Monday, December 7, 2009

A Jury of My Peers

Weeeeeeeelllll, I have now seen it all. That's a pretty big statement considering that I have seen quite a bit in my 40+ years.

I had to report for jury duty. Or as I now like to call it "Holy Batsh*t, our legal system is in a whole lotta hot water duty". I don't even know where to start with the whole-lotta wrong I saw.

I get to the court house early and finally find a parking spot that is somewhere between the building and the middle of bejesus nowhere. I park my car, pay the meter, walk in the rain/drizzle to the courthouse while avoiding the advances of a couple of "displaced" persons. Then I get to the courthouse and have to go through a metal detector and a security screening process that would be an embarrassment to even the White House screening staff. I took my knitting bag and a book since anyone who has ever been called to jury duty knows, you are going to be bored off your bum for hours on end. First off, my knitting needles were bamboo and the tips are rounded, so any threat this middle class white chick was going to be was to her yarn and not to the judge. Bubba the cop-wanna-be who was in charge of checking my bag, kept trying to UNSCREW the needles from the plastic cord that attaches them! Yep, boy wonder was a mental giant among men, but he is nothing compared to the people I got to spend the next couple of hours with in an air conditioned (it's 40 degrees outside!) room.

Once I sat down, I quickly got out my knitting and tried not to make eye contact. I heard somewhere that it's a sign of aggression in prisons and since a lot of the people in that room looked like they were fairly intimate with that part of our legal system, I wasn't taking any chances. Somewhere between my fifth K1P1 row, I looked up to see something that even in a Ho-ho/xanax induced craze, I would NEVER have thought up. There was this woman, weighing in at roughly 275 pounds, walking towards me. By looking at her hair and make up, you would have thought she was going to a casting call for The Love of Ray Jay. Then I caught full sight of her fashion choice for the day.

When I got my jury summons, right there at the bottom was a little note about wearing clothing appropriate for the somber atmosphere of a court room. I have no idea what it said at the bottom of this lady's jury summons. I think it might have said "Pimp and Ho attire welcome" or wear what you wore the last time you were in front of a judge. She had on jeans in a size she probably wore back in 1997, but hasn't seen since then and ~ wait for it~~~~~~ A TUBE TOP!!!! With sequins!!! And this tube top was working overtime trying to keep her massive mamas hidden from view. Personally, the fact that everyone in that room didn't get a full frontal assault from those jugglies is a testament to the strength of cotton. Did I mention it is December? It was 43 degrees outside? The jury room was freezing as well? To her credit, she had completed the outfit with a big Michelian Man looking parka, but she wasn't wearing it. Just carrying it around as a fashion statement. All of this was being moved around by a pair of 6 inch, bright red, plastic-leather-clear-heeled hooker heels.

It took me five minutes to close my mouth and realize she was not going to topple over me as she passed. And trust me, I was so relieved when she chose to sit on the bench two rows away from me. I spent the rest of the time waiting to be called, looking at this woman and thinking, "If this was your best choice of the things you had to wear. What was your second choice?"

After that it was pretty much a blur. I was called. They asked questions. I answered in the manner I felt that would work best to insure I NOT get selected. Yes, I believe in the death penalty for stealing candy from babies. Yes, I think we should bring back the guillotine. No, I don't think embezzling should be a capital offense, if you are taking rich people's money. Could we hurry this up my Knights of the White Magnolia meeting is in two hours and I have to pick my sheets up at the cleaners. Yeah, none of that worked because I was impanelled and have to report back on January 11th.

As we were being released for the day, I saw Ms. Tube Top walking out of the court house. Guess what? She had a nice notice of impanelment piece of paper in her hands as well. I now feel free to commit any crime I want, because I can tell you that if that woman was on my jury, I would have significant grounds for an appeal. None of my peers would be caught dead in a tube top, let a lone a tube top in a courtroom, in December!!

