Justice Is Blind (And, Apparently, A Cheapskate)

I’m officially a grown-up. I know because I finally got summoned for jury duty, and I’m so excited! I know I’m not supposed to be, that most people try to get out of jury duty, but I’ve always thought it would be a cool gig. Probably because Hollywood glamorizes it and I’ve read one too many John Grisham books. And the letter itself seems so serious and dramatic, with a bar code and at least three levels of bold. A good half of it is in all caps, too, so you know they mean business.

Imagine my surprise when I got to the second page and saw the heading: Payment. Well, that high was short lived because within the first sentence I realized that McDonald’s pays five times as much. I’ll get $12.00 for the first day, $20.00 a day for the next four days, then $40.00 a day for every day after five days. (For the record, I’m gonna have to drag this thing out at least a week and a half, if I’m going to afford those new shoes I want.)

I scoffed, aloud, and asked my husband what $12.00 divided by eight hours is. $1.50 an hour! “THAT’S RIDICULOUS!” I said in all caps. “Honey, that’s a dollar-fifty more per hour than you make right now,” my husband so kindly brought to my attention, causing me to fall into a downward spiral of depression.

But, that’s okay, because I was already counting on some kingpin sending his hired thugs to the swanky hotel I’ll be sequestered at to offer me a bribe. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to take the money without sacrificing justice. And, yes, I do think I’ll be sequestered at a really nice downtown hotel, and be provided with three delicious restaurant meals every day, because the government was obviously budgeting for this eventuality when they were determining our monetary compensation. I’m sure they know that you can’t put a price on 800 thread count sheets or 24-hour room service.

The summons goes on to say business casual attire is required. Yay! I never get to dress “business casual”. I may even need to purchase some wardrobe additions for the occasion. Then, after some notes of no concern to me, the letter mentions that Children are not allowed. Say no more, I’m sold. And, Absolutely NO weapons (scissors, knives, knitting needles, etc.) Wait, they’re listing knitting needles but not guns? Does “no guns” go without saying? And if someone can turn a juror’s knitting needle into a weapon, I say let ‘em. That’d be worth the price of admission.

So, next month I could be getting paid to sit and listen to people argue all day, instead of doing it for free while I fold the accused’s laundry. I’ll get to dress up and meet new people, people that know how to take a person down with a knitting needle! I can’t wait!

Sugar, Spice, And Everything Nice?

This blog is dedicated to my brother’s wife, who is pregnant with their first child and recently found out they are expecting a girl. Well, L, here’s what you’re really expecting: DRAMA! And based on how poorly my brother handled my own female theatrics growing up, I’d say you’ll be managing a lot of these productions on your own while he seeks refuge in an ESPN bubble.

You know how, as women, we all have those days where we don’t like anything in our closet? Well, this morning, my daughter was frantic that her new Hello Kitty shirt was in the clothes hamper, still, a full twelve hours after she had deposited it there. I pointed out that she had two drawers of cute alternatives. “I don’t like those clothes!” None of them? Almost everything she had was clean except for the beloved Hello Kitty shirt. And, for the record, she picked out half of those items herself during shopping expeditions. But, I get it. I picked out all of my clothes, and there are days when I’d like a complete do over with my wardrobe. I finally talked her into a skirt that she loved as recently as last week, but even as she walked out of the room I heard her grumbling that “This skirt doesn’t even twirl.” How is she going to handle something like not getting the lead in the school play if she can’t even handle a skirt that doesn’t twirl?

Next, as I assisted the other girl in her Friday clothing selection, she said, “I’m not going to like J so much anymore.” Two things of note here; first, J, a boy, is one of her closest friends, and second, these were actually her first words of the morning. My response was, “Why?” She started digging through their accessory drawer, putting on several bracelets and headbands and necklaces without choosing a single one that matched her outfit, and then turned to me and explained, “I just don’t want to like him too much, because he likes my sister more than me.” I was speechless. He actually does like her sister more than her. But, mostly, I was impressed at her ability to reason herself out of a crush. Here’s hoping she can keep that up for the next twenty years.

