I'm All About Civic Responsibility

This just in, from the "never-writing" CG…I’ve been pulled away from my non-writing yet again by, of all things, jury duty (which, when you think about it, is actually a pretty legit excuse). Although I’m technically still a potential juror, I’m currently on a little reprieve until next week. Though I can’t share any scintillating details about that, I can provide you with this little nugget about Our Judicial Process, in all its glory: more than a few people with whom I share the same county-space are annoying FREAKS. And I’m not talking plaintiffs or defendants.

Now, before anyone gets all hot and bothered about a) the fact that I should be grateful for the opportunity to serve and that we live in a democracy, rather than some police state led by a sadist with a really bad dye job, or b) my assumption that I am completely free of freakish qualities of my own (anyone who knows me, e.g. ESG, could assure you I have a boatload o’ annoying traits trailing me like a garbage barge), let me say this: there’s no better people-watching around, anywhere, than in the basement jury room of my local government center. It’s just that having to interact with certain elements of the general hoi polloi on a close, personal basis for an extended period is, on some days, a little more than I can stomach. I mean, if it weren’t for Johnny and Sid (Combat Kids), I’d pretty much prefer to ride out my remaining days in comfy isolation somewhere, with a copy of The Sheltering Sky (the book, not the movie), my collection of Replacements CDs, and an endless supply of junk food. Included on my hit list (not to be confused with my Hit Parade):

Wine Connoisseur Guy…at every available break in jury selection process for the first case I was called on, grabbed the only other man on the panel and droned on to him endlessly about merits of pinots (apparently, there are none, although his wife favors them) and cabs (he prefers the “deep, full-bodied, heady reds”, which sounded more than slightly obscene at just after 9 a.m. on far less caffeine than I normally consume by that time). His hapless victim was chosen, I presume, because he was the only other man on the panel (must, therefore, agree on pinots?) and because, as I found out, he lives in the same tony suburb as Wino. After a good five minutes’ diatribe, Hapless Victim’s eyes glazed over and he appeared to be contemplating a swan dive off the catwalk on which we were waiting to the atrium below. I watched all this while munching on the sandwich bag of Frosted Mini-Wheats I’d so frugally brought with me (because I’d paid a boatload for parking and I’m cheap -- see, a quirk -- but at least I was trying to chew quietly), wondering: would these taste good with a nice Chardonnay?

The I Had No Idea You’d Actually Ask Me To Appear Twins…two people, totally not related – Boy-Man and Frowsy Woman:

1) Boy-Man: eighteen, maybe nineteen years old, tops. Several prior court appearances (not as a juror), several traffic accidents (ascertained this during voir dire). Working as a gas station attendant, but “planning on going back to school” – umm, I’m thinkin’ not so much. Sleeping during breaks. Also from tony suburb – why did this not surprise me? When excused as a juror, seemed completely perplexed that we’d actually have to go back down to the jury room to be called for other cases. On our second day, appeared in the jury room precisely one hour after we were supposed to be present for attendance. Seen hovering just outside the jury office looking dazed and confused. I’m planning to use “general stupidity/excessive marijuana use” as an excuse the next time I’m asked to serve, as it appeared to work pretty well for him.

2) Frowsy Woman: Velour-type dress, unbuttoned down to HERE and up to THERE; however, hanging-out slip hem indicated at least some modicum of modesty. Or a misguided attempt. Stiletto-heeled, patchwork boots. Apparently suffering from laryngitis or an affected whisper (to get out of serving, perhaps?). She asked a woman seated next to me if we “have to sit here [the jury selection room] for the whole day”. When her name was called for a panel, rather than responding to the clerk by either saying “Here” or raising her hand, stood up in a rather labored way and shuffled very slowly over to the screening area. Not sure what happened after that, but I’m thinking it can’t have been good.

Heavy-Breathing Man…sat next to me in the jury box for one case. At first I thought the heavy breathing was a health issue and felt kind of bad for him, but then he turned the breath on me and…yep, smelled like someone had been drinking the night before (I’m guessing neither pinots nor cabs). Periodically turned to stare at me, more than a little disconcerting (and challenging) since I was only seated about a foot away. Also, had a hard time maintaining focus on the courtroom goings-on, which would have been excusable since the judge for this one was rather long-winded. However, the rest of us, including me, were at least appearing to listen to the instructions by looking in the general direction of said judge; Heavy Breather looked everywhere BUT at him, including for a minute or two at the ceiling, which had a not-very-interesting pattern on it not worth more than a glance (yep, I checked).

