I'm not sure if this is a good idea or not, but I've started another blog called The Tennis Wench. It's a place where I'm going to keep ALL my tennis posts. I think I'm going to have them here too. I'm trying to figure it all out. But in the meantime, I wanted to tell you about it in case you want to check it. Below is my first post:
I'm Off Today
I play tennis most Fridays. But not today. I'm off the schedule today and already I can feel the crankiness setting in.
I jumped out of bed early hoping to find a message in my inbox that someone is looking for a sub.
I've been known to take a more active role. I've been known to send out an email to every tennis friend I have, telling them which days I'm free to sub that week in case anyone can't make their game. This technique has paid off well. Women will take me up on my offer for (what I consider) outlandish alternatives. They'll skip tennis for a doctor's appointment, or a hair appointment, or for (heaven forbid) work. I almost understand skipping tennis to tend to a sick child, although there are tables and chairs in the lounge...a television...a snack machine...a bathroom. Really, what more are they going to get at home?
This week I didn't send out an availability email. I decided to just let fate take it's course. And I don't mind telling you I don't like where it's gotten me.
There's a certain amount of shame attached to being a tennis wench. And I feel it now, sitting in the middle of my throat. Like a tennis ball.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My Pilgrimage to Jericho
No, not that Jericho. The one on Long Island. The teenager had a reunion with his friends from his mountain climbing trip and the event took place in Jericho.
I’ve never been to Jericho, in part because of the Long Island Expressway – a highway whose patrons seems to end up in a complete standstill regularly and for no apparent reason. I pride myself on never driving on Long Island and hoped that this event of the teenager’s would not sully my record. Two days before the gathering, I discovered that the Long Island Railroad was not running any service past Jamaica, Queens all weekend long. My only remaining option was to drive him.
My son had a party back here to attend Saturday evening, so instead of spending my entire Saturday in the car, driving him thither and picking him up six hours hence, I decided to just spend the day in Jericho.
I planned to leave our house at 8 AM Saturday morning, but we didn’t get on the road until close to 8:30. This is because, even though I was up at 6:00, I was wholly incapable of organizing myself for the day. I can’t imagine what I expected from Jericho, but I viewed the day as my being banished to some sort of deserted island, that I suffer greatly if I were left idle and without creature comforts. I had work to do, so I put “library” on my itinerary and packed my laptop. But I also decided I would take a walk, so I wore walking gear and brought my iPod. Then I brought a change of clothes, in case I needed to freshen up.
I brought alternate shoes, in case my feet hurt. A book, in case I finished my work. Several pair of socks in varying thicknesses, in case I wanted to shop for boots. Also, all my notebooks that accumulate all over my desk, so I could organize my to-do lists into one neat place. I brought a bottle of water, a Tupperware container of oatmeal and apples (for breakfast), a granola bar (for lunch) and a separate coat and hat in case the one I was wearing was too warm (or not warm enough) for the library.
I threw an asthma inhaler and a handful of Benadryl in my bag in case my son had a bad reaction to the host’s Collie, but I forgot to give him either. I programmed my Aunt’s number into my cell phone so we could perhaps meet for lunch. I brought another notebook full of column ideas and considered bringing my sewing kit and pile of mending, but was too harried at departure time to collect it.
The back seat of my car was piled high with every imaginable project I could think of to stave off boredom, and once I got there I barely touched any of it. I did go to the library and I did get a lot of work done. But I started my day there with a walk, and simply reveled in how rare it is for me to be someplace unfamiliar. My dad always used to tell us: If you want to learn your way around someplace, walk it. And so I did. First making little concentric circles around blocks so I’d be sure not to lose my way, and eventually branching out to other blocks and relying on my terrible sense of direction and the kindness of strangers to guide me back to my starting point.
I noticed that the sidewalks in Jericho are really well maintained. And nearly everyone has a freestanding basketball hoop at the foot of his or her driveway. Some streets have signage, some don’t. There was not one Halloween decoration up, leading me to believe that either they don’t partake, or they have a communal agreement to pull in all their ghosts and witches immediately after the holiday has passed.
