Hump Day Can Go Frack Itself

Allow me a brief Wednesday rant.  If today was listed in a Battlestar Galactica script, I would say, "Hump Day Can Go Frack Itself".

This morning, I pack the kids' lunches, because I want them to be healthy and all that.  Two kids leave their carefully thought-out lunches on the counter.  I'm late getting out the door, and my six pack of middle schoolers get into the building about five seconds away from being late for school.  I barrel across town to get to The Job on time, and as I'm driving in the lot, my cell phone rings.  Oldest Daughter forgot her art project in the car.  It is due this afternoon.  It counts for roughly half of her grade.  Frackity frack frack!

I skip lunch to drive the art project across town and pick up Youngest Daughter's piano book she needs for lessons tonight.  I hand the clerk a piece of paper that says "Essential Elements Book 3 Green".  The clerk is confused.  She starts looking through all kinds of file cabinets to locate this book.  She keeps muttering to herself that something isn't right, why doesn't she recognize this book?  Just as I realize I am late to get back to work, I realize I've handed the clerk the book OD needs for her CELLO lesson.  It's like walking into a Christian Book Store and asking to buy a Koran and a menorah.  I get the proper book and leave, returning late for work.  Double Frackaccino!

At 5 p.m., I leave work and drive home.  I think I can just run in, use the bathroom, change out of the work pants and get out the door to get YD and The Son to piano at 5:30.  I haven't seen Current Husband all day, and he has some news on our house closings, so he starts telling me about it.  I'm trying really hard not to be rude, and I need to know this stuff, but the clock is ticking.  I am going to be late for piano, too.  We leave, and sure enough, terrible traffic, we are late for piano.

The piano teacher chastises me for being late, and then I show her the piano book, proud of myself.  "WHAT!?  Those people at the piano place!  They NEVER get it right!"  It is the wrong book.  She is livid.  I try to explain to her that both the clerk and I did not know what we were supposed to get, so we just made our best guess.  She doesn't care.  It is WRONG.  I leave, realizing that I will now have to spend my lunch tomorrow exchanging the book.  I drive to Borders and buy a book and three Lindor chocolates and a vodka sour.  The book is The Year of Living Biblically, by A. J. Jacobs, my book club's selection, but I have to miss book club for the third month in a row.  Frackin' A.

I get home from said piano lesson, and pull my previously assembled chicken and rice casserole from the oven, make some biscuits, and peas.  OD, the vegetarian, does not partake in the chicken dish and I make her a baked potato.  The Son reminds me that this is his least favorite meal, and why does OD get to pick what SHE eats?  YD reminds me that she hates all food that isn't made up of at least 60% refined sugar, and would like jam.  On everything.  I ask them to clear the table, and they each pick up one item and split.  Suddenly, my house is a ghost town.  I start yelling at everyone to get to the table and HELP ME.  CH reminds me that he HAS been helping me, and I don't need to yell at him.  Everyone stomps to the table, and we glare at each other while I say how nice it is to have everyone sitting at the table for dinner, as it rarely happens since The Son started football.  It doesn't sound convincing.

We finish dinner and YD reminds me that there are cookies left from the batch I baked this weekend in the cabinet, on the top shelf, which is roughly five feet above her head, so I'm a little freaked out by her Sugar Radar.  I was hiding them for lunches, but now I say To Hell With It, and I open the baggies and we sit on the kitchen floor, eating cookies.

YD then walks away and starts banging on the piano and singing at the top of her lungs, which is precious in that I want to encourage her to be musical and express herself, but I am ready to staple my ears shut and tear my own brain out of my skull with a rusty fork.  Then The Son decides he, too, needs to show his piano/singing prowess, which would also be precious if he wasn't slightly tone deaf.  The dog starts howling and CH declares it is time for bed.  The angels in heaven with the bleeding ears say a quick prayer of thanks.

It is 8:15 p.m.  I am old and have acid reflux.  I'm unable to sleep deeply and instead dream all night (last night I dreamt I was in Costco, was thrilled they had seven-layer dip, and then I helped a middle-aged man who locked his keys in his truck, he took me out for a drink at the bar next to Costco, and I fled when he went to the bathroom because I suddenly realized he could be a serial killer.  Seriously, WTF is THAT all about?  We don't even HAVE a Costco in the Quad Cities.)  I wake up exhausted every morning, with the deep circles under my eyes growing darker every day as though I am a vampire who lives on the blood of animals and I haven't hunted in a long time.  (That would make a great book.)  These circles grow despite the slathering of $25 per ounce bottle of Vita K I put on every night that is guaranteed to remove circles and bruises.

To beer or not to beer, that is the question.  Here's to you Thursday.  You'd better show up with a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte and a raise, or I will cut you.

Stalker Update: Jen

I really do love the people I stalk.

Some of you are familiar with my established stalking of Jen Lancaster (My Fair Lazy, on bookshelves now!), and how my friend and I made a pilgrimage to see her that ended up ugly and could have been uglier.  But really, was somuchfunbesttimeever.  I did finish My Fair Lazy, and I loved it, but I'm going into it ready to love it anyway, so take that recommendation with a grain of salt.

