The Day After Tomorrow

Yes. So sorry about that. Long-time readers know that whenever I say a specific topic will be covered "tomorrow," I actually mean "the day after that or quite possibly, never."

You should probably yell at the long-time readers for not telling you about that endearing little quirk of mine.

(IT IS ENDEARING. MY MOM SAID SO. SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU.)

Eek! You will now forgive me for anything!

So it's been exactly a week since the Heartbreaking Friday of Staggering Suck, and honestly, I'm still a little twitchy about it.

I won't close my car doors unless I am physically holding my keys in my hand and staring right at them, and on several occasions have gone so far to talk to my keys as another way to affirm that yes, these keys in my hand are not inside the car.

(Bonus to having a baby: All the running commentary that otherwise gets you looked at as the crazy person talking out loud to your keys or to the ATM [Don't you eat my card, Mr. ATM Machine, don't you fucking dare eat my goddamn card] is now perfectly appropriate because you are teaching the baby LANGUAGE SKILLS.)

My mom talks to grocery carts. Help.

Nothing too horrific has happened to me since, except for my office losing power this morning and me having the bright idea that hey! Wouldn't it be fun to go buy people Shamrock Shakes? Who wouldn't want a Shamrock Shake while they huddle under the one lone working emergency light? I would like a Shamrock Shake!

So I went to go buy Shamrock Shakes and had to go to TWO different McDonald's to get them, because the first McDonald's decided that yesterday -- the day before St. Patrick's Day -- was the last day for Shamrock Shakes, which is kind of missing the point entirely in my world, but okay, so I drove to a whole OTHER McDonald's and then everybody laughed at me when I ordered 12 Shamrock Shakes and even the manager came out to look at the freak ordering a dozen milkshakes.

The good news: Shamrock Shakes are just as tasty as I remembered, although probably way more toothpastie green in color than is really necessary.

What? His jammies are green, so this segues PERFECTLY.

In other news, I finally decided to enter this century and bought a damn iPod. I was always resistant to getting an iPod because I was afraid I wouldn't understand how to use it, like my scanner and my photo printer -- all of which I have to get Jason to set up for me and tell exactly which button to hit every time, because I always load the paper in backwards and upside down or something. And so I figured an iPod would be another gadget that required Jason's help and honestly, the guy already thinks I am kind of functionally retarded so I didn't need that hypothesis tested any further.

But! I bought one, after Jason assured me that iTunes works via drag and drop and that even very dumb monkeys can use it. And indeed! It is very easy and I have figured out how to put songs on the iPod and set it to the famous "shuffle" mode that all the kids are talking about these days, on the blogs and street corners and whatnot, and I am now thinking that I need to buy a Coach cover for it because it's just so small and precious.

(Jason says no, I cannot buy a Coach cover for it because we spent all our money on the iPods themselves and wonders what's wrong with the simple rubbery ones that they sell everywhere, and I wonder how this man knows me NOT BUT AT ALL SOMETIMES.)

(So I've retaliated by walking around with my iPod saying, "Nano nano!" like from Mork & Mindy all the damn time, which bugs Jason very, very much. I don't think this will get me the Coach case, but it is fun.)

ANYWAY, the point of this story is that I've been taking the iPod to bed with me and listening to a few songs to drown out whatever crazy car crashy action film has sucked Jason in right as I'm trying to go to sleep. It's very nice, except for last night when I woke up at 3:30 am to the BLARING PROFANITY of Eminem, completely baffled and disoriented, and I hit Jason several times because I thought the clock radio was going off and MAKE IT STOP SLIM SHADY, ACK. After several minutes of flailing I finally got it together enough to yank the headphones out of my ears, and as I lay there panting and traumatized, I tried to figure out what the odds were of getting over three hours' worth of Indigo Girls and Sarah McLachlan before my secret weakness for gangster rap came up in the shuffle.

After taking this photo, Jason kindly recommended that I suck my stomach in. And then I popped my glock and killed him.

In other other news, Jason received a jury summons this week. HA!

Hmmph.

Speaking of jury duty, I will now tell you about the thing that I told you this entry would be about: jury duty.

Jury duty is very boring. It is not like television at all, and when the defense lawyer even tried to go for some dramatic DUN DUN DUUUUUUN moment, the prosecutor was ALL UP IN THAT with the objections and the whole thing was stricken from the record.

So mostly, it was a lot of this: blah blah blah objection sustained blah blah blah reasonable doubt-cakes.

I did get to eat lunch outside on a gorgeous day, however, and listened to my iPod and took a picture of my shoes with my phone.

When did I become the biggest goddamned yuppie I know? Also, nice blindingly white calves.

In the end, it was a pretty unsatisfying experience. We returned a not guilty verdict based on reasonable doubt. So I didn't get a criminal off the streets of my beloved city, and I'm not 100% sure we set an innocent kid free. I was also not allowed to keep my trial notes, which was a shame, because I had some darn nice squiggly doodles in there.

They probably took her notes away because she kept talking to her pen.

And in the final and probably best bit of news (good Lord, is this a website entry or a fucking holiday newsletter?), my sister had her baby this week.

My sister -- who was 18 years old when I was born, who had her first baby (a girl) when I was 11 years old, whose first baby is now 17 years old and possibly going to Georgetown in another year -- HAD A BABY THIS WEEK.

We now have baby boys less than six months apart.   

Mind! Blown!

Welcome to the craziest family ever, baby Nicholas. To say that I am a weepy little ball of excitement over you is an understatement. I will send you clothes and anything that your cousin hasn't puked on too much.

Noah sort of already knows what Nicky is in for, yet he is not screaming.