I Sort of Love Mondays

Hello Wifers and Happy Monday to you!

Oh yes, I'm annoyingly cheerful this morning because it is the FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!
(It is actually Sunday night at 9:20 p.m., but I can see into the future, and YES!  Yes, I am happily walking away from the school after dropping my highly adorable children there to be someone else's problem for six hours.  Thank you, Public School System.

Since I am 100 pages from the end of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, I am jonesing to go to bed and finish that bad boy.  It's pretty good - I cringed in a spot of sexual abuse, it never fails to annoy me when I'm reading a good thriller and they have to throw some sadistic sex in, but I worked through it and now I can't put the damn book down.

A quick recap of the weekend:  

• Got home from work Friday and Current Husband had ordered pizza.  I don't care if he cooks the meal, as long as the meal has been arranged.  Points for you, CH.  You have been a trouper with the job thing.  (Is it "trouper" or "trooper"?  I don't know.)
• Woke up early on Saturday morning, loaded two younger children in van, picked up friend and her two kids and drove to Chicago to see Shrek the Musical at the Cadillac Theater.  We ate heavenly sandwiches and lemon bars at Corner Bakery.  We took the kids to slide down the elephant sculpture downtown.  We saw a most excellent show.  We got out of downtown without getting lost and missing the exit to I-290.  The sky was blue, the weather was perfect, it was a slice of heaven.  We saw an actual cloud with a silver lining, and when the Low Fuel light came on and a child said "I need to go to the bathroom" simultaneously, the sign appeared that said DEKALB OASIS - 1 MILE.  The clouds parted, the angels wept, and I got a skinny vanilla latte.  Thank you, Jesus.
• Today, I slept in.  I read some of my book.  I had coffee made by CH.  I took the girls to get Back to School pedicures (YD just got her nails painted with flowers, my shade was I'm Not A Waitress) and Taco Bell. Got home and CH said "Let's just the two of us go out for margaritas and chips and queso dip".  And so we did.  And then we got home and had a little din with the kiddos and I went for a walk with The Son and YD and George the Superpet, and I didn't even care when he took a colossal crap in someone's yard and I had to carry it around the neighborhood in a bag, because Mr. Bluebird was on my shoulder.
• Tonight, kids in bed ON TIME, pre-made tomorrow morning's coffee, everyone's outfits are laid out, I am pre-showered.  

So now I'm waiting.  Because obviously the IRS is going to call with an audit or our fridge will break or I will get a yeast infection, because really, I'm not used to things going this smoothly.  And maybe, just maybe, I thrive on a little bit of drama.  That's as close as I'm going to get to admitting I am a drama queen.

I'm taking my Waitress/Hooker nails to bed to finish Dragon Tattoo.  Have a terrific day and an excellent week, and I'm sure by Wednesday's blog some kind of hell will have broken loose.  Until then!

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?

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

Barbra says:
"You don't bring me flowers,
You don't sing me love songs."
Neil says:
"You hardly talk to me anymore,
When I walk through the door at the end of the day.
I remember when..."

I'm feelin' you, Barbra.

My Current Husband (CH) and I attended the U2 concert in Chicago Sunday night, where I made it perfectly clear that if I had a shot at The Edge, I was taking it. He is definitely Numero Uno on my "list," followed by presumable booze hound Vince Vaughn and current hottie Bradley Cooper. I don't even see those three guys drinking or bowling together, so don't ask me how they find themselves on the same list. (Vince would probably drink with anyone, but you get my point.)

Number One on CH's list? The first woman who would give him the remote, get him a beer and a sandwich, and rub his back. 'Not Much of a Talker' would probably be a big turn-on as well. 'Doesn't Blog About Him' would be even better.

We get to our hotel room in Chicago and check in at around 3 p.m. We are meeting another couple for dinner at 5, and I've found myself needing a belt. The jeans I'm wearing to impress The Edge are a little big, and the belt I brought is from college and was made for jeans that go around the waist, not the lower hips. I mention to CH that I would like to walk a couple of blocks to a store that sells belts. When CH does not answer, I look around the corner and he is asleep, remote on his stomach, the Cowboys game on TV. We have now been in the room for 4 minutes and 17 seconds. I sigh and sit down next to him. I change the channel to a forensics show about how to cover up evidence in a murder. I take notes.