As part of my stalking program, I like to contact my victims, but I'm a top shelf criminal and only write when I have a reason.  Therefore, it was with gratitude that I wrote Jen Lancaster a few weeks ago upon my return from Chicago.  There are a couple of reasons for writing:

1. Aspiring writers are always fobbing their work off on someone more successful, because they always hope someone will read their stuff and say, "Why does she not have an agent and a book deal yet?"  It's a little like buying a Powerball ticket - you can't win if you don't play, but your chances of winning are about the same as Lindsay Lohan straightening her life out.
2. The more authors I stalk, the more I realize how many stalkers they have.  Julie Powell, of Julie & Julia fame, allows comments on her blog, and I would say 80%  of them are telling her to go read their work, 10% of them are calling her a slut, and the other 10% say they love her.  I stay in the Love Her 10% because I feel bad that she gets bugged so much.  Jen Lancaster has said in interviews that a large volume of her mail is people trying to get her to read their stuff, or complaining at her that she doesn't blog enough anymore.  Okay, I do send her links to my blog when I write.  But the reason for writing is always to compliment her work - I have Stalker Standards!
3. I truly appreciate the authors who blog, do Facebook, Twitter, etc, and do the signings.  They do actually have lives, and keeping up with all of the social media, fan requests, and book events keeps them from their marriages, kids, pets, lives, and writing more great material.  It's a sacrifice that Jen Lancaster probably doesn't have to make anymore, and yet, she does.

So....here is the e-mail I sent to her:

On Mon, May 17, 2010 at 11:11 AM, Julie wrote:
Dear Jen-
Attended your signing at Borders last Friday, sorry to say I was *ahem* mildly intoxicated after long wet lunch at Ralph Lauren, but you, and Fletch (whom my 40-something sorority posse jumped after books signed) were lovely.  Thanks for doing the appearances, your fans love love love them (except for woman behind me without the coveted BLUE wristband, who nearly took out a blade and cut Borders employees - Xanax, over here, STAT!)

I'm aware that you have around two seconds to yourself a day and are trying to buy your short sale house and pet your animals, but if you have time to kill I blogged, with interesting photos, about our day-long stalking of your signing, and how my Borders Rewards card got revoked.  No need to reply, just wanted to say thanks!

Halfway through MFL, love it.  Good luck with the house.

xo
Julie, drunk woman who tried not to fall on you during signing
www.adayinthewife.com

And here is the reply I received this morning:

Julie,

Thanks for coming! It was fun and it's always a thrill not to be thrown up on!

Best,

Jen

I love her.  I'm sure she replies to most, if not all, of her fan mail.  But really?  Look how long and detailed my message is to her.  Clearly, I'm obsessed.  Why does she keep encouraging me this way?  Someone needs to have a talk with Jen, because I can't be held responsible for what I do at the next signing I attend.  After the restraining order expires.

It's always a thrill to get something back from someone you admire.  I hope something unexpected and wonderful happens in your day today as well, Gentle Reader!

Wasted Away Again in Author-Stalkerville

I will shamelessly take a page from Jen Lancaster, and in the spirit of My Fair Lazy (on sale now!), I will say "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" in lieu of saying, 

"Holy shit that was close!"

I made my pilgrimage.  I went to Mecca.  I saw Jen Lancaster.  This is my story.

Let me preface all of this by saying that as much as I talk about wine and my love of it, I really only drink a glass or two of wine every couple of weeks.  In the summer, it might go up to one glass a few days a week when Current Husband and I sit on the back porch after the offspring are in bed.  However, I have a little problem on special occasions, because I am having So-Much-Fun-Best-Time-Ever that I don't want it to stop, and that's when things get fugly.

Last summer, my friend and fellow Chi Omega from Iowa State, we'll call her "Pat" because she prefers not to be called that name, sent an e-mail to me that said, "Are you reading Jen Lancaster?  Because you should be.  She reminds me of your writing, but she doesn't have kids.  Her website is Jennsylvania.com."  I thought, "Aw, that's nice" and went to Jennsylvania, and I've NEVER. COME. HOME.  I went into full Jen stalker mode, read all of her books, follow her website religiously, follow her every Tweet, and think she is just brilliantly funny.  SO, when Jen had a new book coming out and scheduled a signing in Chicago on May 14, I thought "I need to be there, and "Pat" needs to go with me."  She agreed.  We made plans.  I was so excited, and then thought jury duty was going to prevent me from going, but it all worked out.  My friend got here Thursday night so we could leave first thing Friday, and then THIS happened:

 It's Colores Del Sol Malbec.  Delicioso.

Not thinking we would have a three hour car ride each way, we decided to split a bottle of wine and stay up until 1:30 a.m.  I went to bed thinking, "Oy.  I need to get up in five hours to get Oldest Daughter to school.  Not fun.  When will I recover my sleep so I am in top form for Jen?"  The alarm went off exactly when I thought it would, and I was really, really tired.  It took lots of coffee all day, but we made it to Chicago at around 12:30 or so, and got to our hotel and checked in around 1:30.  We headed to Borders, got our blue wristbands, which would guarantee our seating in the front by Jen, and headed out for lunch.  My friend said, "Hey, it's a special occasion, let's go to the Ralph Lauren restaurant!" and I said, "Super!" because I'm thinking, "Hey, it's a classy place, how much trouble can we get into there?"  ANSWER:  Lots.

