- How much peach schnapps Kelsey S. can drink before she starts texting her psych professor.
- That Kelsey M.’s fruity milk booze punch can serve both as a beverage and a meal.
- Brittany K.’s urge to purge.
- Brianna T.’s kleptomania is merely a cry for help. But never leave your purse in her car. Am I right, girls?
- That doinking a Sigma Tau Omega is social suicide.
- Sisters share everything! So let me borrow that top, bitch.
- There’s nothing chocolate and new shoes can’t fix, except unwanted pregnancy.
- No sleep during Greek week! Seriously, falling asleep will result in someone shaving your head and peeing in your underwear drawer.
- That Brittany L. is not a slut. She’s just sexually liberated.
- Pretty girls don’t wear brown!
- You can only wear your hair in a ponytail on Mondays. That’s just common sense.
- Only lesbians enjoy poetry readings.
- Cotton underwear is only acceptable if you’re old, like over thirty.
- That Emily S. doesn’t have daddy issues, she just likes mature men.
- Where Kelsey Y.’s body is hidden.
Both of my children are finally in school full-time. But before I could get used to my newfound freedom, I had to fulfill my civic duty on a jury. I was originally called to serve in June, but who would have watched the kids? So I had to postpone to the time I had been looking forward to for as many years as I’ve had children.
I reported on Monday morning. I felt like theme dressing that day, so I went with 90’s era, complete with Doc Martens, and a flannel over a baby doll dress. I just knew my outfit would highlight my irresponsibility and complete lack of competency for a jury. If I still don’t know how to dress like an adult, I shouldn’t be asked to do anything that requires sitting still and listening to people talk for hours.
I arrived early because I was afraid of being late. I’m late for almost everything, and I was certain that being late for jury duty would result in humiliation on a grand scale.
After we all reported to the giant jury waiting room, we were provided with coffee and pastries that arrived in individual plastic baggies. I’ve never had an easier time rejecting a pastry. The greasy puddles on the inside of the plastic made it look like the pastries were working out just before they were stuffed in those baggies and they hadn’t had time to dry off their sweat.
Forty of us (myself included) were called to report to a courtroom for the selection process. They only needed 14, so I was sure I would be home in time for The View. Long story short, I somehow got selected to serve on the jury for a child abuse trial. Couldn’t they tell by looking at me that I’m not even responsible enough to run the self-cleaning cycle on my oven with feeling self-congratulatory for two weeks? I shouldn’t be allowed to decide anyone’s fate. Plus, I have little kids. And that information came out during the questioning process. No one wants to hear details about child abuse, but especially a mama with two little ones.
But I begrudgingly accepted my role, mostly because I was interested in how this whole jury duty thing really works. And because hearing a lot of people say they couldn’t serve because they needed to work, etc. made me feel like a jerk for wanting to do the same.
We reported to a tiny room where there was enough room for about 8 people, even though there were 14 of us. There was sharing-size bag of Reese’s Pieces on the desk, along with a tub of Trader Joe’s ginger snaps. FYI: one way to know that your catering sucked is when such meager offerings aren’t gone after 3 days of 14 people sitting at a freaking table. There was also coffee (no milk in sight) and room-temperature water. I did eat quite a few Reese’s Pieces, and I’m pretty sure they will remind me of child abuse now instead igniting fond memories of E.T., so I wish I had left them alone.
The first day it was 28 degrees in the jury room. Days 2 and 3 were closer to 107. I think I preferred the teeth-chattering cold to sweating next to strangers in a room with no open windows. It felt like a psychological trick, like maybe someone was watching us to see how we interacted under extreme temperatures with no hope of escape.
If you are ever called to jury duty, be sure to eat constipating foods. You cannot poop during jury duty. We had to go to the bathroom in groups, lest any one of us accidentally spoke to someone involved in the case. The situation was slightly better during deliberations when we were allowed to use the toilet across the hall from the jury room. But if anyone left the room, the case couldn’t be discussed until that person returned so every absence and reentry was noticed by everyone. That’s not conducive to comfortable pooping.
The trial was extremely emotional and stressful for me, and deliberations were probably a little worse. When it was finally over, I sobbed uncontrollably in front of the other jurors. By then 2 had been cut as alternates, so only eleven strangers witnessed my meltdown. I didn’t want anyone to notice or offer me a hug. A few folks (all men) asked “Are you okay?” It was nice, but then I wondered why no one was trying to hug me even though I didn’t want them to. They didn’t know I didn’t want them to, after all. So I decided they were all assholes. But really they weren’t. Well, that’s not true of everyone in the room. There were a few assholes. But most of them were really nice.
