got a lot on my plate right now, and I'm sure you're all forgetful, too, right? RIGHT? PLEASE SAY YES!!!  It's probably just a passing thing, one that will disappear when I get a few minutes to just focus on one thing at a time.

Except - I actually worried the other day that I wasn't getting dressed completely before I left the house. You know? You're in a rush and you think, o.k., I'm good to go and then I ended up in the car thinking, "Did I put on underwear?" And then I checked under the waistband and found I did, but that moment of not knowing? TERRIFIED ME.  Because I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I head out in just my bra, and not a cute one.

Also, I find that I'm tempted to start staying things like, "You're motherfucking goddamn right," or "Hiya, Cuntface." 

Actually, I'm kind of o.k. with that.

People Who Are Assholes - Shopping Edition

The other day, I picked the girl up from school, because I coddle her and didn't want her to walk home 2 blocks from the bus stop in 95 degree heat.  I am a coddler.  I just am.

Anyway, she asked if we could swing by Target, and since I am ALWAYS up for going to Target [except for using their fucking pharmacy], we did.

And I swear to god, every fucking asshole in the universe was there, too.  Here's just a sampling:

The asshole who decided to back his rape van into the parking space right next to me.  Dude.  Seriously.  You are already an asshole for owning a van that immediately makes me start blowing on my rape whistle while rooting around for mace, do you have to add to your asshole-ish-ness by holding up all kinds of pedestrian and motor vehicle traffic so that you could back that piece of shit up into a parking spot?  Are you going to be in that much of a rush to leave?  Why?  Because all I'm imagining is you heading into Target and then being driven from the store due to fondling yourself in the juniors department.

The asshole who decided to stop her cart RIGHT IN THE TRAFFIC FLOW of everyone else who was getting a cart to root around in her purse for . . . I don't even know what.  What could be that important to find in your voluminous bag that you can't get past the $1 bins?  Do you have a shopping list dedicated to $1 items?  Because there is an ENTIRE STORE that would better suit your shopping needs.  GO THERE.

The asshole who decided to write a check to pay her bill.  Who does that?  Why are you not using a debit card?  Do you have that many extra checks in your checkbook and need to use them before they expire?  Or do you want to order new ones with Precious Moments figurines on the background?  And why, if you ARE going to use a check, didn't you fill everything out but the amount?  People have shit to do, lady. 

And finally, the assholes who let their feral kids roam free in Target, like it's a giant daycare center.  Get a goddamn leash. 

How was your weekend?  I missed you.

Week in Review - Sometimes you have to wonder about this world we live in.

I have to say, your answers to yesterday's completely scientific psychological profile questionnaire made my heart sing.  I feel much better being on your good sides.

In the spirit of sharing, I'll let you know that:

1.  I pee.  In the lake.  Sometimes in the pool.  I'm SORRY.  I have to go.

2.  BUTTER. Or Caramel. 

3.  I know I shouldn't, but I do find myself wishing ill upon people.  And then immediately trying to take it back, because, you know, I don't want karma to kick my ass.

4.  Right now, that would be Come on Irene.  I HATE THAT SONG. 

5.  Diet Coke.  How I miss you. 

6.  TRUE.

And now, on to the news of the week:

Anthony Weiner finally copped to showing his junk.  And then held a tearful press conference where, to his credit, he did NOT make his wife stand by his side.  I have to say, I'm no fan of uninvited pictures of people's privates, but as a scandal, this seems pretty tame.  He didn't have sex with his twitter gals, there's no surprise 15 year old kid, and there are no diapers involved [honest to god, Louisianna, David Fucking Vitter RE-ELECTED? I get Laissez les bon temps rouler, but COME ON.].

Something weird is happening in Australia - the entire country is BOOZING LESS. Yes, evidently drinking levels are at a 62 year low.  What's up, Australia? Did you ALL hit rock bottom at the same time?  Is is Ramadan? Or Lent? Or is everyone doing some GP approved cleanse? WHAT IS GOING ON? Australia + Drunkeness = Match Made in Heaven!

In Montreal, people were injured in a protest of a police shooting.  Huh.  Anti-violence protesters  went to the site where two people, one an innocent bystander, were killed.  And then they went nuts and started smashing windows and overturned an outdoor portable toilet [eeewww. Why are you touching that, protesters?].  Go figure.  Canada is becoming Americanized.