Earlier this summer the girls told me they were going to marry J. Both of them. They were blissfully unaware that this wouldn’t work out and there was no point in correcting them. But, I remember wondering why they were thinking about marriage. They’ve never even been to a wedding, so it was really out of nowhere. My son has yet to give matrimony a single thought, and based on studies of the male species, probably won’t until he’s in his mid to late twenties. Nor does my son act like every injustice served to him (be that in the form of green beans or whatever) is the end of the world. The girls seem to suffer irreparable emotional distress three or four times an hour. “You took the doll I wanted to play with!” one of them will scream through a torrent of tears. “I got it first!” the other one will point out needlessly. “Well, I’m not your friend anymore! And, I’m never talking to you again!” Um, overreact much?

And even at this young age, they talk about their feelings. I’m not sure how my brother will handle this with his daughter, since, as far as I know, the only feelings he’s ever experienced are of disappointment when the Jets lose. But, it comes up all the time. They’ll tell me how they felt nervous the first time they went to the dentist, how they felt sorry for the kid that got in trouble at the pool, or how sad they were when another little girl at church wouldn’t play with them. Once, and I’m not making this up, the twin that was born second looked at my mother and said, “I was so lonely and scared when I was in Mommy’s tummy by myself.” If she’s going to take her mommy issues back that far and be upset over those two minutes, then I give up!

Good luck, L; maybe your little girl won’t struggle with fashion or overactive emotions. Maybe she won’t walk around trying to win an Academy Award for best dramatic performance on a Tuesday afternoon. Maybe her hair won’t get tangled, and her size won’t ever matter. Maybe she’ll never cry about being left out, or have her heart broken by a boy. But, if any of these things happen, and she’s standing there clenching her fists and weeping loudly, and my brother says, “I don’t know why she’s crying.” Please tell him she’s crying because he called me a cry baby. Tell him this is restitution for him always telling me I was too dramatic.

We Were Only Freshman

In about twelve hours, one of my college roommates will be here. The last time we were together, ten years ago, she got married. I don’t think that’ll happen again this weekend, but I do expect us to pick back up where we left off. I, for one, still have some complaints regarding open dorm rules, the poor breakfast options in the cafeteria on the weekends, and the way Dr. Batts kept his classroom at 55 degrees. He said it was to keep us awake, but it always had the opposite effect on me, often putting me into a hypothermia induced coma.

And now that we each have three kids six and under, we can laugh at our collegiate selves and how we thought we were so busy back then. I’m sure we’ll have a lot of what-were-we-thinking conversations. Like how did we convince ourselves we were eating a balanced diet just because we got lettuce on our tacos at Taco Bell. Or why didn't we consider future hearing impairments when we were playing the music in our hoopties so loud the seats vibrated. (If you don’t know what a hoopty is, urbandictionary.com will enlighten you.) And, of course, what we were thinking with some of our crushes? Did I really like him so much that I hung out in the library? Or, is it possible you actually cried when Mr. So and So dedicated a song to you on the radio? Surely we were not that lame. . . .Oh, yeah we were. And, there are a few pictures, sealed by the courts, to prove it.

Remembering college days is always so bittersweet for me, because I feel like I didn’t appreciate the fabulousness of that life enough while I was leading it. Sure I was having a good time, but I didn’t pause to consider how unique that period of my life would be. It was a short and stained-glass window of time of being an adult without all of the cumbersome adult responsibilities. Turns out, when you’re a real grown-up, you never find yourself in impromptu pajama parties with seven of your closest girlfriends. You don’t go to IHOP at midnight anymore, even when you really, really want to. There’s no more showing up late to something just because it was Happy Hour at Sonic.

That temptress Sallie Mae isn’t bankrolling any more experiments for me. And the phrase road trip isn’t quite so enticing when you have to pack for a family of five heading for the apocalypse. And how is it that my friends and I could do a five hour trip without a restroom stop and sometimes my kids can’t even make it out of town before nature calls? Remember when sleeping in meant “I’ll see you after lunch.”? And now it’s “Don’t call before 7:30.”

If I could go back, I’d appreciate how easy it was to clean one half of a dorm room. I’d spend even more nights talking and laughing with my girl friends until the sun started to rise. And I’d rollerblade everywhere, because you just can’t do that when you’re a thirty-three-year-old stay at home mom without raising some eyebrows.

So Fresh and So Clean

It’s supposed to be 102 degrees in Raleigh today, summer’s way of beginning one last forward assault before he retreats in the face of fall. It’s easy to get disheartened in the dogs days of summer, grieving for lawns that died from heat exhaustion, mourning for swimming pools that have now become tepid, and pondering if it’s even worth it to keep fighting the ants, or if perhaps we should just work out some kind of time-share with them for the house. But, I know if we can just hang on, help is on the way.