None of these were life-altering revelations, but they were just interesting enough for me to realize that I don’t need to worry so much about how to occupy my waiting time. It’s not like I was spending the day in the Emergency Room or at Jury Duty. There was a whole new town here for me to explore and that brought its own unexpected thrill.
I’m not really adventurous about anything – food, clothing, travel – so it doesn’t take much for me to feel like I’ve conquered something big. I figured out how to access the WiFi in the library – and then taught someone else how. I got myself from the library to a deli and back again on foot. I managed to make it home right on schedule armed only with my wits and my hateful GPS system. Maybe that’s just the nature of Jericho – walls tumbling. My little anti-adventure walls: poof, right down.
I’ve never been to Jericho, in part because of the Long Island Expressway – a highway whose patrons seems to end up in a complete standstill regularly and for no apparent reason. I pride myself on never driving on Long Island and hoped that this event of the teenager’s would not sully my record. Two days before the gathering, I discovered that the Long Island Railroad was not running any service past Jamaica, Queens all weekend long. My only remaining option was to drive him.
My son had a party back here to attend Saturday evening, so instead of spending my entire Saturday in the car, driving him thither and picking him up six hours hence, I decided to just spend the day in Jericho.
I planned to leave our house at 8 AM Saturday morning, but we didn’t get on the road until close to 8:30. This is because, even though I was up at 6:00, I was wholly incapable of organizing myself for the day. I can’t imagine what I expected from Jericho, but I viewed the day as my being banished to some sort of deserted island, that I suffer greatly if I were left idle and without creature comforts. I had work to do, so I put “library” on my itinerary and packed my laptop. But I also decided I would take a walk, so I wore walking gear and brought my iPod. Then I brought a change of clothes, in case I needed to freshen up.
I brought alternate shoes, in case my feet hurt. A book, in case I finished my work. Several pair of socks in varying thicknesses, in case I wanted to shop for boots. Also, all my notebooks that accumulate all over my desk, so I could organize my to-do lists into one neat place. I brought a bottle of water, a Tupperware container of oatmeal and apples (for breakfast), a granola bar (for lunch) and a separate coat and hat in case the one I was wearing was too warm (or not warm enough) for the library.
I threw an asthma inhaler and a handful of Benadryl in my bag in case my son had a bad reaction to the host’s Collie, but I forgot to give him either. I programmed my Aunt’s number into my cell phone so we could perhaps meet for lunch. I brought another notebook full of column ideas and considered bringing my sewing kit and pile of mending, but was too harried at departure time to collect it.
The back seat of my car was piled high with every imaginable project I could think of to stave off boredom, and once I got there I barely touched any of it. I did go to the library and I did get a lot of work done. But I started my day there with a walk, and simply reveled in how rare it is for me to be someplace unfamiliar. My dad always used to tell us: If you want to learn your way around someplace, walk it. And so I did. First making little concentric circles around blocks so I’d be sure not to lose my way, and eventually branching out to other blocks and relying on my terrible sense of direction and the kindness of strangers to guide me back to my starting point.
I noticed that the sidewalks in Jericho are really well maintained. And nearly everyone has a freestanding basketball hoop at the foot of his or her driveway. Some streets have signage, some don’t. There was not one Halloween decoration up, leading me to believe that either they don’t partake, or they have a communal agreement to pull in all their ghosts and witches immediately after the holiday has passed.
None of these were life-altering revelations, but they were just interesting enough for me to realize that I don’t need to worry so much about how to occupy my waiting time. It’s not like I was spending the day in the Emergency Room or at Jury Duty. There was a whole new town here for me to explore and that brought its own unexpected thrill.
