Here’s a shout-out to my old phone ring. Every time I hear this song play, I still reach instintively toward my purse.
(Published from a draft written on Nov. 14, 2006)
And it actually was, when I was selected to interview in a panel during my stint at jury duty yesterday. Murder, burglary, robbery and something else I can’t remember, which must not have been as glamorous for me to have forgotten it.
In any case, I got lucky because I could claim financial hardship due to the long length of the trial and the fact that I don’t get paid for jury duty while I’m away from work. But had I been unemployed and/or a trust fund baby who doesn’t really have to worry about my income, I might have considered it because it seemed pretty interesting to be able to witness a trial of that magnitude.
One thing I did learn was something that I always seem to forget until I get put in close quarters with a bunch of other people I don’t know—and that is how incredibly stupid most of the population is. At the risk of sounding like one of those embittered talk radio guys (Keegan, if I do, it’s all your fault), I have to admit I felt completely annoyed and frustrated with the fact that so much of legal system depends on the opinions of people who barely seem capable of walking upright, much less taking evidence presented to them and deciding the fate of an individual’s life.
For example, let’s just talk about our Jury ID badges for a bit. From the moment we entered the jury room where they kept us corralled, we were told repeatedly to memorize the last 4 digits of our Jury ID numbers, because we would be identified by the first letter of our last names followed by those 4 digits.
This didn’t really become too much of a problem until we were being interviewed in the panel by the judge. First, there was the woman who barely spoke English and answered the judge’s patient and deliberate pronunciation of the question, “Now, did you understand what I just told you?” by staring at him blankly and saying, “I don’t know.” Sigh.
Now, the last adjective I’d use to describe myself is xenophobic, wholeheartedly embracing the melting pot concept on which this country was built and even going so far as shunning those who get upset by multi-lingual signage. However, what I don’t understand is why on Earth this woman ever filled out paperwork to register to vote, which is how I’m guessing she ended up with jury duty. As much as it is her right to exercise as she chooses, it just seems like too ambitious of a task for someone with her lingual handicap.
On to the next gaffe I witnessed, this time committed by an individual approximately my age—a native speaker, I might add—who had a pretty difficult time understanding the concept of anonymity and why it might work to his advantage.
When the judge called out, “F4567?” repeatedly, only to get the response of crickets chirping, he moved to the next step of saying, “OK, now I’m just going to say that the first name is David. David, can you please look at your badge to see if you are F4567.” This causes more confusion and silence. Until the David in question looked up and said, “Do you mean David Framton?” Please keep in mind that it had been announced at the very beginning of the trial that the defendant was in the court at that moment.
Needless to say, I didn’t have to pull a Liz Lemon and claim to be able to read people’s thoughts to get out of performing my civic duty. But as I drove home, relieved that I would be able to resume my regularly-scheduled life, I felt a twinge of guilt that as someone who can read, write and wipe myself after using the bathroom, they really could have used me on that jury.
These three pictures I took with my phone pretty much describe my feelings about yesterday, which I mistakenly thought was Thursday at a few points during the day. It’s understandable. They both start with the letter T.
The first one shows the view from Groundworks, the coffee shop that isn’t in the first floor of the building, but is totally worth the 5-minute or less walk for the superior prices and brew.
The second was the aftermath of a car accident, or what we could see of it from our 6th story vantage point.
And lastly, here’s the last thing I see of my office at work every day before I leave for home.
Hmm…
Merry Almost Christmas, Burbank!
So, Keegan and I went on a stroll to downtown Burbank, an act that always gets me at least a little nostalgic since my first apartment in Los Angeles is within walking distance. We were on our way to go see Twilight, so I already felt as if I had to be extra special appreciative to Keegan, since he was totally indulging me with the movie selection for the evening.
But that didn’t stop me from pushing my luck and asking him to pose in front of the giant Christmas tree decorations posted up just outside the movie theaters. I’m pretty sure that I promised not to make public the photo of Keegan standing underneath the oversized lights.
So, yeah…don’t tell him.
Have you seen the new commercials for this Palm Centro thing? It’s some kind of phone and at the forefront of their marketing campaign is a thin, young, hipster Santa Claus who is so cool, you can spot him on any given night spinning at a rooftop party in the city.
I don’t know how I feel about this youthful view of Santa. As artificial of an image as he’s become, there was still something comforting about the “bowl full jelly” around his middle. Did he have a mid-life crisis? Do I have to worry about running into Santa at my gym and putting me on his naughty list because he’s noticed that I’m skimping on my cardio training? Or even worse, does Santa now have ABS??? Please God, tell me he doesn’t have a Bowflex at home and Zone bars in his pockets.
Call me old-fashioned, but I like my Santa like I like my worthless drunks—red-nosed, with a gut and convinced that he can squeeze himself into my house through the chimney. I refuse to serve the man low-carb cookies and skim milk.
Utilizing my Facebook status update (via Twitter) to laugh under my breath about the dirty interpretation I made about a co-worker’s comment in passing about a UPS delivery to our office reception, I telegraphed my filthy thoughts to the world.
Of course, I was discovered by the very root of the source when a response status was made by the originator of the comment in question.
But let’s be honest here, I was totally hoping to be found out. It was a technological cry for help!
Is it too late to try for that supermodel career that never fell into my lap like I was hoping it would? According to America’s Next Top Model, the bastion of the fashion industry, it is—not even if I tried using the sparkles and fairy dust of a magical Ipex bra.
Dammit. I guess I’d better get back to work then.







































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