In Argentina, an ash cloud from the Puyehue volcano is covering much of the country.  And Argentina's president said, yeah, the problems are just going to be psychological.  No worries.  Just like how in Japan, it's now been ascertained that the radiation levels in Fukushima were misstated.  As being half as high as what they actually were.  Um.  I'm pretty sure that anytime anything bad happens, you shouldn't listen to the people in charge.  They're going to lie to you.  I mean, I'm no scientist, but even I know inhaling ash or a reactor exploding is probably not good for you.

And speaking of scientists:  Scientists trap anti-matter!  HOW FUCKING AWESOME!  We can now kind of almost make the world implode! SCORE!

What have you got for me, my lovelies?  What's new?  What did I miss?

Sharing is caring, in a way that staring never could be.

I feel like I've gotten to know you, my lovely readers & fellow bloggers & friends on Twitter.  But I want to know more about you.  Your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams.  Your propensity toward becoming a deranged serial killer.  I want you to share deep thoughts and amazing revelations with me. I want to know what your answers are to this highly scientific psychological profile:

1.  If, say, you had to pee and you were in a chlorinated public pool, or at the beach, would you trudge back to your room or the locker room, or would you pee in the pool?  Be honest.  Even if you're wearing a Depends laden swimsuit.  Would it make a difference if you were alone?

2.  What's your favorite popcorn flavor?  Is it something good, like butter or caramel?  Or something only a person who hears fish talk [and then answers them, in fish language] would like, like cheese?

3.  Is it wrong to wish ill upon someone who you feel has wronged you?  What if that person is a jackass?  What if that jackass makes you want to punch them?  What then, Mother Theresa?  HUH?

4.  Speaking of hating, if you got to make someone you hate listen to one song, over and over, on repeat, what would that song be?

5.  Coke or Pepsi?

6.  Clueless is the best adaptation of Jane Austen's Emma, True or False.

Looks like we're going to have to make a cameo at the Val party. Source.

Ok, friends, share!

The Dad Who Cried Wolf

My dad is something of a hypochondriac.  He tends to be sicker than anyone who actually is sick, even if he doesn't technically have that disease.  I get it.  I mean, I'm pretty good at discovering possible illnesses that I may have and then worrying myself into a frenzy about having them.  I really do get it.

The problem is when someone who constantly feigns illness is actually sick, you don't know quite what to do.  And then it turns out they ARE sick and need to go to the hospital. 

My dad is ill and will need surgery.  It's a routine procedure [gall bladder surgery] and he's in a good hospital with a good doctor, etc.  Basically, he's being well taken care of and will continue to be taken care of in a manner befitting his illness.

By the medical staff.

Because we?  His family?

Are making non-stop jokes.

This is what we do.  We come up with puns and gags and reel off one-liners.  We talk about hilarious situations that have happened in the past and how we'll deal with what is coming up.  We giggle about contingencies and who is going to tell what family member and how.

We smart off about how OF COURSE my dad's got to have surgery now, when it's 1,000 degrees and humid.  And how it should go without saying that I'm going to valet park at the hospital - I'm not going to the gym, why should I walk from the parking deck [where it's $3 to park, as opposed to $4 for valet - who's the sucker now?].  And then we laugh at our cheapskate relative who had 2 old ladies get out of his car and lift the gate so he wouldn't have to pay for parking.

We make fun of my germophobia and laugh until we're going to pee our pants.  And we talk about the delicious steak we're going to eat or the chili dogs we're planning on having for lunch to a man who is not allowed to eat until he has his surgery.

We laugh.  A lot.

So much so that when my mother broke her hip and ankle and had to have metal rods and pins in place, she kicked me and my siblings out of the hospital room for fucking around and laughing too much and having wheel chair races in the room.

So while we aren't the most sedate and calming people to have in a sickroom, I submit that we are the funnest.  And we'll take your mind off of your worries.

Never again. Yes, I know I say that every time, but I'm serious now.

I am a volunteer-er.

I just am.

I raise my hand.

I host political get togethers.

I donate stuff.