I’m not really adventurous about anything – food, clothing, travel – so it doesn’t take much for me to feel like I’ve conquered something big. I figured out how to access the WiFi in the library – and then taught someone else how. I got myself from the library to a deli and back again on foot. I managed to make it home right on schedule armed only with my wits and my hateful GPS system. Maybe that’s just the nature of Jericho – walls tumbling. My little anti-adventure walls: poof, right down.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
My Writing Problem
There’s been some weird shit going on here, and I’m not even just talking about perimenopause.
I don’t know whether anyone has noticed, but I hardly post here at all anymore. I’d gotten into a groove of maybe 2-3 posts a week and now I feel like I might do 2-3 per month. I’m not sure exactly why. God knows I still have a lot to say.
Part of it started when I got the Patch column. It’s a little unnerving for me to write for a bigger (read: unknown and potentially scary) audience and I find I need a little time to recuperate. I work on my column on Tuesday. My editor posts it on Wednesday. On Thursday and Friday I attend to all the work I blew off early in the week so I could get my column together. And then I sail into the weekend with the intention of writing next week’s Patch column so I don’t feel so under-the-gun on Tuesday. The weekend comes and goes. Monday needs to be productive in other ways. And then I’m right back where I started on Tuesday. Did you notice? There’s no blog writing in that schedule.
I’ve had other setbacks too. I wrote (what I thought was) a funny, interesting blog post about a month ago, about a woman I know only peripherally. I didn’t use her name, and I didn’t think the piece was at all damning, but I sent it to her before I posted it and she asked me not use it. I found the blogging horse surprisingly difficult to get back onto after that.
Then, a writer-friend asked me to come and speak in her journalism class. She teaches at the local college and often brings in guest speakers so her students can ask questions of and get perspective from people “in the field.” At first I declined. “I don’t really feel qualified to talk to your class. I’m not a journalist,” I wrote to her in an email. She immediately wrote me back that I would be perfect for a lot of reasons and sent me a paragraph of things she hoped I would talk about: “How long does it take you to write a column? Where do you get your ideas? How did your own college experience prepare you for this work?”
Those were all things I could talk about, so I readily accepted and dove into the grueling task of figuring out what I would wear.
A few weeks before I was slated to speak, I was at Back-To-School Night at my younger son’s school. His fifth-grade teacher is passionate about writing and is always the one to volunteer to get additional training and attend educational workshops when the district attempts to better its writing curriculum. She stood in front of a big group of parents (two classes full) and called upon us to volunteer in the classroom. “How many of you in here are writers?” she asked. A ton of hands went up. But mine wasn’t one of them.
I left there a little shaken at my own behavior. I write every single day, I thought. Why can’t I say I’m a writer?
That particular identity-blip (what’s the small, beginning kernel of a crisis called?) catapulted me into the idea of getting an MFA. Maybe if I actually studied writing I would be able to call myself a writer. I started talking to people about it, taking women out to lunch, researching online, getting catalogs. There are a lot of programs to choose from, but they all have one thing in common: They all seem like an enormous amount of work. I would read a description of this or that university’s program and as soon as I came upon the word “rigor” (as in “academic rigor”) my eyes glazed over. I take two spin classes a week. Does that not seem enough rigor for one person’s life?
I haven’t completely abandoned the graduate program idea, but I have cooled on it a bit. I went to my friend’s class and she and her students “interviewed” me. Overall it went ok. (Only one student actually fell asleep.) I heard myself saying things like “I don’t consider myself a good writer as much as a competent writer,” and “I choose subjects I can handle; I’m not really a big thinker.” That’s all true, but it was still troubling to hear it come out of my mouth. I could have just as easily posted a sign on my forehead that said, “I’m a piece of poop.”
One woman asked me how I was able to “write funny,” and I stared at her blankly, wondering if this was the moment that I should recount my countless neuroses and decades of therapy sessions. Do I dare tell her that her chances of “writing funny” are severely limited if she hasn’t grown up fat and insecure? Instead I just said, “Good question. I’m not really sure.” And at that moment, nothing felt more true.
There have been other impediments too, and I think those are perimenopausally induced. Sometimes I just scream at people rather than writing about wishing I could scream at people. Then when I sit down to write, there’s nothing left to say.