It’s like I can see fall on the horizon, and he’s as beautiful as ever. It’s a rumbling in the distance. I hear it in pre-season football, back-to-school sales, and previews of fall shows. And I know he’ll rescue me from this sticky summer situation I’ve gotten myself into. Fall will swoop in and rid the air of moisture, the trees of leaves, and my house of children (three mornings a week, at least). And, one of my favorite things about fall is that he never shows up without zippered hoodies.

I think it was last weekend’s back to school shopping that infected me with this uncharacteristic optimism. Because even though I haven’t been “back to school” in about a dozen years, I still engage in the shopping ritual. It’s kind of like being an alumni and still going to all the football games. I mean, just because I no longer take mid-terms doesn’t mean I don’t need Levi’s and new Converse sneakers.

But, it’s not just the fall clothes, which I won’t even get to wear for months; I also still relish those school supply aisles that are overflowing with things like fresh notebooks, the ones where the paper is so new you can smell the tree it was yesterday, and rows of backpacks to suit any disposition, from the cheery and hopeful daisy printed ones in eye-popping colors, to the black and pre-torn varieties from the Outcast&Troubled line. And, for some reason, I’m always tempted to get a new lunchbox for myself, even though I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for six years now and really have no need to pack my lunch, just so that I can carry it from the kitchen to the dining room table.

I have really fond memories of how this time of year felt to me when I was younger. Mostly, it felt like possibilities. There was the possibility that I’d get to sit in the back of the class because my reputation as a talker hadn’t preceded me. There was the possibility that I could keep my new shoes clean. There was the possibility I would love all of my teachers and some of my classes. (Math always prohibited me from even considering the possibility of loving all of my classes.) There was the possibility that our football team would go undefeated and make state play-offs or that all of the cute boys in school would fall madly in love with me, and, I suppose, there was a possibility that pigs would finally get around to flying, but let’s just say that some dreams died early in the school year and leave it at that.

I’m looking forward to all of the years lying ahead for my three kids where this time of year will mean they still have a full box of crayons, are in good standing with their teachers, and have no overdue homework assignments. It will be fun as they get older to see them break out the corduroy pants and sweaters on the first morning that the temperature dips below 80, just because they’ve been waiting to wear their new threads. And, I predict their mother will be doing the same thing. Their grandmother, too, because Nana still does her fair share of back-to-school shopping.

So, you know what? Bring it on, Summer! You can’t beat me. Fall’s coming and he’s bringing fresh starts and clean slates and football. I hear a pep rally in the distance, and any day now House will be back on and I’ll feel whole again.

(As I reviewed this blog, I noticed that Microsoft Word underlined hoodies, like it just did again, and I thought I’d right click and see what the spelling suggestions were. The list of choices was foodies, goodies, hoodless, holies and hoodoos. I get that hoodies are a somewhat recent fashion trend, but hoodoos? What the heck is a hoodoo and why is that acceptable in a world where hoodies isn’t? Just goes to show that computers don’t know everything and there’s something to be said for human intelligence!)

Silly Trendz

I’m at the pool, giving the three inmates their guaranteed outdoor recreation time, per state penitentiary laws, and I decided that since the sun is M.I.A. and I can’t work on my fledgling tan, I should at least work on my blog.

I actually thought we weren’t even going to make it to the pool today because my daughter, right before our departure, issued a four-alarm scream from upstairs. I ran up there, ready to pack her severed legs in ice and rush her to the emergency room, or maybe even use my newly acquired and untested kickboxing skills on the team of assassins that broke in through the attic. In the midst of the chaos, there was no time to consider why any assassin would value my family as targets. Perhaps, there is a covert operation underway to rid the world of its pickiest eaters.

But, alas, it was no such emergency. I encountered the offspring in question in her bedroom, red in the face, sweat on her brow, tears pummeling her cheeks, and she said, “MOM! I CAN’T FIND MY SILLY BANDZ ANYWHERE!” Are. You. Kidding. Me?!!!? I’ll come back to the patient and mature way I handled this, later.

