The Jury Coordinators showed us a film. About how important we were. When I went to get coffee, I realized that the people in the back couldn't hear a thing over the buzz of the ice machine. I wasn't sure why there was an ice machine since there weren't any cokes or fruit or pate or smoked salmon. Not even cream cheese or mayo. But I'm not complainin'.
They had little packets of chicken broth and hot chocolate. Swiss Miss, mind you. Not some generic crap. Don't you hate how they try to make the generic stuff sound like the real deal? Like, instead of Swiss Miss, they call it Bliss Kiss Chocolate Flavored Liquid Beverage Substitute. And they make the packaging eerily similar to S.M.
It's actually very clever. Take a trip to your local Sav-A-Little and see what I mean. I've learned to be less of a brand snob, but when it comes to salsa and cola, I refuse to compromise. Off-brand salsa tastes like ketchup with tabasco and anything other than Coca-Cola tastes like crap. Give me club soda with Vivarin and I'm better off.
I should go. I'm still contemplating why I was rejected. Was it because The D was in Military Police in the Air Force for 20 years? Or because I emulated Angie Dickenson in Police Woman with his 38? Or because I'd been a victim of domestic violence when my Emotional Vampire former sister choked me. The judge (in our little sidebar with the three, very serious prosecutors and the cool looking, swoopie-haired-wet-behind-the-ears public defender, plus the court reporters) rephrased my diagnosis of psycho as "having issues." I said, "To put it mildly. She has Narcissistic Personality Disorder." At which point, I think they decided I was a loose cannon. And I'm sure cannons are as bad or worse than a semi-automatic, which the defendent was alledged to have possessed.
I only brought up the domestic violence thing because he asked that question pointedly. And I did NOT want to be held in contempt. I was discreet and asked to speak in private. Because I didn't want to air my dirty laundry, on the microphone, in front of the whole courtroom. Besides, I was feeling insecure after walking around with my zipper undone.
There's so much more to tell. I'll just say this. I only made it two-thirds way through my brand new Oprah magazine before the judge gave me the boot. I didn't even get lunch. I'm done for at least ten years.
I'm going to set my email on auto-reply to say I'm in Federal Jury Duty. Head to the Coast. Oh, just remembered my friend L is going to Mexico this week. Ixnay on that idea. Maybe my vacant rental house. Where I can take a hot bath without sewage backing up into my yard. Order Chinese. Ask a neighbor to give me the password to their wireless router so I can play Words With Friends.
It would be easier, though, to stick a chicken pot pie in the microwave for The D, run a hot bath without letting it drain, and hope to god the Public Works Department smiles on me. Or think of the sewage backing up into my yard as organic fertilizer. God knows I could use some good grass.
Let's be clear though. I mean grass in my yard. As in Bermuda or Zoysia. Because it's still a mudpit. That little comment was a nod to a friend who thought the catnip my mother found in a kitchen drawer (I wrote about it in one of my first blog posts) was something other than catnip. I have my vices, but that's not one of them. And that's all I'll say.
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