The restaurant is full, but the maitre d' informed us that we could be served lunch at the bar.  Oh.  The bar.  Of course.  That will be convenient for the wine we plan to drink.  A nice, chilly, refreshing glass of chardonnay, or two.  Okay.  To the bar!

We both order lobster bisque and some Caesar salad, and "Pat" sees her favorite Chardonnay on the wine list.  "Should we go ahead and order a bottle?  It will be cheaper," she asks.  Well of COURSE, we should.  It's the economical thing to do.  It is about 2:30 p.m.  My cell phone call log shows the first of three ill-fated dialed calls to CH happened at 4:24 p.m.  Here is a recap of what happened in those 114 minutes.

• We split an extremely chilly, refreshing bottle of wine.
• We had heartfelt, intense discussions about things of which I have no recollection.
• At one point, my friend, holding her glass in hand, takes a long, hard look at me, smiles, and says loudly, "You have a LOT of balls, wearing THAT shirt in HERE!" referring to my black Lacoste shirt I have on in honor of my JenQuest.
• The bottle was empty, and our bartender asks, "Do you want a glass of wine?"  We say yes.  I finish my glass.  He comes over to ask if we want another, and I knock over my empty glass, laugh as only an intoxicated person can, and yell "YES!"

 It is about 3:30.  

I should be clued in by the fact 

that I am starting to look like Tip O'Niell 

that I will no longer pass any sobriety tests today.

• The gentleman next to us at the bar is eating a lovely salad, alone.  We both stare at his food and comment on how delicious his salad looks.  He starts talking to us, and tells us he writes songs for Jimmy Buffett.  He does look very parrot-heady.  I try to start talking about the creative process and just end up laughing because I am so full of crap, and my friend tells him something about how she'll write a book and get an Oscar and and meet Chris Martin and the guy, Roger Goolgolgol (we couldn't quite process the last name so we called him Jimmy Buffett), starts eating his salad, looking straight ahead, and saying "It's not gonna happen.  It's just not.  It's not gonna happen." and I say, "Hey, aren't creative people supposed to support each other's dreams?" and Jimmy Buffett says, "Check please!" and then my friend starts writing my blog address on napkins and gives him one:

 Let me help you: 

"adayinthewife.com your pic will appear soon.  

She will be famous!!!"  Yeah.  We went there.

• We think we are quietly discussing how to get a picture taken with the bartender, when someone about 10 feet behind us says, "I'll take the picture."  We look around.  Lots of people in RL are starting to look our way.  Frequently.  They are not smiling.  We give the volunteer the camera and a napkin with my blog address on it.  His wife returns and is wearing a fabulous dress that I learn she bought at Ann Taylor for $5.  That is all I remember of that 10 minute, lively conversation with these lovely people.  Other than the fact that "Pat" and I are yelling, and having So-Much-Fun-Best-Time-Ever.

 But we are smiling.  It is 4 p.m.  

Why is bartender not smiling so much?

We take the Chardonnay Mobile Unit out into the streets of Chicago.  We start texting people.  My friend Nancy had the misfortune of texting me at that moment, and here is the content of the texts I sent her over the next 5 minutes: (Actual texts)

First Text:  "Dudei have g6t to sober up bfre this happens. My friend just accidentally texted her dentist."   (Interesting how I can spell "accidentally" correctly, but spell "got" with a number.)

Second text:  "Qqka.gtpojmwagptamtwoldjmtgp.msidgoieulc.p;"  (Thought I was so hilarious I showed it to my friend before I sent it, like "Isn't this just about the funniest thing ever?" )  I then send her a photo of us on the street.

Third text:  "Nope" (In response to her seeing the pic and saying, "Yeah, it's not pretty.)

Fourth text:  "Wish u wer here!" (Most likely received right about the time she thought, "Thank God I am not there".)

This all takes place out on the street, where my friend is also texting people, including her dentist.  She texts a friend we are supposed to meet, and the friend, we'll call her "Reba" for fun, texts back and says, "When you say you are at Michigan Ave and Whatever street, do you mean in a hotel, or a bar, or actually out on the street?" and we laugh and laugh and laugh and send back a text saying, "We are on the street!"  

 "Pat", laughing and holding up lamppost.  

Perhaps trying not to pee.  I know I was.

We decide it would be appropriate to go to Borders and see where exactly Jen will be so I can stake out my most optimal stalking position.  Instead, we get distracted by all of these crazy books!  In a book store!  Aren't they SO funny!

Practicing invading Jen's personal space on a poster.

Knitting for Dummies!  GTFO!  

I have to take a picture! 

A kids book about Self Esteem?!  With Baseball?! 

SO FUNNY!  Let me take a picture!

Um.  Can't really explain why this is on my camera.

Wacky AND Wonderful? STFU! I'm in!

And Jay Mohr, MY parents drank TOO!

It's about 4:25 p.m.  See the look of sickly desperation 

coming over my face?  The fun may be 

starting to end right here.