First, I want to know how an entire nation (and oh how I wish I was only talking about kids) got brainwashed into thinking it’s cool to accessorize with colored rubber bands. Personally, I didn’t even think it was cool when kids were sporting them on their braces. Is this what they call mass hysteria? Is this the kind of brainwashing that brought Hitler to power in Germany? And if there is anyone reading this blog that has not heard of Silly Bandz and has no idea what I’m talking about, then please tell me where you live, because I’d like to move there.

Let me also clarify that the unfolding catastrophe in my daughter’s bedroom was over the loss of one band and it wasn’t even hers, it was just an article of litter she picked up at the park that happened to be part of a global fad. Because, in accordance with my vow to never get sucked into another ridiculous trend after the tight-rolled jeans fiasco of 1989, I haven’t even considered purchasing them for my kids. I’ve approached this as a good opportunity to teach my children the value of individuality and self-responsibility, and how to avoid the dangerous kind of “group-think” that led to leg-warmers, Hammer pants, and acid-washed denim. (And, by the way, I’m awarding 10,000 meaningless points to anyone that can email me a photo of them wearing Hammer pants.)

What I want my kids to know is that just because the boy down the street is wearing a whole sleeve of bandz, it doesn’t mean it’s cool or even makes sense. And so what if the girl at the park was wearing so much rubber she’d be safe in a lightning storm? We could just go inside for safety, you know. And, no, it’s not a dolphin; it’s a blue rubber band! Dolphins are still, and will probably always be, in the ocean.

And I’m no environmentalist, or an expert of any kind on anything, but I’m pretty sure that this Silly Bandz phenomenon is not in line with America’s efforts to “go green”. I don’t know if they’re made from rubber, plastic, or some other non-biodegradable material, but I know that I’ve already seen enough of them discarded, lost or abandoned to max out an entire landfill. And, I think we were better off as a nation when kids were just trading things from their lunch boxes instead of trying to create so many jobs in the rubber industry.

So, when I found out it was one of these over-hyped ponytail holders that was the source of my daughter’s meltdown, I showed no sympathy. I’m pretty sure I showed the opposite of sympathy, which is, of course, sarcasm. I made sure that she understood that we don’t succumb to suicidal thoughts over the disappearance of a rubber band. Even if it glowed in the dark.

Once we were downstairs, I retrieved the old-school rubber band that was delivered to our house around the Sunday paper, and said, “Here. Stop crying.” She looked at it and said, “But, it’s not a shape!” Um, “Yeah, it is. It’s an oval. See.” She got really excited and was like, “Oh, wow!” And then went to show it off to her brother and sister and I was like, man, what a sucker! Which is exactly what that thirteen-year-old girl who invented Silly Bandz is thinking right now as she lounges on her yacht drinking chocolate milk out of Waterford crystal while enjoying her private Jonas Brothers concert. (Speaking of things that make no sense to me.)

This One Or This One?

I went for my annual eye exam today, and by "annual" I mean every three or four years. One of the reasons I had been putting it off for so long is that I needed to find a new eye doctor. Because things didn't work out with the one I originally chose when I moved to North Carolina. I only picked her because of the close proximity of her office to my house. (Any closer and she would have been operating out of my garage.) And, really, what other factors do you consider when picking an ophthalmologist? It's not like you go around scouting out who has the coolest eye charts.

Well, it turns out, that for me, there's one other consideration I now make. Does the doctor speak English? Because it was ultimately my inability to overcome the language barrier that led to the dissolution of my previous eye doctor/sight-challenged person relationship. But, before I start coming off like some kind of ethnocentric bigot, which I'm not, I would like to point out that I was completely open to the idea of a foreign eye doctor. I understand that American eyes probably work the same as Russian ones, but after struggling through that hour long initial eye exam and contact lens fitting with this woman, I was so stressed out I needed a cigarette. AND I DON'T EVEN SMOKE! (And, for the record, never have or will.)

Any eye exam is stressful enough with that whole "this one or this one" test that takes as long as the S.A.T.s and is almost as difficult. Because, most of the time, I can't see any difference whatsoever in option one or option two. But, I've learned, they won't just let you say, "Pass", or even "Can we skip this one and come back to it later?" I usually just pick one at random so we can move on. Though, sometimes, in an effort to give my best optical performance, I'll take it very seriously and debate at length on each choice, saying, "Let me see the first one again." Mmmm. "Okay, back to the second one." Hmmm? "One more time?" Eventually, the eye doctor caves and says, "So, not much difference in those for you?" EXACTLY!