Obviously, I live to serve. The only other interesting side-note I can come up with at this point: during one of the security screens, during which a court officer checks you and your belongings for weapons, the poor twenty-something single (again, I checked – no wedding band) Officer Guy unzipped and inspected the little zippered pouch in my purse where I keep the tampons.

“Sorry,” I said, which was really quite dorky on my part. Sorry for what? That I’m a woman? That I keep those supplies in, of all ridiculous places, my purse? That it’s his job to look for contraband and occasionally unwittingly encounter something he’d rather not see?

“No problem,” said Officer Guy. “I’ve seen a lot worse.” Why am I so not surprised?

(P.S. – I do write. I actually worked on revisions to my novel in the jury room’s media center during one of my breaks. So there, City Pages.)

Note to My Ex-Husband Re: Dinner

(Posted by CombatGirl)

If you call to ask me how to make my fabulous Chicken Strips with Rice casserole for our children when they stay with you overnight, because your girlfriend burns everything (including scrambled eggs, per Johnny) and insists on putting garlic and/or corn into everything (even pancakes, per Johnny), and the kids won't eat her food, I've got one suggestion for you: you might want to remain on the line and attentive until I've given you the complete recipe, including baking temperature and cooking time.

"I didn't need all that, I just wanted to know what's in it" is neither a polite response to someone doing your sorry a** a favor, nor likely to yield the results you're hoping for.

Just a tip, Sparky. Bon Appetit.

My Kind of Doctor (Or, My Left Foot)

(Posted By CombatGirl)

So, yesterday, I had minor foot surgery. Let me explain, because that sounds a little more dramatic than it actually was (as in, "Oh, my God, I had FOOT surgery yesterday. And now I'm just barely able to hobble
around.") Really, I'm fine. And the whole darn thing was my fault anyway, so I really can't complain (well, I could, because I can find a gripe with any given thing, but I guess I shouldn't complain. That's more precise.) See, I ended up wearing flip-flops quite a bit this summer. I had this one pair that were really cute, black, slight wedge, a flip-flop but not, because you could dress them up and they looked like real sandals -- so, I got by with wearing them to work, and no one said a thing. Unfortunately, they hurt like hell, and caused a big blister between my first and second toes, on my left foot (only. Not sure why my right foot wasn't affected, but who's to say, when it comes to feet? Various parts of my body that you'd think would be matching are, apparently, asymmetrical. Including the lobes of my brain, I think. But I digress.) So, slave to fashion that I am, I kept wearing the killer flip-flops, causing blister after callus after blister. Finally, a month or so ago, when the weather turned chilly and I grew tired of polishing my toenails for the season, I retired the flip-flops permanently. By that time, I'd developed a rather unattractive, seemingly permanent growth between my toes. Too much information? Well, here's more:
the growth began to hurt.

Hence, an appointment with my primary care physician seemed in order. The last time I saw her was about a year ago, and I'd forgotten that her particular gestalt is pretty much no small talk, just -- cut to the chase.
When I first met her, I was a little taken aback by her lack of Marcus Welby bedside manner, but quickly got over it because I realized a) she knew what she was doing, and b) if I'm handing over my physical well-being to someone else, I really don't want much from her other than validation that she knows what she's doing. After that little epiphany of mine, we've gotten along
swimmingly.

So, yesterday at the appointment, after I'd removed my left combat boot (they call me Combat Girl for a reason, you know) and sock, Dr. O. took a look at the affected digits -- of course prying them apart rather firmly, because that's her, although it hurt like blue blazes, causing me to curse Dr. O. to the heavens, despite the high esteem in which I hold her. And she looked. And looked.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"Don't know. Could be a callus, could be a wart. Or some kind of corn."

"Are my toes infected?"

"Nope. Doesn't look like it."

"But you don't know what that thing is."

"No," she said, still looking, and I got a little worried, because Dr. O.
always knows. If she didn't know, who would? An extremely expensive podiatrist not covered by my paltry employer insurance plan?

"So," I asked, rather tentatively, "what do you think we should do, then?"

"I think," she replied, looking me dead in the eye, "that we should chop it off, and then freeze it." She said it with such conviction, that's precisely what we did. Although they did at least numb the area first, which also hurt like blue blazes, but Dr. O. prepped me by telling me to grip the examining table before she injected the anesthetic. Such a peach, that one. I was a little worried that after the Lidocaine, or whatever, wore off I'd be shuffling around like Frankenstein, just in time for Halloween, but -- lo and behold -- my foot actually hurts LESS than it did pre-chopping and -freezing. So now I'm good as gold. Until the next pair of bad shoes, I guess.