Go out more. Stay in more. Read more. Watch more TV. Loosen up. Develop a schedule. I’ve considered all these things. And where I’ve netted out is to just start writing about my writing problem, and see if maybe somehow that might make it go away.
I don’t know whether anyone has noticed, but I hardly post here at all anymore. I’d gotten into a groove of maybe 2-3 posts a week and now I feel like I might do 2-3 per month. I’m not sure exactly why. God knows I still have a lot to say.
Part of it started when I got the Patch column. It’s a little unnerving for me to write for a bigger (read: unknown and potentially scary) audience and I find I need a little time to recuperate. I work on my column on Tuesday. My editor posts it on Wednesday. On Thursday and Friday I attend to all the work I blew off early in the week so I could get my column together. And then I sail into the weekend with the intention of writing next week’s Patch column so I don’t feel so under-the-gun on Tuesday. The weekend comes and goes. Monday needs to be productive in other ways. And then I’m right back where I started on Tuesday. Did you notice? There’s no blog writing in that schedule.
I’ve had other setbacks too. I wrote (what I thought was) a funny, interesting blog post about a month ago, about a woman I know only peripherally. I didn’t use her name, and I didn’t think the piece was at all damning, but I sent it to her before I posted it and she asked me not use it. I found the blogging horse surprisingly difficult to get back onto after that.
Then, a writer-friend asked me to come and speak in her journalism class. She teaches at the local college and often brings in guest speakers so her students can ask questions of and get perspective from people “in the field.” At first I declined. “I don’t really feel qualified to talk to your class. I’m not a journalist,” I wrote to her in an email. She immediately wrote me back that I would be perfect for a lot of reasons and sent me a paragraph of things she hoped I would talk about: “How long does it take you to write a column? Where do you get your ideas? How did your own college experience prepare you for this work?”
Those were all things I could talk about, so I readily accepted and dove into the grueling task of figuring out what I would wear.
A few weeks before I was slated to speak, I was at Back-To-School Night at my younger son’s school. His fifth-grade teacher is passionate about writing and is always the one to volunteer to get additional training and attend educational workshops when the district attempts to better its writing curriculum. She stood in front of a big group of parents (two classes full) and called upon us to volunteer in the classroom. “How many of you in here are writers?” she asked. A ton of hands went up. But mine wasn’t one of them.
I left there a little shaken at my own behavior. I write every single day, I thought. Why can’t I say I’m a writer?
That particular identity-blip (what’s the small, beginning kernel of a crisis called?) catapulted me into the idea of getting an MFA. Maybe if I actually studied writing I would be able to call myself a writer. I started talking to people about it, taking women out to lunch, researching online, getting catalogs. There are a lot of programs to choose from, but they all have one thing in common: They all seem like an enormous amount of work. I would read a description of this or that university’s program and as soon as I came upon the word “rigor” (as in “academic rigor”) my eyes glazed over. I take two spin classes a week. Does that not seem enough rigor for one person’s life?
I haven’t completely abandoned the graduate program idea, but I have cooled on it a bit. I went to my friend’s class and she and her students “interviewed” me. Overall it went ok. (Only one student actually fell asleep.) I heard myself saying things like “I don’t consider myself a good writer as much as a competent writer,” and “I choose subjects I can handle; I’m not really a big thinker.” That’s all true, but it was still troubling to hear it come out of my mouth. I could have just as easily posted a sign on my forehead that said, “I’m a piece of poop.”
One woman asked me how I was able to “write funny,” and I stared at her blankly, wondering if this was the moment that I should recount my countless neuroses and decades of therapy sessions. Do I dare tell her that her chances of “writing funny” are severely limited if she hasn’t grown up fat and insecure? Instead I just said, “Good question. I’m not really sure.” And at that moment, nothing felt more true.
There have been other impediments too, and I think those are perimenopausally induced. Sometimes I just scream at people rather than writing about wishing I could scream at people. Then when I sit down to write, there’s nothing left to say.