We leave Borders to meet our friend at a bar near Borders.  But we realize after we leave that we have to use the bathroom, so we inexplicably go into a hotel nearby.  "Pat" has developed a really aggressive case of the hiccups.  We make a beeline for the restrooms, and then SCREEECHHH!  We see an American Girl display that says they are giving away a doll.  Sign us the F up!  Even DRUNK mommies know you don't pass up a chance to win an American Girl doll for the kids!  We write illegible entries, laughing and hiccuping, and then make our way the bathroom.  It is 4:27.  Since CH thinks the hiccups are so funny, I decide to call him so he can hear "Pat".  He answers, and I say, "LISTEN TO THIS!" and hold the phone up to the bathroom stall where she is peeing.  I'm laughing.  I bring the phone back to my ear and say, "Isn't that so funny!" and CH is all "What, her peeing?" and I say, "No, she has the hiccups!" and he says "How long have you been drinking?!" and I say "like forever!  She told Jimmy Buffett she's going to win an Oscar!  I have to go!" and he keeps saying over and over, "Be safe, okay?  Be safe." and I hang up on him.  I call him two more times and tell him the exact same things - hiccups, so fun, Jimmy Buffett.  He pleads with me to be safe every time I hang up on him.  Poor CH.

We make it to the bar and our friend "Reba" walks in.  We are SO HAPPY TO SEE HER!

Yay!  Our designated walker is here!  

She'll get us to Jen!  After just one 16 ounce Blue Moon!

WHEEEEE!!!! So-Much-Fun-Best-Time-Ever!!

Our other friend, "Bob" has met us in Borders!  Yay!

Behind us is The Holy Rail, and the velvet rope

keeping us from Jen.  Thankfully.

We get to Borders, and find out that despite the sales' clerk's promises, we will not be seated in the front by Jen.  They are expecting 500-600 people, and we just missed getting on the main floor.  They velvet-roped us off from the main event.  We are standing behind a rail, and I am indignant about it.  Things are getting a little....foggy.  I can tell my situation is going south quickly, but I am trying to rally.  A lovely girl is handing out bottles of SmartWater, and I am clutching mine like it is a rosary.  I hold on to the rail.  It is only 6 p.m., and Jen isn't coming for another hour.  I start drinking water, but it is about one hour too late for hydration for Julie The Wife.

 UH OH.  This is EXACTLY how I felt at this point.  

Everyone was blurry.  Images of people were swaying in front of me.  I grabbed the rail, and it became Holy to me as Jesus appeared in Borders about the same time Jen did.  Coincidence?  I rested my head on the rail, and a cold sweat broke out.  Jen started speaking, and reading from My Fair Lazy.  I wasn't listening to her.  Jesus started clicking his tongue and murmuring gently at me.

ME:  "Help me, Jesus!"

JESUS:  "Julie, what were you thinking?  You know you can't hold your liquor anymore!"

ME:  "Lesson learned, Padre!  Now help me get focused here."

JESUS:  "Jen is coming.  You need to get it together."

ME:  "I can't miss this!  I've been waiting to meet Jen!"

JESUS:  "I think you are going to throw up in Borders, Julie.  Lick a Dirty ashtray.  Old grease in a deep fat fryer..."
ME:  "Shut up, Jesus!  Holy shit, I think you're right."  Must.  Leave.  Now.

I look at "Pat" and we lock eyes.  We stand for a moment and her eyes get wide.  I say, "I have to leave now."  And I turn away from The Holy Rail and start parting the Sea of Women, stacked about 10 people deep.  "Reba" and "Bob" are coming up the escalator and see me, and their eyes get very large too.  They've seen me look like this, twenty years ago.  They know this look as well as they know the Chi Omega secret handshake.  "Are you okay?" they ask.  "No.  No I'm not." and I lunge at the escalator.  I take three escalators to the basement restrooms, the entire time thinking three things:

1. I CANNOT THROW UP OR PASS OUT IN BORDERS.
2. I AM MISSING JEN LANCASTER.
3. I HATE MYSELF, AND I AM NEVER DRINKING AGAIN.

I got to the bathroom, got into a stall, and tried to regroup.  I apologized to Jesus for telling him to shut up.  I thought very sober thoughts.  And I kept thinking about Jen, upstairs with all of those other women who could wow her with their snarky brilliant comments, and I was going to lose my shot.  I stood.  I walked out and splashed water on my face.  I rallied.  But time was running out.  I ran from the bathroom back to the escalators, and got to the fourth floor just in time to hear her wrapping up questions.  I think she said her Twitter name is from a business name they have because Jen Lancaster is taken by someone on Twitter.  Then the Borders people said Blue Wristbands could get in line first.  My friends all looked at me, trying to decide if they should get in line with me.  I gave them the all-clear signal.  Before we knew it, we were at the table with JEN FRIGGING LANCASTER!

Yay!  Isn't she so adorable!  Look at how I am 

supporting my body by clutching my knees!  

I am thinking, "Do NOT fall on Jen!"

My friends tell me I talked to Jen for a bit, and they heard the words "stalker" and "four months".  I vaguely remember telling her I am her biggest stalker, and she said something like "I haven't seen you around the apartment" and I said something like "mumble mumble mumble Your Garbage" and then "I've been blogging about stalking you for four months" and she replied with what I want to think was "Oh, I know all about you, You're Julie the Wife" but it was more likely, "Well how nice for you".

I left the Table of Jen and turned, only to see Fletch, her husband.  I yelled, "FLETCH!" and my friends and I all gathered round Fletch for a photo.  Can I just say that I love Fletch?