Then my friend Sharon came over with ice cream that night and let me rant about the flawed judicial system, and everything was a little better.
I don’t know if I’ll ever shake it off completely, but it’s over and I did my stupid civic duty. Next time I want better snacks, milk for my coffee, and ice for my water. And maybe a case about a nice little liquor store robbery where no one was harmed.
My 39th birthday is coming very soon, friends. I’m preparing with a simple list of resolutions, and lots of drinking. It’s never to late to better/pickle yourself.
Here is my list of resolutions for my last year as a 30-something:
Stop trying to bait Lindsay Lohan with my blog posts. I need to accept that she probably won’t ever be my friend, no matter how much she needs me.
Stop getting angry when people use too many internet abbreviations.
Give up wine for a while. JK! LOL! ROFLMAO! FML!
Wash my bras more often.
Stop telling people about my hemorrhoid surgery. Apparently that’s not appropriate small talk.
Clean up my language. A woman my age should not be using words/phrases like buttload, crapload, shitload, shit-ton, turd* monkey, turd jerky, turd knocker, fart knocker, toot knocker, douche nozzle, douche monkey, sir toots-a-lot, sir farty car, professor fart face, monkey butt, monkey bottomus, poopie pants, butthead, butthole, butt puppet, butt nugget, turd nugget, turd waffle, or butt waffle. I call myself a writer for shit’s sake. I really need to rethink my vocabulary.
I think it’s obvious that I’m ready to take 39 by the gnards. Bring it!
*For those of you who are aware of my long-standing issue with the word turd not being spelled terd, you’ll be glad to know that I’m working past it.
Many viewers feel completely cheated after last night’s finale. True Blood was a great show for the first season. And some of us hung in there after that. One reason was that we believed it could return to its early glory. Another reason was Eric’s frequently naked bum. Or for me, it was to see Lafayette and Pam.
Here are some of the highlights of the show that culminated in an utterly disappointing last season:
Remember that time in the first season when Jason punched Sookie and we were all, “Oh no!” He totally should have saved that for any other season, when we would have been fine with Sookie taking a fist to the face.
And then Tara turned that vampire who looked like he escaped from a methadone clinic into massive headwound Harry. That’s not how they die, dumbass. The head has to come all the way off.
Or when Tara ran off and became some sort of wrestler and a lesbian and she was FINALLY interesting so they turned her into a resentful vampire. On the upside, the turning scene with Pam in a sweat suit was kind of the best thing that ever happened.
And when Terry died there was an entire episode devoted to his funeral and flashbacks of his life, but when Tara died it was off-screen and then only person who really gave a shit was her crazy-ass mama. Everybody else was all, “Tara’s dead. This sucks.”
What about the whole Warlow season? What a crock of crap that was. “I’ve been looking for you for hundreds of years. I love you. Now do what I say or I’ll kill everyone.”
Do we even need to talk about Lilith, with her band of blood-covered naked chicks with pube goatees? Nah.
Or when Sookie put Russell Edgington’s dead lover’s remains down the garbage disposal just to be a massive bee-yatch?
And how about Jessica? She kills two of Andy Bellefluer’s fairy children (who apparently suffered from soap-opera-rapid-aging-syndrome), and then he presides over her wedding about eight weeks later. Why not? Time obviously has no meaning in Bon Temps, or Sookie wouldn’t have doinked Bill two days after Alcide was shot right in front of her.
If nothing else, True Blood gave us Lafayette. And our lives are better for knowing him. But why, oh why, was there plenty of Holly in the finale, and no Lafayette except for a flash of his lovely face at the end? If Nelsan Ellis doesn’t have a flourishing movie career soon and I’m going to sue Hollywood for punitive damages. I think that’s a thing, right?
We stuck with this madness for seven seasons, only to have it end with Sookie knocked up by a nameless, faceless beardy guy and spreading out food on an outside table a la Parenthood. And with Sarah Newlin chained up and not feeling thankful. I’m calling bullshit, Alan Ball.
Want to avoid that wacky infectious disease that liquefies internal organs? Here are a few tips from SGSC:
1. No making out with strangers. This is especially true if they are bleeding from the eyes. I know True Blood would like us to believe that eye bleeding is something that happens to sad vampires, but you can’t accept that as an excuse. Even if he or she is super hawt, eye bleeding is ALWAYS a bad sign.