Go out more. Stay in more. Read more. Watch more TV. Loosen up. Develop a schedule. I’ve considered all these things. And where I’ve netted out is to just start writing about my writing problem, and see if maybe somehow that might make it go away.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Looking on the Bright Side (of Jury Duty)
I know I’ve spent some time complaining about jury duty, so I feel compelled to present the other side.
There are things I actually love about being there.
I love how organized it is. I love the language that’s particular to courtrooms and the law. And I love the theater of it all.
I love the movie that they show at the beginning of your first day about how it’s a huge inconvenience to serve, but it really is everyone’s responsibility. I know people who have been wrongly accused of crimes and it’s only through this type of system that they might possibly get a fair crack at justice. I’m not saying it’s a slam-dunk, but as the judge in the orientation movie says, at least they’re not being judged by tyrants, or by “professional jurors.” No one wants to be at jury duty. In that way, a jury pen is the great equalizer.
Well, the first day there was one woman who was happy to be there. I saw her as soon as I arrived and immediately pegged her as The Happiest Juror In Essex County. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face, even on the long lines, in the cold waiting room, on the uncomfy chairs. During lunch, she happened to sit across the table from me and I started up a conversation right away. “You’re the happiest person in this whole building,” I said. It was a risk, I know. She could have been a nut.
But she wasn’t. She was just a Special Ed teacher from a Vocational School and in all her many years of adulthood she’d never been asked to serve. This was a novelty to her. And an honor. She came to it with Beginner’s Mind (which is a Buddhist term that basically refers to how when you don’t judge things and imbue them with all your residual ca-ca, everything – EVERYTHING – is pretty remarkable and amazing). She was fascinated by the proceedings and her excitement was infectious. It prompted me to start noticing what was lovely about being there as well.
I love how beautiful that courthouse is. From the outside, the old structure is an amazing piece of architecture, and I’ve seen parts of the interior renovation that have taken my breath away. The landscape and grounds are beautiful: marble benches, flowering shrubs, quiet fountains.
I love how they seem to redo the jury pen every few years – keep it from getting run down and shoddy. Flat screen TVs in the waiting rooms. A clean, quiet wireless enclave for computer users. Free coffee and tea (and not just any coffee – they have several of those fancy Keurigs that I like to play with whether I want a cup of coffee or not).
More Beginner’s Mind: There was a judge in the cafeteria that was dressed like Mr. Rogers. The sandwich counter serves whole wheat wraps, which you can get with anything you want in them. And one TV in the café was playing Judge Mathis (which is not nearly as good as Judge Judy, in my humble opinion, but is it’s own special delight nonetheless). Best for me today was the conversation I overheard between three women at the next table about Autism and Asperger’s. A fourth woman within earshot interjected: “I heard you talking about Asperger’s and it caught my attention…I have Asperger’s…” and then the four of them were off on that for an hour.
That’s what I love most about jury duty: that a disparate group of people can come together – I mean really come together, not like on a subway or a post office line, but like at a cocktail party, which is what jury duty always seems like to me toward the end. As the hours tick by, you can see people striking up conversations with strangers. Someone they just sat next to during voir dire, or the folks at the coffee table. People laughing, telling stories, like a big ole block party. I would pass by different groups and think, “They’re having fun. Maybe I should join them.”
Jury duty makes that very act so easy to do. Unlike a party, where I’m afraid I may be imposing on a longtime circle of friends, here I know that no one knows each other. They’re just friendly and having fun.
Sometimes it takes something cataclysmic for a large group of strangers to pull together and make the best of a trying situation. And sometimes it takes nothing more than just donning Beginners Mind and showing up for your civic duty.
There are things I actually love about being there.
I love how organized it is. I love the language that’s particular to courtrooms and the law. And I love the theater of it all.
