But I Thought You Liked Me

Jury duty, you are such a tease. For weeks now, I’ve been preparing for the possibility of being out of work for five weeks. I was all ready to show up at the courthouse yesterday as you requested, but when I called you on Tuesday evening to find out what time you needed me, you told me that you had so many jurors for this trial that it was going to take you days to get through them all and to call back the next day. This hurt me a little, because I thought I meant something to you, but I understand that you’re really busy, so I let it go. But when I called back last night, you told me to not even bother calling you until next Wednesday. What’s up with that, jury duty? Apparently, I don’t mean as much to you as I thought. I really thought we had something special, but I guess I’m just a number to you.

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I know that lately, most of my posts have been my whining about jury duty and being sick. And sadly, I don’t see things changing any time soon, because I’m sick again. Either I have the world’s longest running cold or my spring allergies have kicked in. I’m bitter.

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I am sending a mass card to my uncle’s family. A mass card is something that Catholics send to other Catholics when someone dies. You make a small donation to a church or religious order and they say a couple of Masses for the deceased. I didn’t know where to get a Mass card, but my grandmother gave me one (she keeps a supply on hand at all times; apparently, at her age, she uses them all the time as her contemporaries are dropping like flies). Mass cards generally have some kind of religious imagery on them. This one has perhaps the cheesiest picture of Jesus I’ve ever seen. Not only is Jesus really pale and Northern European looking, but the quality of the painting is what you might find at one of those “starving artist” sales, the ones at Holidays Inns where all the paintings are $29 or less. It’s awesome in its awfulness.

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Someone got here by searching for “the clap song syphilis.” I have no idea what this is, but I have two points to make: 1) I believe that the term “the clap” actually refers to gonorrhea, and 2) I totally want to hear this song.

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To the person who was searching for “the mixed tape lyrics meanings”: I’m pretty sure that with lyrics like

This is morning
That's when I spend the most time
Thinking ‘bout what I've given up
This is a warning
When you start the day just to close the curtains
You're thinking ‘bout what I've given up

Where are you now?
As I’m swimming through the stereo
I’m writing you a symphony of sound
Where are you now?
As I rearrange the songs again
This mix could burn a hole in anyone
But it was you I was thinking of

[…]

And I can’t get to you
I can’t get to you
I can’t get to you (you, you)

this song is about making a mix tape for an ex with whom things have gone wrong.

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Someone else wants to know “what songs should i put on my mixed cds?” You’ve come to the right place, gentle reader, because Lady Tiara loves her some mixed CDs. Of course, the answer depends on what you’re going for with the mixed CD. Do you want a party mix or is it for someone you want to sleep with you? If the former, here are some suggestions:

Bizarre Love Triangle – New Order
I Want You Back – Hoodoo Gurus
That’s Entertainment – the Jam
Kelly Watch the Stars – Air
I Go Crazy – Flesh for Lulu
La La Love You – Pixies
Don’t Leave Me This Way – the Communards
Le Disko – Shiny Toy Guns
I Wanna Be Your Lover – Prince
I Love a Man in Uniform – Gang of Four
A Praise Chorus – Jimmy Eat World
The Look of Love - ABC
Speak Like a Child – Style Council

If it’s the latter, here are some suggestions:

Fairytale of New York – the Pogues
My Baby Just Cares for Me – Nina Simone
Skips a Beat (Over You) – Promise Ring
You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me – Dusty Springfield
The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side – Magnetic Fields
Kiss at the End of the Rainbow – Mitch and Mickey
For Blue Skies – Strays Don’t Sleep
Only You – Yaz
Pale Blue Eyes – Velvet Underground
Hyponotised – Might Lemon Drops
Written in the Stars – Paul Weller

Good luck!

Yeah, That Would Be Me

I am so stressed out about the possibility of five weeks of jury duty that it’s making my chronic insomnia even worse than usual. I woke up yesterday at 4:45 a.m. On the plus side, I got to work at 8. I would have gotten in even earlier if it hadn’t been for my reluctance to walk to work in the dark. (Walking to work as the sun came up was weird, since it was only a few years ago that I occasionally was coming home as the sun rose (totally vampire style).)

There’s a part of me that’s hoping I’ll suddenly be stricken with nasty boils or something like that, so I can show off my horrid boils to the judge and point out that I’m not someone they want on their jury.

I keep thinking about what jury duty could be like. I read this little gem on Wonkette: One juror was kicked off the Scooter Libby trial during deliberations. She was also the only juror who didn’t dress up in a heart t-shirt on Valentine’s Day. The rest of the jury wore matching t-shirts, and the foreman actually gave a little speech thanking the marshals and the judge and wishing everyone a happy Valentine’s Day. Clearly, too many weeks on that jury has wiped away any common sense these people once had.