But I'm starting to wonder. Dr. O. is such a good, minimalist, kamikaze doctor that she makes me feel as though the next time something like this happens, I should just suck it up, buy myself a big ol' bottle of vodka, take a few slugs, pour the rest over my foot to sterilize it, and perform
the surgery myself. I'd save a copay, anyway. We'll see.

Guess Who Hasn't Experienced Fine Dining in a While?

(Posted By CombatGirl)

This morning, while standing in the bathroom getting ready for work, I received the following inquiry from my nine-year-old daughter, affectionately referred to as Johnny (a/k/a Johnny Rotten, although she's a lovely girl), who was doing last-minute homework in, of all places, my bedroom:

What's the name of a restaurant that begins with "S"?

Combat Girl's response: What? (There's a short hallway between my room and the bathroom.)

Johnny: The name of a restaurant that starts with "S".

CG: (Pause) Why?

J: I need it for reading class. We're doing words that start with "S", and I don't have a restaurant yet.

CG: (Wracks undercaffeinated brain.) I don't know.

J: (Wheedles loudly -- she's in another room, after all.) Come on, Mom...you have to know at least one "S" restaurant.

CG: (Burns fingers with hot roller, thereby jolting self into full
consciousness.) Hang on. Wait, I know. (Beat) Spago.

(Smug smile. Would bet money I am the only mother in the greater Minneapolis area who could be this creative at 6:54 a.m. after only one full cup of coffee and sustaining an injury that could be loosely construed as work-related.)

J: How do you spell it?

CG: S-P-A-G-O. And if anyone says that's not a real restaurant, you tell them it is, too, that your Mom said so. It's in California. Run by a guy named Wolfgang Puck. And it's where all the celebrities go. Or used to, anyway.

(Like I'd know. Thank God I read the latest "People" magazine last night right before going to bed. And the closest I've gotten to "fine" dining lately has been Olive Garden, and that was only because someone gave me a $25 gift card. Plus, it doesn't begin with "S".)

J: (Appears in bathroom doorway.) Wolfgang who?!?

CG: You need to ask me these questions the night before the homework's due,
Sister.

Mea Culpa

I'm baaacck, and contrite as all get-out. Chalk up the last several days of non-posting by CG to technical difficulties (translate: I don't want to get fired from my job for posting from work). For a frame of reference, see Dooce.com. Plus, I had the tiniest of moral dilemmas. Suffice it to say, my burning desire to post, in a serious trouncing, has overridden my general frugality, so I'm online at home again. More later, after the kids are in bed tonight. Yes, there are kids. Two. A girl and boy. Affectionately known as Johnny and Sid, a/k/a Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious (details to follow). So, see, I can't lose my job blogging. You may call me wimpy beyond belief, however, as a single mom, I'd have a little 'splainin' to do...to someone. Kids. Family. God? I don't know. It's good to be back, though. Mazel Tov.

Mo' Better

ESG,
Here's a quick one for you (and the rest of the Cookies) -- I was just in the breakroom at work and noticed a bag of snack chips in the vending machine, the words "NOW BETTER TASTING" emblazoned across the front of the package. I mean, big enough so that I could see it from my post over by the microwaves (incidentally, I had noodles with homemade pesto. I can rock some pesto). But, pray tell...better tasting than what? And to whom? I don't recall anyone from that particular manufacturer asking me previously how I felt about the "pre-existing" taste. So then I think, more savory than, say, coffee grounds? That tuna melt that left me sick for a week when I was 19? An old shoe? Not quite so much of a claim to fame, then, eh? And isn't that sort of an admission on the company's part that, well, the old chips really weren't very good at all? Actually, I do recall that I liked the former version just fine, thank you very much. However, I guess this corporation is vested in my selective memory -- so now I should dutifully bleat, "Oh, yeah. Those chips used to taste like crap. How do I know? It says so, right there on the bag." A little too much like Orwell (1984) for me.