Is it weird that I got closer to Fletch than Jen?  I told him that his photo of Alec Baldwin in the Hamptons without a belt was maybe funnier than some of Jen's stuff, and that's when the Borders employee lightly touched my elbow and said, "Okay, thanks for coming, Goodnight!" and I kept talking to Fletch about how CH has to hear about the blog from people and does he have that problem, and he sort of says, "Um, no" and the Borders employee starts looking stern and I think that's when they finally revoked my Borders Rewards card.  BUT?  I got this:

Swoon.  It was worth every droplet of cold sweat.  

Thank you, Jesus.

And Jimmy Buffett guy?  Sometimes you do get the award and go to the ceremony and meet the superstar, even if the odds are against you.  It IS going to happen.  It DID happen.  So there.

I Fought The Law and The Law Won

I've spent the last two days on a jury, and thought to myself, "Self, I'm going to blog about my experience."  But when I actually sat down to blog, I found myself in a very unfunny state of mind.  You might find yourself saying, "Self, she's never in a funny state of mind.  What the hell is she talking about?" and in that case, today's blog will not disappoint.  To get myself into what I consider my "Happy Blogging Place", I had to watch some random internet things, like the "I'm Yours Ukulele Boy" on the Ok Go site.  Or Jimmy Fallon singing karaoke with Maya Rudolph.  Or reading The Bloggess' post on eBay to sell her camera mildly damaged by ghosts.  Sigh.  It brings me joy to see happiness on the Internet.  So many funny people, so little time.

SO, three weeks ago I get a summons to appear for jury duty.  I thought, "Well, this sort of sucks, but hey, I'm free."  I was to call a number after 5 p.m. on Friday, April 23 to find out if I was to serve on April 26.  I called, and hey!  Get out of Jury Duty free!  The next Friday, I called after 5 p.m., and again, no Jury Duty for me on May 3.  This Jury Duty thing was going great!  Then I called last Friday after Graham left, and found out I was to report for duty on Monday, May 10.  

And then I lost my shit.  

Because anyone who has been following this blog for any amount of time (Hi Mom!) knows that I am actively stalking Jen Lancaster (My Fair Lazy, in bookstores now!) Jen is having a book signing this Friday, May 14, at the Borders in downtown Chicago.  The friend who introduced me to Jen is driving from Des Moines on Thursday, and after my kids are dropped off at school on Friday we are getting the heck out of Dodge and driving to Chicago so we can have a liquid lunch, hook up with some of our fellow sor-whores from college and talk about the glory days, and stake out Jen at the book signing.  My friend is bringing the plastic cuffs and the taser gun, and I am bringing the camera.  I probably won't be out of Cook County Jail before the weekend is up, so that blog is scheduled for Monday of next week.
BUT ...first I have to serve my country.
and what if serving my country takes until Friday?  I cannot stalk Jen Lancaster from the Quad Cities.  Hotel rooms have been prepaid.  Travel plans are in place.  Books have been purchased.  Attorneys have been retained.  Batteries have been refreshed in Taser gun.  I'm all but standing in front of the Goddess of Blog-to-Book Writing, and a judge has come between us, and not in the way we all expected.

 I talked to attorney friends about how to get out of this.  I thought disqualifying thoughts.  I Googled it.  Did you know there are 3,510,000 entries online under the subject "Jury Duty Excuses"?  This is a popular subject.  The first one, on Wikiask.com, says to find loopholes in your local laws regarding jury selection, ask about the right to "veto", say you're too poor, ask for deferments, etc.  Helpfully, their last tip is "Once you are sworn in you should always tell the truth".  So, LIE YOUR ASS OFF, and then when you are sworn in, tell the truth as you are legally bound to do.  This is not MY advice, this is INTERNET advice.  It's like going to WebMD instead of a real doctor.  You will always end up with cancer on WebMD, so you might as well just take your medicine and deal with the issue properly.

I showed up for Jury Duty.  I had to check my cell phone and any recording devices at the security area, along with removing my belt, shoes and necklace so the metal detector wouldn't peg me as someone packing heat or hiding a blade.  I also had to take a drink of my coffee in front of them so I could prove I wasn't bringing a cup of gasoline or battery acid into the court.  However, I lost all ability to take pictures for the blog.  Hello!  Don't they know I have a couple of relatives and prisoners to entertain online?  Priorities, people.  The security guards were very nice and funny, but every single time they checked my purse, the guys would say, "Hey!  You brought me a snack!" and I found myself wondering if they were referring to my Medifast bars, my cough drops, or my tampons.  I mean every. time. and I went through that thing about 12 times.

I got in for initial selection, and there were probably 24 people in there.  They took out an old drum (not the instrument, the round, barrel-like item), and drew sixteen names from it.  There was a Jan. Close.  A Judith.  Closer.  And then prospective juror number 12 was me.  Damn. It. All.  The Sweet Sixteen got in the jury box, and the judge told us about the case, in District Court concerning Age Discrimination.  A truck driver for a small concrete company was suing that they fired him for his age at 78.  The attorneys were asking questions of the jurors, like "Have any of you worked for concrete companies?" or "Have any of you driven a truck?" and I'm looking around and a bunch of people are raising their hands, and I realize I am so totally screwed.  I am just vanilla ice cream enough for them to want me.  The plantiff will think "Mother of three, sentimental" and the defense will think, "Younger, self-employed, side with company".  