I say I'm not going to, and then I do.  I end up in the girl's classroom, on the PTA, running programs, organizing events for attorneys, being a big part of the community.

Usually, I'm o.k. with it.  Usually, I like that feeling of giving and helping.

I have, however, had enough.

I got stuck putting together what I consider the most stupid-ass stupid bullshit stupid thing in the world.  Something that I think is a massive waste of time and energy.  Something that is pointless and egregiously annoying - the end of the school year party.

Fuck.

I got stuck because no one stepped up to chair this.  And because I am a person who picks up when others are slacking, I am CONSTANTLY getting emails like this:

"Yeah, I said I'd help, but it looks like you've got it under control, and I'm busy, and there are plenty of other people who will help, and maybe I could do something, but you seem to have it under control, so I'll just not do anything.  Ok?  Great."

And what I want to reply is:

"Listen you stupid fucking twat, not that I want your help because obviously you are completely fucking useless and should be hidden away so that your douchiness doesn't cause some kind of black hole of fuckitude and suck the world inside out, but DO NOT offer to help and then say you are TOO BUSY to help.  EVERYONE IS TOO BUSY, you fucking cunt bag!  EVERYONE!  I AM! But I'm doing this, because I SAID I WOULD.  TWAT!"

God.  What is WRONG with people?  How are they so fucking self-involved that they think an email telling me that they are too important to do something they said they'd do would be fine?

I fucking hate people.  I swear to god.  I really, really do.

But not you.  I LOVE you.

BOOBIES!

This is as close to a PSA as I'm going to get.  Unless it's about the need for people to stop being assholes.  Because I could go on all day about that.

Last week, I went in for a yearly mammogram.  Good times, I know.

I'm no fan of having my boobs squished [if you are, I'm not judging, I mean, everyone's got their own thing, right?], but I AM a fan of preventative care.  Especially with my need to live FOREVER.  How else will I control the world, if not through sheer longevity?  Isn't that how vampires do it?  Or Republicans? OH MY GOD! Are Republicans VAMPIRES? Dick Cheney has no heartbeat - it's true, isn't it?  They're Mormons and vampire - watch out! It's Mitt Romney!

Where was I?  Oh, right:

A few years ago, during my first mammogram, a tiny little lump was found.

It was biopsied and benign [greatest word EVER in the history of language].  I cannot tell you my relief. I also cannot explain to you the anxiety I had while waiting for the results.  I'm a dweller.  I'm also an ignorer.  It's a crapshoot as to which is holding sway over my mental faculties at the moment.  I can go along, just thinking tra la la la [or, more like it, "LOSE yourself in the MOMENT you better NEVER LET IT GO remember it's ONE SHOT --" You know where I'm going with this, right?

Is he thinking of dirty things he wants us to do? Yes. Yes, he is. From here.

That's where I'm always going with it.] anyway, I'm thinking tra la la la la, everything's fine and then WHAM I get the crazy anxiety shooting through my brain with a thousand WHAT IFs and even more MUST MAKE PLANS FOR EVERY CONTINGENCY!  It's kind of tiring.

But, most important, it reminds me that I should do whatever I can to take care of myself, and I need all of YOU to take care of yourselves, because you make my days brighter.  Always.  [As in forever, NOT as in the maxi pad.]

XO,

Suniverse

Week in Review - The News Doesn't Stop for Holidays

Morning, lovers!  [And screw you, Blogger, for your ineffectual scheduled posting.]

I'm glad to hear that you like this weekly roundup - I love to do it, since I get a chance to keep up on the more interesting news and bitch about stuff.  Mostly to bitch about stuff.  It's like a disease.

I also LOVE the fact that you give me info on things that have happened this week - it's a great way to keep up on what the smart, cool people are thinking and talking about.

Here's what I think you should know about this week:

In Australia, there's a big hullabaloo [not to be confused with a didgeridoo] about extraditing dangerous criminals.  Evidently, there are some criminals none of the airlines will agree to fly [like the tool who was wanted in Europe on a multitude of charges] and so they have to go on chartered flights.  I get being pissed at spending the money for private planes, but I'd have no interest in being on a commercial flight where a criminal becomes violent, as has happened.  What to do?  Send them out in a canoe and hope for the best?