I love the movie that they show at the beginning of your first day about how it’s a huge inconvenience to serve, but it really is everyone’s responsibility. I know people who have been wrongly accused of crimes and it’s only through this type of system that they might possibly get a fair crack at justice. I’m not saying it’s a slam-dunk, but as the judge in the orientation movie says, at least they’re not being judged by tyrants, or by “professional jurors.” No one wants to be at jury duty. In that way, a jury pen is the great equalizer.
Well, the first day there was one woman who was happy to be there. I saw her as soon as I arrived and immediately pegged her as The Happiest Juror In Essex County. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face, even on the long lines, in the cold waiting room, on the uncomfy chairs. During lunch, she happened to sit across the table from me and I started up a conversation right away. “You’re the happiest person in this whole building,” I said. It was a risk, I know. She could have been a nut.
But she wasn’t. She was just a Special Ed teacher from a Vocational School and in all her many years of adulthood she’d never been asked to serve. This was a novelty to her. And an honor. She came to it with Beginner’s Mind (which is a Buddhist term that basically refers to how when you don’t judge things and imbue them with all your residual ca-ca, everything – EVERYTHING – is pretty remarkable and amazing). She was fascinated by the proceedings and her excitement was infectious. It prompted me to start noticing what was lovely about being there as well.
I love how beautiful that courthouse is. From the outside, the old structure is an amazing piece of architecture, and I’ve seen parts of the interior renovation that have taken my breath away. The landscape and grounds are beautiful: marble benches, flowering shrubs, quiet fountains.
I love how they seem to redo the jury pen every few years – keep it from getting run down and shoddy. Flat screen TVs in the waiting rooms. A clean, quiet wireless enclave for computer users. Free coffee and tea (and not just any coffee – they have several of those fancy Keurigs that I like to play with whether I want a cup of coffee or not).
More Beginner’s Mind: There was a judge in the cafeteria that was dressed like Mr. Rogers. The sandwich counter serves whole wheat wraps, which you can get with anything you want in them. And one TV in the café was playing Judge Mathis (which is not nearly as good as Judge Judy, in my humble opinion, but is it’s own special delight nonetheless). Best for me today was the conversation I overheard between three women at the next table about Autism and Asperger’s. A fourth woman within earshot interjected: “I heard you talking about Asperger’s and it caught my attention…I have Asperger’s…” and then the four of them were off on that for an hour.
That’s what I love most about jury duty: that a disparate group of people can come together – I mean really come together, not like on a subway or a post office line, but like at a cocktail party, which is what jury duty always seems like to me toward the end. As the hours tick by, you can see people striking up conversations with strangers. Someone they just sat next to during voir dire, or the folks at the coffee table. People laughing, telling stories, like a big ole block party. I would pass by different groups and think, “They’re having fun. Maybe I should join them.”
Jury duty makes that very act so easy to do. Unlike a party, where I’m afraid I may be imposing on a longtime circle of friends, here I know that no one knows each other. They’re just friendly and having fun.
Sometimes it takes something cataclysmic for a large group of strangers to pull together and make the best of a trying situation. And sometimes it takes nothing more than just donning Beginners Mind and showing up for your civic duty.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Has Justice Really Been "Served"?
I had lined up a possible sub for myself over the weekend. I couldn’t really bring myself to all out cancel Wednesday tennis, but I did know there was a possibility that I wouldn’t be able to go.
My jury duty was scheduled for Tuesday and Wednesday, but I’ve been down this road before. You clear your schedule for both days and then, after day one, they tell you that you don’t need to report the next day. So I decided to take a wait and see approach before I locked in and gave up my tennis slot.
Yesterday I showed up with a satchel full of books and projects to amuse myself and really believed that I would not be asked back for my second day of service. I sat in the waiting area all morning, listening as names were called for various courtrooms. Mine never was. Lunch came and went. I used the time to walk around outside. More sitting. Reading made me sleepy and I could feel my mood becoming sour. Three o’clock rolled around and still my name never made a list. Well, I thought, at least this day is almost over. And then I can play tennis tomorrow!