I could see a woman behind me with "CAT LADY" written all over her, and she even wore a little silver bell around her neck that jingled constantly and conjured up the commercial for Fancy Feast cat food and I thought, "No.  Not her.  Please."  My fears were unfounded, because when they asked her occupation, she said, "Preacher's wife" and said, unsolicited, "And I'm VERY happily married!" and gave a beatific smile, and I thought, "She's outta here".  I should be a professional, because I picked six of the eight people selected for the jury, including myself. 

The trial commenced immediately.  As much as I didn't want to be there, it was all a little fascinating.  At our first recess, the eight of us sat in the Jury Room and drank government-issue Diet Coke and government-issue Oreos.  As a matter of fact, this room had a coffee pot, a mini-fridge full of waters and sodas, and a Rubbermaid tub full of snacks.  I was starting to warm up to Jury Duty.  I found myself thinking about all of the things I could get out of while I sat around learning about my seven new best friends and eating Oreos and drinking coffee.  Hmmm.  Maybe I could stick around until Thursday.  Get me some flannel pj bottoms and ankle socks and I'd be in heaven.

The trial took two days, and at about 4 p.m. today closing arguments were done.  The jury went back to our special Oreo/Coffee room and deliberated.  We found for the plaintiff and awarded damages, and then we were all a little sad to leave.  We had grown to love our judge, and take an interest in each other.  Dare I say, it was...fun?  I don't know any of their last names, other than one was McVeigh and I remember that because of Timothy McVeigh and my birthday is the same day as the Oklahoma City bombing, but I managed to not bring that up, but I really liked all of those people.  They were all interesting people from different towns in Eastern Iowa (I lived the closest), and we all sort of awkwardly said goodbye to each other and went our separate ways, bound together by our case.

And now I am free to make my pilgrimage to Jen.  The Lacoste is ready, the pearls on standby, the flask is clean, and amazon.com SAYS my copy of My Fair Lazy is to be here tomorrow.  We shall see.  In the meantime?  I actually recommend jury duty, if you are able.  I fought the law and the law won.  Which is good, because I am still active in the jury pool until May 21.  Wish me luck!  I hope the next Jury Room has Fudge Stripe Cookies.

 

I'm Addicted to Twitter and Jen Hates Me

I'm in a sunny meadow with technicolor grass and trees.  I'm chasing a little blue bird...come back, little bird, come back!...and I can't get enough.  It's as though the little bird is Red Bull and Vodka and I'm Lindsay Lohan.  Then I see people wandering in the meadow and I tell them "Follow me!!!" and most of them look at their watches and turn away (I'm talking to YOU, Jen Lancaster!  But with great respect and optimism...) but a few of them say "What the hell..." and follow me.  Suddenly, the bright sunny day with the little bluebird goes dark, and I hear CH's voice, far far away, saying, "Oh crap, we've lost our internet connection!" and I wake up, screaming.

 I should have known from its vacant eyes it was a junkie bird.

It's interesting I would pick up this new Internet crack rock at the Erma Bombeck thing.  Lesson?  Drugs are everywhere, kids.  Everyone kept saying "You need to be on Twitter...all writers should be Tweeting...." and so I did (remember @juliethewife - join me in the opium den!).  JUST like I got a big comb with "JULIE" on the handle for the back pocket of my Jordache jeans in 1982.  JUST like I got my hair cut in the Flock of Seagulls style, with one side shaved, in 1984 (I do have a picture, and if I had another hour I would find it).  JUST like I wore oversized button-down shirts and HUGE sweatshirts with leggings and sprayed my hair five inches off of my scalp in 1988.

Damn you, social trends.  You are my kryptonite.

So now, instead of writing like I should, I am spending a huge amount of time on Twitter, because I have to learn.  I am like Neo in The Matrix when they hook him up to learn about flying helicopters and kung fu and heavy weaponry (except it's Twitter stuff, like birdies and the @ # keys).  Here is the convo Current Husband and I had this morning:

CH:  "Hey, could you call the paper about that thing?"
ME:  "No, I have a ton of stuff to do today."
CH:  "Like what?"
ME:  (Indignant.)  "I have a ton of things to do.  I just told you that.  You totally don't respect my time or what I do around here."
CH:  "I just want to know what you have planned for today.  Just give me something."
ME:  "Writing."
CH:  "Writing what?"  
We sit in silence, looking at each other.
ME:  "ALRIGHT!  Posts on Twitter and Facebook, and maybe a blog entry.  Are you happy now?"
CH:  "Are Twitter and Facebook and the blog paying you?"
ME:  "No.  Only in cultural references and Trivial Pursuit 2010 answers."
CH:  "Then no.  I'm not happy now.  I would've thought that Jen Lancaster thing would have stopped you by now."

Et tu, Brute?  No sex for you, CH.  Let me tell you about the Jen Lancaster thing.

