OR, THE LONGEST POST EVER BECAUSE IT IS ACTUALLY THREE OR FOUR POSTS THAT I HAVE NOT GOTTEN AROUND TO WRITING, SO PLEASE SCHEDULE THE REST OF YOUR DAY ACCORDINGLY.
So I was picked for a jury on Thursday.
I've never been picked before. The last time I had jury duty I spent about two hours in the Juror's Lounge watching Ken Burn's baseball documentary, then about 45 minutes in a hallway outside a courtroom being lined up randomly by juror number, then re-lined up even more randomly, and then we all filed into the courtroom where the defendant took one look at us and decided to plead guilty to whatever.
I don't know why. Perhaps we all just had that pro-death-penalty look about us or something.
Then I was sent home, and in a fit of goodwill towards man I donated my $4 travel fee to the city.
This time, I said I would be keeping my goddamned travel fee, thank you very much, City Who Called Me For Service While I Was On Maternity Leave And So Did Not Care About My Squawling Breastfed Infant And Only Let Me Defer Service And Promised Use Of Some Kind Of Closet For Pumping.
I also only spent about 20 minutes in the Juror's Lounge before being called to a courtroom, which was fine, because OH GOD THE ODORS, and they were STILL showing that damned baseball thing, and the TV near my seat was on the fritz, which made the documentary look exactly like scrambled porn.
This time, there was no big elaborate lining up process, as they just called our numbers and hustled us right in. And I was immediately struck with the realization that I was far too close to the front of the line, and if more than two people ahead of me were dismissed, I was going to be on the jury.
So I held out hope that there would be SOMETHING offensive about me -- did I know the lawyers? The witnesses? Had I magically become a lawyer that morning? Had Jason magically become a cop? Was one of the questions going to be about bloggers? Or about people who just really, really don't like being bored and therefore should be allowed to go home?
My only "yes" response to any of the questions was the one about being a victim of a gun-related crime, which I was, kind of, because my cat was shot by a teenager with a BB gun when I was four and it was very sad and I thought maybe the lawyers wouldn't want some girl with a pet-related vendetta against people with guns.
Unfortunately, I could not pull off acting like some girl with a pet-related vendetta. I just ended up looking like some girl who was really desperate to Not Get Picked.
I got picked. Fuckers.
The trial started late in the day on Thursday, but was then recessed until Monday morning because the judge had some kind of scheduling conflict on Friday.
So the trial will actually be a whole other entry, because today I must tell you about Friday, also known as the Day That Did Not Like Amy Very Much At All.
DISCLAIMER: You are probably going to think that I am lying. No, not probably. You are going to read this entry and go, "That Amy person is a goddamned liar." Every person that I have told this story to has nodded politely yet incredulously, and then informed me that I am 100% full of shit, but I swear to God, every damn word of this is true.
I woke up Friday morning and broke my toe. On the vacuum cleaner. At 5 a.m.
I tripped over the vacuum and literally HEARD the little fucker crack, the same little pinkie toe fucker that I keep breaking, over and over and over, to the point of ridiculous, because at this rate, one of these days I'm going to put my shoes on and my toe will just snap the fuck off.
Anyway, some people might think that this might be a sign to go back to bed.
(Or even to go the fuck back to bed, in keeping with the near non-stop stream of profanity I've got going so far.)
But I did not go back to bed. I got up and hobbled on and put Noah in the car and drove all the way out to Maryland, pulled up to his daycare center and realized that I'd left the diaper bag, the one with all his bottles and food and other essentials, at home.
I thought about just running to the grocery store and buying some random brand of bottle and some pre-mixed formula, but then I remembered that Noah had a Poop Incident the day before, just like the day before that, and no longer had a spare outfit in his cubby.
(The increased frequency of Poop Incidents are completely my fault, as Noah needs bigger diapers, but I am stubborn and cheap and am making his daycare use that entire damn package of Size Twos before I bring in a package of Size Threes, because I said so.)
So if there was another Poop or Spit-Up Incident, they'd just make me take Noah home. I ran through my workday and remembered a meeting that I could not miss that afternoon, especially not because of POOP, and I realized that bah, I needed to go back home and get the damn bag.
So I did. I drove all the fuck back to DC.
The goddamned prep school kids had taken all the street parking, so I parked a little too close to a stop sign, ran in (well, lumbered in, with Noah, who is outgrowing clothes even faster than diapers) and grabbed the bag. Which was sitting DIRECTLY in front of the exersaucer, from which I'd plucked Noah from that morning before heading out, which meant I had to PURPOSELY SIDESTEP the bag to get to the front door.
When I got back to the car, I had a $30 parking ticket.
I drove back to Maryland.
I pulled back into the daycare parking lot.
I got out, unbuckled Noah, locked the car with the remote, gathered the bag and the baby up and shut the car door.
As it shut, for one brief split second, I saw my keys sitting on the backseat.
In the car.
FUCK! FUCKING! FUCKER!
Have y'all seen The Money Pit? Do you remember when the bathtub fell through the ceiling? And Tom Hanks just stared down through the hole in the floor and laughed like a crazy person?
That was me. Although once I got inside Noah's daycare I totally started to cry.
In a brilliant streamlining move, I'd left my purse in the car, along with my wallet and cell phone. I asked to use the daycare's phone, although I had no idea who to call. My Subaru roadside assistance card was in my wallet. Jason's number was on speed dial.
(Hi. I don't actually know my husband's cell phone number. Yes. I am not making this up. Take away my speed dial and you take away my ability to function at any passable level in the world.)
But! In the one brief shining moment! The universe decided to stop whaling on me! One of the teachers at daycare was a locksmith! She kept a slimjim in her car! They would get her for me! It was all going to be okay!
Yeah, except that she did not have the slimjim with her that day. Because she TOOK IT OUT OF HER CAR THE NIGHT BEFORE.
This time, I sort of combined the HAAAA HAAAAA HAA HA AAAAHAA laughter with sobbing.
The center directors kind of backed away from me and I never saw them again.
The teacher, however, took pity on me and called her boyfriend, who was also a locksmith, and who was only 15 minutes away and would come help me directly.
And he did, and it took both of them to unlock the car, because I couldn't remember which button unlocked the doors and once I remembered, I told them to hit the button in the wrong direction.
I don't blame the guy for charging me $20, which I paid for with three crumpled up five-dollar bills, four ones, three quarters, two dimes and a nickel I found in the ashtray.
I got to work at noon. AT NOON.
I borrowed a dollar from someone, got some Ramen noodles from the vending machine, and opened my email to read that my meeting that afternoon had been canceled.
My friend Spencer listened to my tale of woe, pretended like he TOTALLY believed all that stuff actually happened to one person, and later brought me a balloon animal to cheer me up. A balloon animal with another, tinier balloon animal inside of it.
It's a dingo. And it ate your baby.
I may still be laughing about that, a little bit.
Tomorrow: The Curious Incident of the Gun on the Floor of the Car at the Club