Sunday, December 6, 2009

An Open Letter to my Cats

Dear Family Felines:

As you well know, things have started to settle into a nice routine since the newest edition to the Tastrophie household arrived. Now that we have overcome the small issue of a certain orange someone's addiction to my panties (see blog post of September 23rd), I would like to address some of the other issues we are experiencing while cohabiting.

First, my house is not a NASCAR race track. Nowhere does it say Indie 500 or Churchill Downs on my property. I know the lay out of the rooms makes a nice little circle if I leave all the doors open. It is tempting to take a lap or two around the house every now and then and being the competitive siblings that you are, I understand the need for a little race-and-chase. However, we might want to rethink the timing of our daily workouts. I suggest some time between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. when I am at work and not likely to get my legs broken by the sudden impact of two felines going top speed around the corner. And not between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. when I am still coming to terms with the fact that I have to be awake, for which I am not the happiest of campers to begin with. Notice that I did not include any time after 9 p.m. or before 5 a.m. This time is reserved for Mommy's sleeping and should be revered as sacred. I have inflicted bodily harm on people for messing with my sleeping; I am not above knocking your racing rear to the curb at 5 a.m.

Second, if it is in a glass/mug or on a nice plate and it smells good, it belongs to me. I do not need you to check my drink/food for poison as I am the one who fixed it and poisoning is not the method I am going to chose to off myself with any time soon. Especially after you have just returned from using the cat "facilities" and have litter mushed in your paws. Please be so kind as to at least do a preliminary wash down before attempting to check the coldness of my ice cubes with your paws. I bought you both some really nice, overly priced prices of "flatware" on which your meals are placed every morning. I can't really imagine that your culinary tastes run towards the Lean Cousine and South Beach Diet pallet as you mostly lick your rear end or fur on a daily basis. I still find it a stretch that the makers of cat food pretend you actually know the difference between roasted duck and chicken tartar. Seriously, I don't know why they just don't flavor them like fur and hinney, since that's what you are licking half the time anyway. Either way, since my tastes do not run in the fur and hinney directions, I would appreciate it if you would not mess with my food.

Third, personal habits. There are boundaries to our relationship. Do I go and stare at you when you are in the litter box? No. I would appreciate it if you would not walk in and sit smack dab in front of me and stare while I am trying to use mine. First, it creeps me out. Second, I don't work well under pressure and your need to have the end-all-be-all of staring contests at this crucial moment in my life really messes with my head. I am coming to terms with your fascination towards the shower/bath. I have stopped having small heart attacks at the sight of you jumping through the shower curtain and shower liner a~la Psycho/Norman Bates. And I no longer hear the theme from Jaws every time you stalk me while I am in the bath tube. Which pretty much leaves your staring at me while I put my make up on the only thing that we have left to deal with in the bathroom.

This brings us to other things for which I don't need an audience. To put it politely, if Mommy is gettin' jiggy with it in the bedroom, you should go entertain yourself in the other room. Really. I can't tell you what it does to my psyche to look up and have the two of you sitting on the dresser staring at me like the olympic gymnastic judging team. Half the time I expect you to start holding up score cards and to hear Nadia Comaneci doing a recap of the night's activities. I had both of you snipped to keep the feline population in check, not to create two voyeuristic peeping tom cats.

Now, I know that I have some issues in our cohabitation as well, and I promise to work on these. As soon as I win the lottery, I promise to stop working 14 hour days and be home more often or at least awake when I am home during the week. I understand your addiction to that kitty-crack-cat-nip and will make a sincere effort to have a better stash on hand at all times, and not just when I remember to pick it up while standing in line at the pet store after running out of cat food at the end of the month and having to feed you tuna for two days in a row until payday. In addition, I promise to try to curl into an even smaller ball while sleeping in order to give you maximum bed space available for your night time slumbers. I know it was wrong of me to think that my bed is there for my own sleep comfort. Silly me.