Not so fast.
At 3:15 they rattled off a long list of people and my name was on the list! “Damn it,” I said to the woman next to me. Why are they calling people now? No judge is going to start trial selection at 3:30. This whole place closes down at 4:00.
We all gathered round the front desk and listened to the young man who had been botching names over the loudspeaker all day. “This group has been randomly selected to be dismissed for the day…” he droned. Sad, lifeless faces lit up with beaming smiles. “…but you will all need to report back here tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.”
Are you fucking kidding me? I have tennis!
OK. OK. Regroup.
I emailed my tennis sub and told her she could definitely play. I brought my laptop today so I didn’t have to wade through a single moment of lackluster books. I wore sneakers so I could have a good and proper lunchtime walk. But that’s not all. I also decided not to shower. And to wear my son’s black Volcom hoodie. There is no way anyone is going to pick me for a jury in the state I’ve shown up today.
They can have my body, but…
My jury duty was scheduled for Tuesday and Wednesday, but I’ve been down this road before. You clear your schedule for both days and then, after day one, they tell you that you don’t need to report the next day. So I decided to take a wait and see approach before I locked in and gave up my tennis slot.
Yesterday I showed up with a satchel full of books and projects to amuse myself and really believed that I would not be asked back for my second day of service. I sat in the waiting area all morning, listening as names were called for various courtrooms. Mine never was. Lunch came and went. I used the time to walk around outside. More sitting. Reading made me sleepy and I could feel my mood becoming sour. Three o’clock rolled around and still my name never made a list. Well, I thought, at least this day is almost over. And then I can play tennis tomorrow!
Not so fast.
At 3:15 they rattled off a long list of people and my name was on the list! “Damn it,” I said to the woman next to me. Why are they calling people now? No judge is going to start trial selection at 3:30. This whole place closes down at 4:00.
We all gathered round the front desk and listened to the young man who had been botching names over the loudspeaker all day. “This group has been randomly selected to be dismissed for the day…” he droned. Sad, lifeless faces lit up with beaming smiles. “…but you will all need to report back here tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.”
Are you fucking kidding me? I have tennis!
OK. OK. Regroup.
I emailed my tennis sub and told her she could definitely play. I brought my laptop today so I didn’t have to wade through a single moment of lackluster books. I wore sneakers so I could have a good and proper lunchtime walk. But that’s not all. I also decided not to shower. And to wear my son’s black Volcom hoodie. There is no way anyone is going to pick me for a jury in the state I’ve shown up today.
They can have my body, but…
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
LOST
What on earth has happened to me? I used to be able to find my way anywhere. Now I spend most of the time in my car groaning and cursing – as if I’m labor again.I had to be at the courthouse for jury duty today at 8:15. The trip is less than 10 miles. Still, it’s rush hour and it’s Newark, so I left myself plenty of time: 45 minutes for a 20-minute trip. I walked into the building close to 9 o’clock. Forty-five minutes LATE. I hate being late. Even for jury duty.
I conscientiously followed the directions on the Summons mailer. There was a bit of highway traffic that set me back some, but I was still looking at an 8:30 ETA. Then I got to the parking lots. There was a sign that said Juror Parking with an arrow into a lot and a long, long line of cars waiting to make the turn in. Then there was ANOTHER sign that said Jurors with an arrow pointing straight ahead (and NO line of cars). So I followed THAT sign.
The Summons directions said once I got on a particular road to just follow the Juror Signs. And that’s exactly what I did. The next thing I know I’m passing the courthouse entirely, frantically looking for more Juror Signs. There were none. What there were, though, were signs at every intersection prohibiting me from making a left turn so I could make my way back to the courthouse. Blocks and blocks I went, deeper and deeper into downtown Newark until finally I was able to get myself around a block, facing the other direction, so I could make my way back to the courthouse.
Too late. I was already disoriented. It wasn’t a straight shot, and I soon found myself in new, unfamiliar territory.