I can just imagine what the other jurors thought of the t-shirt-abstaining woman:

“What is her problem?... Thinks she’s so much better than us… Why won’t she just wear the shirt? It’s FESTIVE!... What a bitch…”

And you know what? I would totally be the bitch who refuses to wear the t-shirt. I fucking hate dressing like everyone else, and I’m not so good with the whole group thing. The last time I was on jury duty, the best part of it for me was that there was a lot of sitting around time (we were stuck in the jury room for more time than we were in the courtroom), and I spent that time reading, something I never have enough time to do in my daily life. This mystified the other jurors, who said things like, “You sure do read a lot” in a slightly incredulous tone, as if saying “You sure do seem to enjoy picking your nose.” I guess I’m basically an introvert, and I have no desire to share my life story with a bunch of people I’m never going to see again. I’d just as soon read a book.

It's Not Just a Duty, It's a Privilege

I have been called for jury duty later this month. This is nothing new; I’ve been called numerous times since I’ve lived in DC. But this time is a little different—it’s Federal Court and I have a bad feeling that I’m not going to be able to get out of it. Back in September, I was called for jury duty for the Federal court. Unlike the regular DC court, which is one day or one trial service, with the Federal court, you are on call for two weeks and can be called in and selected at anytime during those two weeks. Since I had a business trip scheduled during the time for which I was called, I asked for a deferral, and it was granted. I knew they would get me sooner or later, and indeed, I got another summons. Only this one is a bit different. Instead of being on call for two weeks, I have been pre-selected for a specific trial, which is expected to last five weeks(!). I’ve asked for another deferral on the grounds of my job (if I were on a five-week trial, I would
basically still have to do my job as I have daily and weekly deadlines and no one to back me up full time). But I have a bad feeling they’re not going to buy the job excuse a second time.

Of all the times, I’ve been called for jury duty, I’ve only actually served on a trial once. The experience was pretty surreal. It ranged from the scary (a shackled witness wearing old school striped prison duds who got up to the witness stand and said “I ain’t sayin’ shit.”) to the funny (all the witnesses had giggle-inducing nicknames like “Shoop-Shoop”). It was a first degree murder trial, involving one crack dealer who allegedly killed another crack dealer. It was, for the most part, depressing as hell and often mind-numbingly boring. There were a few interesting moments, courtesy of one of the witnesses. Joy* took the stand one day, and I looked over at her and thought, hmmh, that woman sort of looks like a man. But she had a female-sounding name, so I figured maybe she just had very strong features. She identified herself as a prostitute who plied her trade in the area where the murder happened.

When questioned by the prosecutor as to why she was in an alley, she said that she was, “paying the water bill.”
The prosecutor replied, “And by ‘paying the water bill,’ you mean?”
“I was peeing,” Joy replied, as if he were a slow child who needed everything explained in great detail.

I love this euphemism, because it doesn’t really make any sense. It would seem to be more appropriate as another term for turning tricks, but whatever.

At another point during her testimony, Joy told the rather stiff judge, “You got it going on, girlfriend,” which was so absurd that everyone in the courtroom burst out laughing, including the judge.

I sat on the jury for eight days, taking copious notes. Some of the other jurors actually commented on my mad note-taking skills, asking if it was my first trial. They were mostly older, had served numerous times, and were pretty jaded about the whole process. But I figured, if I have to be here, I’m going to do it right. And when you’re potentially sending someone to prison for life, taking lots of notes can’t be a bad thing.

After we heard the closing arguments, the judge announced that the two alternates would be released at this point, before deliberations. There were 14 of us, and we didn’t know who the alternates were. They called my juror number and told me I was dismissed. I walked out of there, feeling a little weird. I was mostly relieved to be done, but I was partly disappointed that after putting in all that time (and taking all those damn notes), I wasn’t going to be deliberating. I heard from another juror (who was a friend of a friend) that the defendant was found guilty, which didn’t exactly come as a shock to me.

A year or two later, I was reading an article in the Post about a bail bondman who had hired two crack whores to kill his wife. (There are so many things wrong with that sentence. Beyond the obvious one of murder being wrong, is it really ever a good idea to hire crack whores for an intricate murder-for-hire plot? And wouldn’t a bail bondsman perhaps have access to a more professional grade of hitpeople?) Shockingly, the plot went awry, and the crack whores were arrested. One of them turned state’s evidence. The article described “her” as a male prostitute who dresses as a woman. And her name was Joy. Actually, I yelled, “I knew it. Because chicks totally don’t have Adam’s apples.”

*Not her real name.