CH wakes up at 4:40 and wants to know when we need to leave for the restaurant. I tell him I've been waking him up every five minutes since 4:15, and we are walking out the door in five minutes. He gets in the shower. Sadly, he is ready in five minutes, just in time to help me cinch the belt I've managed to pull through to the first hole. The belt has created a tourniquet around my hips, giving me additional muffin top and the beginnings of a rash. The Edge's wife is very beautiful and slender, so I'm hoping he's sick of all that.

We meet said couple and go to the restaurant. We eat delicious food. We drink delicious drinks. We share a fabulous dessert. We drink more delicious drinks. I start to get that "I'm king of the world!" feeling. I should remember that feeling comes just before the Titanic sinks. We go to another restaurant and have two more rounds of drinks. (In Chicago, this means we could've bought one of those cute little Cuban cars for the price of eight drinks.) The years are melting off with every sip, and thanks to the magic of vodka, suddenly I am 22!

After a fun cab ride to Soldier Field, and a round of beers before we get to our seats, the lights go down. The Edge is coming. The music starts, and I'm standing up yelling, "I'm up here, Edge!" but he does not seem to hear me. CH and people sitting around us do. Soon, they too are yelling at The Edge, "For all that is holy, get her out of here!" but the Edge does not hear them either. I start saying things to CH like, "The Edge would leave right now to get me another beer." The concert ends, and with it, my chance to be Mrs. Edge.

So CH and I leave Soldier Field with 70,000 of our closest friends, and try to get a cab. Cab drivers are running over people who jump in front of them with their hands up. Full buses are driving past us. People are riding horses and Vespas and unicycles and roller skates and jet packs past us, while we fall into a large group of people trudging toward downtown Chicago like a bunch of cattle. My belt is cutting off the oxygen to my brain, and my shoes are starting through their second layer of foot skin. I say to CH, "The Edge would've gotten us a cab." CH isn't laughing at these jokes anymore.

Neil says:
"Was it good for you babe?
Are you feelin' alright?"
Barbra says:
"Well honey just roll over
And turn out the light.
'Cause you don't bring me flowers, anymore."

Fast forward one hour and perhaps two miles later. CH and I are on opposite sides of Michigan Avenue. It is 1 a.m. Some crazy woman on my side of the street is screaming things at him like, "You are the worst husband! You are supposed to take care of things like this!" and he is yelling at her, "What do you want me to do!?" and she is screaming back, "Well not abandon me in downtown Chicago at 1 a.m. without any money, you $&**&@#!" She doesn't seem to realize that he hasn't abandoned her, he is perhaps afraid of her. A limo driver pulls over and motions her across the street. I go, because maybe The Edge is in the limo.

Limo driver: "You shouldn't be yelling at each other like this. Let me solve your problem. I will give you a ride."
Me, bloodshot eyes narrowed: "We are at the Hyatt on Wacker - how much?"
CH: Silence
Limo driver: "$30 for you, pretty lady."
Me, jerking thumb at CH: "We have $16 between the two of us. Give him the money, CH." And I get in the limo.
CH: Silently hands over money and gets in limo. He is angry, but tired.
Limo driver: Contemplates how to get crazy/cheap woman out of limo. Decides to drive her away.

So there we are. Married 14 years. Riding in a limo down Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago at 1 a.m. with the skylight open and fresh out of a most amazing U2 concert. And we are looking at each other like two roosters in a cock fight.

Barbra: "Baby I remember, all the things you taught me..."
Neil: "I learned how to laugh, and I learned how to cry..."
Barbra: "I learned how to love, even learned how to lie..."
Together: "So you'd think I could learn how to tell you goodbye...."

I am thinking bad things about CH, which is funny, because two hours earlier I was in my happy place, thinking rainbows and ponies about him. We get to the hotel room, and he is asleep in less than a minute. I get a text from some concertgoers from the Quad Cities, telling us to come downstairs for one last drink. I am thinking he isn't bringing me flowers anymore, I'm getting those bad shoes back on and going downstairs. I take his debit card. I leave the belt.

I go to bed at 3 a.m. As my head hits the pillow, I know everything I've done for the past 4 hours has been a really bad idea.

I wake up at 8 a.m. I know we have to leave within the next 45 minutes for a 4-hour trip in the car to get our three children. I am unwell. I start thinking about all of the things I said to CH after midnight. Ouch. Suddenly, I hear a noise. It hurts my head, but I open my eyes. It is a glass of ice water and an Aleve. It is not coming from the hand of The Edge. It is coming from the hand of CH, who was so abused only 8 short hours ago. He is laughing at me.

He doesn't bring me flowers. He doesn't sing me love songs. But he brings me aspirin and water when I need it and has a short memory. I'm keeping him.