In Canada, postal workers are holding a rotating 48-hour strike to protest ineffectual contract proposals by Canada Post.  Hamilton is the next city up, so if you've got mail to send, get on it.  SOLIDARITY!!  Workers unite!

There's a new hybrid strain of e. coli running rampant in Germany.  Over 1,700 people have become ill and 4 have died.  Usually found in meat, this strain of e. coli was found in either cucumbers or tomatoes.  Awesome.  Also, evidently Germany initially blamed Spain for being the cause of the outbreak, and now Spain's pissed.  Russia is refusing to lift a ban on importing raw vegetables.  I love political spats. 

Bibi Netanyahu is getting flack even from Israelis.  The former chief of Mossad has said that Israel's leaders lack judgment in dealing with the issue of Palestine.  Yipes.  That's not good news.

And finally, John Edwards was indicted on violating campaign finance laws.  Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.  PS What the fuck is it with politicians fucking over their cancer-ridden wives? WHAT THE FUCK?

What have I missed?  Anything going on I should be aware of? 

Loquacious.

I do.
We did.
Honeymoon baby.


***********
Six Word Memoir Prompt. Shit's hard.

Oh, NOW I get why people hate lawyers.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I was one of those happy Americans selected to report for jury duty.

This was my first time getting a summons, and I was kind of excited, except I wasn't going to be in the criminal courts, which kind of put a damper on my thrill ride.  But still! Jury duty! I'd hold the fate of someone in my hands! Do you understand how much a bossy, controlling person would enjoy that?

Ah, if only it was so sweet.

I got to the courthouse at 8:20am.  As an attorney, I am allowed to bring my cell phone to court.  But, because I am a rule follower [except for posted speed signs and evidently, from my driving record, those No Turn On Red signs], and jurors are not allowed to have cell phones, I did NOT bring my cell with me.

I was pretty much the only one who didn't.

I brought my newspaper, a notebook [I'd spend my time writing! In longhand! Like the pioneers!], a bottle of water and not nearly enough Motrin.

I ended up at a table with 3 kind of older men.  Two of whom would not stop talking.  To me.  About cars.  And delivering stuff.  And cars.  And their kids.  And the new diets they're trying.  And cars.  And their jobs.  And cars.  And how many times they've been on jury duty.  And property issues.  And cars.

The third guy?  FEIGNED BEING ASLEEP.

We spent the morning waiting to be called.  There were only 2 cases that needed jurors.  We all had fingers crossed that we'd be out of there by lunch.

Nope.

I went to lunch and sat alone, enjoying the quiet.  And the lack of talking about cars.

Back to the jury room. 

At which point Jury Overseer dismissed half the group, since one of the cases adjourned for the day. 

I was not lucky enough to be in that group.

The two talking guys were, though.  And Fake Sleeper?  Started laughing about how they wouldn't stop talking to me.  I almost punched him.

We sat back and waited to be called down. 

You know what's awesome about being in the courtroom either as an observer or as an attorney?  You get to see everything that happens [it's actually pretty entertaining - I highly recommend going, but go to a criminal trial.  A LOT of stuff goes on there.  Opposing counsel arguing for evidence to be brought in or kept out, families giving each other the evil eye, attorneys gossiping about everyone in the courtroom.].  The juror room?  NOTHING HAPPENS.  You wait and watch the clock and wait some more. 

As noted, I wasn't going to be in the criminal courts.  I figured [rightly] that this would be an insurance issue.  Is there anything more dull?  Maybe a property issue.  Maybe.

We were FINALLY called down to the courtroom for jury selection.  I kept tensing up as the clerk called names and questions were asked of potential jurors.  I kept looking out the window and at the clock, hoping that the jury would be selected soon, before finally giving up and reconciling myself to the fact that I would have spent the entire work day in jury duty - and make $25!  WOOHOO!

At which point my only prayer was that I wouldn't be selected.  During a break, a couple of people and I were discussing whether or not we'd be selected.  The guy said he'd tell them he was going to wear his iPod.  The woman said she worked checking disability claims.  We all hoped we wouldn't be picked.

They were picked. 

One after the other.

And they were kept on the jury.

And I escaped, having done my civic duty by showing up and sitting around.