So I may have mentioned I attended the Erma Bombeck Writing Workshop.  Did I?  Okay, good.  And I may have mentioned in the past that I am completely stalking Jen Lancaster, (New York Times Bestselling author of the soon-to-be released My Fair Lazy, order now!)  So I meet these extremely funny women who happen to be excellent writers (whom I am featuring on the Facebook page this week, are you following A Day In The Wife on FB yet?) and we are all keeping in touch on Facebook and now Twitter.  The Monday after the conference, the Erma Bombeck people are all over the place, friending and following everyone they met.  It's a good thing you cannot get syphilis from the Internet, because everyone from Erma Bombeck would have it.  (I have to say that it feels so wrong to put the words "Erma Bombeck" and "syphilis" in the same sentence, but I learned from Wade Rouse, who is writing a dog book with Jen, by the way, that I am supposed to be honest and humorous in my writing, and I ask you, what is funnier than syphilis, people?)

Three of the women I met and myself are messaging back and forth, and I see that Jen Lancaster has a new post on her blog, titled "Such a Pretty Stalker", about her seeing Bob Harper from The Biggest Loser and stalking him.  Of course, a big light bulb goes off and I think, "Hey!  I bet my good friend Jen would LOVE to hear about how it's so funny that I happen to be stalking HER!"  

And this, my friends, is how restraining orders begin:

STEP 1:  Constantly comb the victim's Facebook, Twitter, and blog page for references to things you think you have in common.
STEP 2:  Immediately decide to get in touch.  Already sent three e-mails?  That is not enough.  Real stalkers go for multi-media platforms.
STEP 3:  Follow victim on Twitter.  Jen's is @altgeldshrugged.  Follow her, because I bet she will follow YOU.
STEP 4:  Send snarky message, such as 

"@altgeltshrugged I posted that I'm YOUR stalker on my 4-14 blog, www.adayinthewife.com. BTW, leave coffee grinds out of your garbage? Thx."

Oh yes, people.  I sent it.  But it gets worse.
So she isn't responding, and I'm all "But Jen, I get it!  We're buds!  You e-mailed me!" and I'm messaging with my Erma Chicks, and suddenly, MuffinTopMommy posts "Jen Lancaster is now following me on Twitter!  I can't believe it" and other stuff that was generally joyful, but the world spun around and when I came to, I looked on FB again, and ANOTHER one of the moms, Clare from It's All Good In The (Mother)Hood, has posted "She's following me on Twitter too!  I am so excited!"  And I am suddenly the girl who isn't going to prom and all of her friends are going.  And I have a dress and a secret bottle of Boone's Farm stashed for the Big Night, and I'm going to have to buy myself some flowers and drink it alone (well chilled, of course).  Because get this...

It was my birthday.  Sniff.  (shuffles feet.)

Let me hear it...the collective "Awwww".  Stalkers have birthdays too.  I kept thinking, "It's my birthday, I'm sure she will follow me.  It will be the pinnacle of my day."  Because:

STEP 5:  Stalkers should always assume the victim knows they exist.

I'm checking Twitter, and it's not happening.  So I look at my original post.  Hey!  What's that?  I SPELLED HER TWITTER NAME WRONG.  That must be it.  So what do I do?  I repost the same message to the right address.

Oh. Yes.  She.  Did.

Why?  Because:
STEP 6:  Good stalkers never quit.  Even after they serve their time.

So I send the post, AGAIN.  

crickets.  crickets.  crickets.

And to this very moment, Jen is still not following me on Twitter.  Even though she has over 14,000 followers and she is following over 13,000 people, and she describes herself as "an aggressive follower", I think I have actually freaked her out.  And really?  I'm not that scary, unless I am really drunk or you are a guy I want to date circa 1985-1991.

I have become the Dave to her Oprah.  The Matt Damon to her Jimmy Kimmel.  (I would normally put a third one in here, but I can't think of many stalking incidents that don't turn out badly.)  I am attending her book signing for My Fair Lazy (pre-order now!) on May 14 in Chicago, so Jen, I will be there.  Consider yourself warned.  And my friend and I have already made plans for a Liquid Lunch, and we are hooking up with the Chi Omegas from Iowa State (who saw my hair sprayed to the heavens; again, I have a photo, it's in the basement) and things might get a little loopy.  My friend has already told me that she is bringing her taser gun and plastic cuffs, and I have already told all of them I will need pictures of me being dragged away by security for the blog, so no worries my friends, it will be as though you are there with me.  Because I'm a giver that way.  I will set up a Paypal account so you can help me with bail if you feel so inclined.

ON A QUICK SIDE NOTE:  My friend made the hotel reservations, I was in charge of calling Borders to see if they are using wristbands for Jen's signing.  Called Borders on Michigan Ave.  Got automated system.  Hit 3 to hear store events.  The only one listed is Hulk Hogan appearing in October of 2009 and he will not sign memorabilia.  Figures, f***ing wrestlers.  Got through to sales rep, said "Jen Lancaster will be there on May 14, will this be a wristbanded event?"  Sales rep says, "uh, John Lencester?" and I say, "NO, J-E-N Lancaster.  She is signing books at your store on May 14."  "Oh. (pause) Let me go ask someone about that."  On hold for a long time.  "Um, we don't know anything about that event yet.  Call back a couple of days before and we should know something."  One would hope, honey.  One would hope.