But then try doing this exam and other eyesight evaluating activities with someone who's first, nor second, nor third language is English. I never even knew if we were still choosing between options one and two or had moved on to options three or four. Or possibly even pyat and shest. I never knew what she was asking me to do because I couldn't understand anything she said. During the contact lens fitting, she told me that one brand I was considering was good because I could even wear them if I got kidnapped! I do not exaggerate when I say it took me almost five minutes to figure out she was saying "You could even wear them if you took catnap." And that was the end of that relationship.

Today I saw a new ophthalmologist who was a lot easier to communicate with. For instance, he understood that the accuracy of my prescription would be a bit of a crap shoot because I not only saw no difference between "this one and this one", but I also did not possess the mental faculties or patience to make educated guesses on the subject.

But, at least today, after completing my eye exam, I got to go back out and pick something from the treasure box. New glasses! I forewarned my husband that this purchase would be taking place today, because I've had the same pair of glasses since our troops left for Iraq. I needed new lenses to match my current prescription and new frames to match our current fashion trends.

I perused the racks of frames, with total disregard to brand or price, and chose about ten pair that were cute and I wanted to try on. One of the optometrist's assistants sat down with me as I tried them on. I organized them in sets of two and then modeled the pairs as I berated her with the "this one or this one" question that they're so fond of around there. When we got to pair #8, it was game over. Those were the ones, no question. I pulled them off and unfurled the tiny price tag. $320.oo!!!

I made no attempt to disguise my sticker shock as I passed (basically threw) them to her and said, "Am I seeing that right? Three-hundred and twenty dollars?" There was at least some possibility that I wasn't, since I was sitting in that chair due to my inability to see right. She said, "Yes. They're Gucci and those," she pointed to a thin quarter inch strip of sparkles on the side, "are real Swarovski crystals." Okay? Well, "Do they offer this pair without the bling?" She walked over to the appropriate section then returned and said, "No. Sorry." So I requested she, "Show me something less expensive, like a seeing eye dog, maybe." She did and I really liked them. I won't say love because my heart still belonged to Gucci.

The ones I bought were half the price, so when I came home to share my receipt with my husband, I expected congratulations not a conniption fit. But, when he was questioning my powers of restraint, I climbed up on that high horse with him and said "I almost bought a pair with Swarovski crystals, but decided I would sacrifice so our family could buy groceries this month." He rolled his eyes and I thought to myself that he would really regret overreacting if I do in fact get kidnapped!

Inconvenient Injuries

So, the jury’s still out on whether or not my jaw is fractured. My family doctor thought it might be, so she sent me to get x-rays yesterday. My arm looked so rough that the nice lady at the radiology clinic took some pictures of it, too, on the house. Of course, she owed me a favor after she touched and manipulated my sore jaw so much that I was considering breaking hers.

My family doctor also instructed me to take some time off of all strenuous activity for a couple of days, so that my left bicep could heal. I wanted to clarify that running was still okay, but she said, no, because it was too jarring. I was thinking if I run more, there would be less of me to jar around, so it was somewhat counterintuitive. (Don’t get to use that word every day.) And three miles never killed anyone, so I went for a careful jog this morning. But, I did decide to take a break from other strenuous activities, like laundry, dishes, and making my bed.

I get to return to boot camp tomorrow, where our instructors continue to experiment with ways to make us scream and nearly pass out. The low point in Tuesday’s class was when we had to get in a plank position and jump our feet forward then re-extend. Sounds rough, right? Well, it gets worse! We had to perform this circus act all the way across the gym! I made it six inches from the finish line and face-planted. It took everything I had just to drag myself the rest of the way. But, for the record, I had a fractured jaw, bruised bicep, and two hours of sleep the night before. And, for a different record, I’d really appreciate it if the custodial staff would mop the gym floor with something in a peppermint flavor next time.

I would be remiss not to point out that the class is so intense that we’ve not only lost classmates, but one of the instructors seems to have dropped out, as well. Of course, I’m only assuming they dropped out, maybe they succumbed to their injuries. I’ve never seen the investigators on C.S.I. find a body and determine the cause of death to be hamstringulation or tricepitis, but I guess it’s possible. Maybe I should send out a search party? I’d go myself, but I’m fighting off a bad case of gym floor poisoning.