~All the best...CG

The Legend of Johnny and Sid

OK, OK. I've been remiss in my duties, I'll admit it. My cohort, Ms. ESG, a/k/a The Goddess (or, if you make a typo like I just did, then deleted, "The Goodess", which is equally appropriate), has been a much busier bee than me (I?) in posting to this fine blog -- created, incidentally, by The "Goodess" herself (I was the spiritual advisor). Since my life, in spite of my incessant whining about it, is actually pretty pleasant most days, it's sometimes hard to dredge up something to recount that I think others would find interesting, because, as we've already established, I'm a cynic by nature. I could post about my job, but that would be a) potentially dull -- I write contracts, and b) potentially dangerous (click on the link to Dooce, here and to the right of the screen). I could write about Ex-Husband #2, but will only do so in a tangential way, due to reasons previously outlined re: job. And yes, there is an Ex-Husband #1, but I have no idea where he is (Massachusetts?) or what he's doing now (teaching?), plus he was kind (I was the idiot in that one), so it's probably best to just leave the poor man out of my blog saga entirely. I do currently have a beau, but since the bloom isn't quite off the rose yet, I don't want to jinx it at this point. Or immortalize the relationship in print if it doesn't work out. Which leaves, finally(?), my kids.

Yes, there are kids. I have two, with Ex- #2 (a/k/a Sparky, as ESG likes to call him). A girl and a boy, ages eight and four. And although I think they're excessively adorable and charming and all that, I realize that they're my kids. You may find their antics engaging, or you may not, since THEY'RE NOT YOUR KIDS (well, except if you're Sparky). I mean, we've all, at one point or another, had to look at someone else's baby as though it were cute, but inwardly we were thinking, "That child looks like a mutant." Now, before you go getting all offended on me and saying I'm vile, that every child is a precious gift from God, etc. etc., let me say this: I'm with you. Every child is a precious gift, and I am quite frequently vile. But you know you've thought someone else's kid was ugly/annoying/insert-your-fave-derogatory-adjective HERE, at least once in your life. If you say you haven't, I won't believe you. And we're all about the truth here at Wanna-Cookie. Right, ESG? So, any posts I make about them will be held to the same standard I'd hold for posts on other topics...if it's not something I think would amuse if the children weren't mine own, I won't be putting it out there.

Anyway, my kids. I'm sure you're wondering about tagline for this post, and how it relates. I'd be wondering, too -- I have a tendency to digress. Sorry. So, in addition to my children being my moon and sun, my dear, sweet, loveable cookies and all that, they sometimes have a proclivity to snarkiness. I mean, they're really intense. And when something's on their minds, they make it known.

Keep in mind I work full-time, and am sole physical custodian, for which I am grateful, but, as ESG says...by Thursdays I'm frequently no more than an oily puddle on the floor by the time I get home. And the children, having spent their respective days at school and preschool, are rather weary themselves. And vocal. So things sometimes get a little weird at our house in the evenings, which is how my children came to be nicknamed, with all due affection, Johnny and Sid.

As in Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious, erstwhile vocalist and bassist, respectively, for the Sex Pistols.

Work THIS

ESG,
In keeping with the "A & B conversation" theme, I had to send you this snippet for feedback, as I'm more than a little annoyed. Here goes: at one point, I got on the "reader panel" e-mail list for a working women's magazine and have found it impossible to get off. I've tried to "unsubscribe", but alas, to no avail. Recently I got a little missive from the mag, as follows -- the Most High of the High-Ups at this fine publication is writing a book about working mothers and NEEDS A LITTLE INPUT FROM READERS ABOUT WHAT WORKING MOTHERS THINK. Wouldn't you think, that of all the people walking around on God's green earth, She Who Is Most High (and we're not talking smokin' the hookah here [at least, I don't think we are] -- more like Pres & CEO) would be precisely the one who SHOULDN'T need feedback? I particularly thrilled to the directive to "share your story...you might be in my book and help other working moms". Okay, then, MH -- I'll send you all my pearls of wisdom, and recount episodes of pathos I suffered through so you can put them in "your" book and make a gigantic profit. And I'm guessin', lady, you're not really struggling that much financially as is. How about YOU send me YOUR stories, She-Ra, Princess of Power, and I'll put them in MY book and make a big fat pile of money? Maybe then I'll be able to afford yet another new pair of tennis shoes for my kid after my ex-husband, in his infinite wisdom, ruined the ones I just paid $35 for by letting her wade into a lake with them on.

I also like the question, "If you are divorced, do you think your work had an impact on your marriage?" Yeah, that was it. I've been wondering all this time why he decided to leave me, and now I see the light -- I WORKED too much. If I just would have foregone a paycheck, he would have had less money to gamble with and would have come home from the casino sooner. If I would have been sitting at home, waiting for him with the porch light on, he might have found his way back to our neighborhood and wouldn't have fallen into someone else's bed. I'm only slighly cynical. Can you tell?