SO.  You may be wondering, "What happened, Crazy Aunt Julie, how does the story end?"  (Or you may have stopped reading this post five days ago because it is so friggin' long.)  Let me tell you - this story has a happy ending.  After I spent my BIRTHDAY, which was my 41st and on a MONDAY and therefore a total FAIL, waiting for Jen Lancaster to friend me on Twitter, something good happened (other than meeting my blogger friends at Erma, which has been like manna from heaven).  I did get a famous friend.  The Bloggess, whom I love and respect and can only aspire to blog like her, followed me on Twitter.  And it made my entire week.   I love you, Jenny The Bloggess.  And I promise to never go through your garbage.

The End.  So tell me - what is your Twitter name?  Who are you stalking?  And finally, any suggestions on how I get Jen to follow me on Twitter?
UPDATE:
Jen is now following me on Twitter!!!  Yay me!  It's just like when Oprah went on Dave's show and was all "I didn't know you were stalking me, I have no idea what's going on."  So hopefully she doesn't read my blog and say, "Uh, yeah, UN-Follow!!!  TWITTER SECURITY, STAT!"  Now what the hell am I going to write about?  Candace Bushnell?  Are you out there?

Christmas Shopping Survivor: Borders. Outwit, Outplay, Outlast

Monday, December 21, 2:37 p.m.
Quad Cities
Borders Bookstore on 53rd Street


I am a forty-year-old mother of three, and I have Christmas shopping to do. I walk into the Borders on 53rd Street, and I see the checkout line with, no kidding, at least 50 people that snakes three deep in front of the registers, around to the back corner of the store, and around the bend toward the children's section. Jeff Probst takes away my shopping list and my skinny vanilla latte and informs me that I am on a new secret reality show...Christmas Shopping Survivor, Borders.

PROBST: "Julie, you are now one of over fifty strangers competing to walk through the exit doors of Borders alive and with your Christmas shopping list item. You have five minutes to find your item and get in line. You are part of the Cooking Section Tribe. Good luck."

ME: "But Jeff, I have to get to Target and buy crickets for the frog and mail my Christmas cards and..."

PROBST: "Your time starts...now."

I am terrified. I'm not a very good shopper in the first place, and I can see already that I will be lucky to get out of Borders by Christmas. I only need one thing. My Oldest Daughter has inexplicably developed a love of the German language, and asked for a good German-English dictionary. Why she loves German, Ich hab keine Ahnung. I know exactly where the dictionary is located, and I have a Borders rewards coupon for 30% off. I walk past the people in line to the back of the store to the Reference section and grab the Barron's Dictionary. I take my place in line with my tribe near the Cooking Section. I meet Trina, from Lindenwood Ave, John from 18th St, Elizabeth from Eldridge, and Steve from the hood in Davenport. We confer as to how we can get checked out sooner. We whisper our strategy.

TRINA: "I think I should announce there is half off of all New Moon merchandise."
JOHN: "No, New Moon is over. I think we should say they are giving away free copies of Blind Side."
STEVE: "Man, no one will believe they are giving that damn book away."
ELIZABETH: "Steve, why don't you pretend to have a seizure."
STEVE: "Oh, I have the seizure because I'm from downtown Davenport? You're a racist!"
JULIE: "Steve, you're not even black. Let's all be rational about this. The Non-Fiction tribe is making everyone angry by being pushy. Let's kill them all with kindness and it will psych them out."

John sidles up to me and offers to remove Steve if I let him use my 30% off coupon. I refuse, and instead I form an alliance with Steve, because he is from Downtown Davenport, so he's tough. Steve tells John that there was a news post that Blu-Ray has been discontinued. John, flustered, leaves Cooking Tribe to get a different DVD, and Steve and I bump knuckles.

I strike up a conversation with Trina, and I tell her that Elizabeth told me she saw Trina stick a Happy Bunny bookmark in her purse. I ask her for tips on shoplifting without being caught. Trina turns to to Elizabeth, furious, and they get into a brawl near the David Sedaris display. Borders security walks over and escorts the women out of the building. Cooking Tribe is down to two players, Non-Fiction Tribe has one and Young Adult Tribe has two.

Probst gives the three tribes a challenge - whoever can use the Borders computers to find a House of Night book located in-store AND get a Seattle's Best Coffee AND a Dilbert 2010 calendar and get back to the Sarah Palin books first will get moved to the front of the line. The others will have to go before the Literary Council to decide who gets to purchase their items. Time is running out. I still have to get my dog from the vet and buy the ingredients for turkey lasagne, neither of which can be found in Borders. Losing is not an option.

The Young Adults beat me to the House of Night books, but nobody can outwit me to a cup of coffee. That's like jumping in front of a crack addict as the rock is being handed out. You just don't do it. The calendars are a challenge because no one is into Dilbert anymore, so they are at the bottom of the stack. It's down to me and Steve. We race through the store, looking for Sarah Palin. Steve goes to the auto-biography and memoirs section, but I know Sarah has most likely gone rogue, and I book it to the skin mags. Do I win the next register checkout? You betcha. Sorry, Steve.

After three minutes from the door to my item, and then 28 minutes in line at Borders, I have my dictionary. I look at all of the sad sacks still in line, looking dejected, and yell, "Auf Weidersehen, suckers!"

Jeff Probst waves goodbye from the Borders doors and yells, "Well played, Julie. Well played."

So if you need anything from Borders, go online. It will get there faster than standing in line, trust me. I hope your Christmas shopping is complete, your packages taped and your sparkling holiday cheer in hand. As they say in Berlin, Frohliche Wiehnachten!