This never used to happen to me. I would read directions and get where I needed to go. That now feels like the exception, not the rule.
It probably seems like I’m a good candidate for a GPS system. I have one. I consider it my arch-enemy. It’s a factory-installed system that fails me almost 100% of the time. I’m certain that there’s some default setting deep within the bowels of its programming that first selects The Ghetto Route for every requested destination. I’ve discovered more blighted and decrepit neighborhoods in using my navigator than I’d ever known even existed in North Jersey. And if that’s not bad enough (which, in my opinion, it definitely is) the little bulls-eye on the screen rarely bears any resemblance to the place I’m trying to go. It will get me in the general vicinity, but that’s about it. Once, on a trip to the Boston area, I was trying to get to a hotel and it kept chirping “Destination on left,” when all that was on the left was a trash-strewn lot. We were miles from the hotel. Miles.
So even though I was late and panicked, I resisted the urge to punch in the address of the courthouse. Instead I did what I used to do in the old days: I found a street cop to ask directions. I pulled up just ahead of him and left my car running as I walked back to where he stood. He knew I was lost. He knew I was a loser. I didn’t even get three feet from my car before he yelled to me, “Where are you trying to get to, Ma’am? Jury duty?”
Friday, October 15, 2010
As A Bitch, I’ve Failed.
Guess what? I’m not a bitch. Or, at least I’m not enough of a bitch.
This most recent discovery took place when a writer who found me on Patch.com asked if I would ever be interested in writing for her blog The Wellness Bitch, which is about living more healthfully but presented in a (shall we say) sometimes brusque manner. I’m not really an ideal candidate for guest blogging there because I don’t live all that healthfully. But I loved the name of the site and I do have at least one “wellness” topic that I’m passionate about, so I agreed to submit a post.
Guess what? It wasn’t bitchy enough.
I had a feeling that would be the case even as I was writing it. I even tried to become a little meaner as the paragraphs unfolded. “You can do this,” I chided myself. “Get your inner bitch on.”
My email to her acknowledged that I’d overpromised. “You don’t need to run this if it’s not bitchy enough,” I’d written. “I guess I thought I was more of a bitch than I actually am.”
The Wellness Bitch did reject my post, on the grounds of insufficient bitchiness. In some ways, I guess that could be considered a compliment. But as The Queen of Seeing the Negative Side of Everything, I immediately felt like a loser because I wasn’t a big enough bitch.
As fate would have it, The Wellness Bitch has another website, far less bitchy, called MindfulLivingNJ.com and it is there that she wanted to run my Neti Pot post. I really like it there, and now I don’t have to feel bad about my underdeveloped levels of bitchosity.
Best of all, I now have something to aspire to.
This most recent discovery took place when a writer who found me on Patch.com asked if I would ever be interested in writing for her blog The Wellness Bitch, which is about living more healthfully but presented in a (shall we say) sometimes brusque manner. I’m not really an ideal candidate for guest blogging there because I don’t live all that healthfully. But I loved the name of the site and I do have at least one “wellness” topic that I’m passionate about, so I agreed to submit a post.
Guess what? It wasn’t bitchy enough.
I had a feeling that would be the case even as I was writing it. I even tried to become a little meaner as the paragraphs unfolded. “You can do this,” I chided myself. “Get your inner bitch on.”
My email to her acknowledged that I’d overpromised. “You don’t need to run this if it’s not bitchy enough,” I’d written. “I guess I thought I was more of a bitch than I actually am.”
The Wellness Bitch did reject my post, on the grounds of insufficient bitchiness. In some ways, I guess that could be considered a compliment. But as The Queen of Seeing the Negative Side of Everything, I immediately felt like a loser because I wasn’t a big enough bitch.
As fate would have it, The Wellness Bitch has another website, far less bitchy, called MindfulLivingNJ.com and it is there that she wanted to run my Neti Pot post. I really like it there, and now I don’t have to feel bad about my underdeveloped levels of bitchosity.
Best of all, I now have something to aspire to.
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