2. Don’t live in Atlanta. If you already live there, don’t move because it’s probably too late for you. Don’t visit Atlanta, either. This is probably true all the time, not just when Ebola victims are there.
3. Don’t go to West Africa. Our pansy-ass American immune systems are not built for the scary stuff African jungles produce. Don’t be a hero.
4. Wear a hazmat suit for air travel. They’re roomy, comfy, and tell everyone you’re not messing around with the cooties that get trapped in airtight plane cabins. Don’t worry about the embarrassment of wearing bright yellow thirty years after the 1980’s. You’ll have the last laugh when everyone else from the flight bleeds from the eyes/ears/mouth/nose/butt and you’re left with your organs solid.
5. Avoid contact with primates. Sure, monkeys can be cute. But have you seen Outbreak? Those little jerks are breeding grounds for Ebola. A monkey will give you Ebola and laugh at you while you’re dying. And then eat the food from your pantry. They’re evil creatures who want the humans dead so they can take over.
I hope this helps. Good luck avoiding a miserable death!
Anne Coulter may seem like a miserable shrew with a used tampon for a heart, but it turns out that she has a romantic side.
Her soon-to-be-released book, Love, Annie: Liberals Are Dumb is a collection of love letters she wrote but never had the courage to send. Or in some cases, she sent them but they were returned unopened because everyone hates her.
Here are a few highlights:
Dear Billy Tubbins,
My name is Annie. I’m the blonde who sits behind you in art. The first time I saw you, I thought we could grow to love each other. But then I saw your artwork. A donkey, Billy? Really? You’re obviously an idiot. Only idiots and women are democrats. So maybe you’re a girl. Is that it, Billy? Either way, I hope you’re hit by a bus, hippie.
You may have noticed that I’m a woman now. I hoped this would never happen to me, as everyone knows women are stupid. The curse of Eve has arrived in my womb. I’m officially unclean. I would appreciate it if you stopped looking at me in Social Studies until I come to terms with my status as a dirty idiot.
When I let you touch my breasts in your Camaro Friday night, I assumed we had an understanding. You can imagine my disappointment when I saw that stupid slut Janice in your car yesterday. Do you know that she is a feminist? That’s right. Your new little bimbo is a raging FEMINIST! All feminists are whores. I hope she gives you herpes.
Dear Professor Lowenstein,
Though I have enjoyed our dalliances immensely, it is time to admit that it’s over. You’re a sophisticated, brilliant, handsome man. But unfortunately you’re also a Jew. I’ll never forget you.
I have enjoyed our courtship as much as I’m able to enjoy anything. But I feel that our time has drawn to a close. You want children, and I believe children are God’s continuing curse on womankind. I’ve worked very hard to get to where I am, and the thought of a little person staring at me with my own eyes terrifies me.
Best of luck,
Dear Ted Nugent,
It has come to my attention that you and I share a similar political theology. I am very attracted to men who enjoy wilderness and chewing gum. Just like when you became the legal guardian of that under-aged girl so you could doink her without going to jail, you have found a loophole. This time the loophole is in my heart. Please contact my assistant if you would like to get together and shoot a .22 at the feet of poor people while they stand in line for free food.
In loving respect,
Because I’m a writer with a blog and I have a couple of kids, people (women) sometimes ask me why I don’t “mommy blog”. Here’s why: I tend to keep this part of my life for myself (gasp).
Many women will admit (some won’t) that when you become a mother you lose a part of yourself. You also gain a new, different self who’s more sympathetic and nurturing, but you lose the part of you that was just you without anybody else to constantly worry about. It’s a huge freaking adjustment.
Like a lot of Gen Xer’s, I waited until my 30’s to have kids. By then I was firmly rooted in my sense of self. My very free self who liked to stay out too late and take lots of naps. When I had a baby, the options to stay out too late, take lots of naps, and be a selfish asshole were removed. It was time for that to happen anyway. No sweat. But the overhaul of self was unexpected.
I was a person before motherhood. Not a perfect person by any means, but I like to remember those days in little ways. My blog is a “safe place” for me. I say what I want because no one is forced to read it. I don’t write about motherhood here (except this time of course) because I’m a mother ALL THE TIME and here I’m just a struggling writer who spends too much time thinking about that date-rapey episode of Louie and wondering if Lindsay Lohan would like me if we met in real life. Here I don’t have to worry about whether or not my kids are getting enough fruits and veggies (they’re not) or if I’m screwing them up permanently (I am). Here I can just take a deep breath and make fun of Kim Kardashian’s fashion choices.