One Sentence Product Review

The patented BURSTING BEADS^® invigorating fragrance, called whatthefuckisthissmell, will definitely jolt you awake in the morning after smearing it all over your face.

I held out as long as I could. Then they locked me out.

Old Blogger profile number: 1404183

New Blogger profile number: 12147374277768797975 (I'm not kidding)

I've lost all my cred as a pioneer blogger.

Time Wasting Tuesday

We received an alert on a jury duty scam at work today. The sender of the mass e-mail had already confirmed the scam by linking to it on Snopes and the FBI. One of my pet peeves is receiving these mass e-mails about urban legends such as a woman walked out of the mall, had a flat tire and a man changed it for her, but then asked for a ride to his car. She went inside the mall to tell a security guard and when they returned, the man was gone except for his briefcase which was full of duct tape and knives. IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!

Seriously it takes two minutes to find out the validity of the e-mail before cluttering up my inboxes.

Anyway I was on the FBI website, reading about the scam, and caught sight of the Top 10 Most Wanted list. Then I read the list. Then I daydreamed about seeing one in the grocery store and calling the FBI and winning the $100,000 reward. Then I daydreamed about what I would do with $100,000. (I would put a down payment on a place in the Spire building, put a down payment on a new car, and go to Australia.)

So that was my time wasting Tuesday. How was yours?

Because I can turn Blogger into a notepad

Stories to post:

• Finish the damn jury duty story.
• Karaoke reunion, or How I Rocked My Face Off
• Walking tour of neighborhood (with pics), or My GD Effing Landlord Raised My Rent $100 a month.
• Running out of gas, or How I Ran into My Gay Realtor
• Martinis and IMAX, or What Not to Imbibe So You Don't Get So Drunk You Fall Off a Toilet.
• Announcement.

Also, Blogger is threatening me that I may not be able to post anymore until I switch to the new format, so I also need to back up my entire blog before handing it over to Blogger to fuck up transition.

Snow Day!

Well, sorta.

There's no water in Buckhead due to a water main breaking. Because they had to turn the water off in the entire district, there is no coffee at work.

Well, there are also no clean hands.

And no bathrooms.

But I like to think we couldn't go to work today because there is no coffee.

Getting Physical

I've been working out everyday this week.

I haven't been to the gym, but I've been working out.

As soon as I get home from work, I take the cross-legged dog out for her evening walk. Then I return home, remove my coat, gloves, hat, and scarf and slip into my cheerleading shorts.

Then I turn on the TV to Geraldo or whatever crap show is on and I lay on the couch and pull an old comforter up to my chin.

It is there that I'm working out.

It's called mental workouts-- I made it up myself. While Geraldo is calling the world a collective group of racists, I think of a treadmill. And then I picture myself on the treadmill. I spend the next 20 minutes imagining myself running on the treadmill, during commercials of course because sometimes that Geraldo really is a hoot. Yesterday I ran for three and a half miles.

It was a good workout.

And afterwards I feel tired, but the good tired with the runner's high. And I imagine my muscles getting stronger and the winter insulation disappearing. I think it's working.

I'm getting physical.

And by physical, I mean mental.

Master of the House

September 12th, 2001, I walked out of my morning psychology class and walked down Baldwin Street into North Campus. Rounding the library where I turned right to trudge up the steep hill, I saw students filing into the Coke Room. I must have stopped and stared because a tall blond guy tugged at my Oxford University sweatshirt sleeve, "The President's addressing the nation, come on!"

Wordlessly I followed him into the Coke Room. Coca-Cola bought a lounge in the economics building. It had purple Coca-Cola themed couches and chaise lounges, coffee tables, a winding counter punctuated with black barstools. Around the wall were Coca-Cola clocks that told the time in various countries; it was midnight in Singapore. Along the main wall were, of course, several vending machines next to, of course, the giant Coca-Cola floor-to-ceiling logo sculpture. Hanging from each corner in the Coke Room were TVs, all tuned to CNN.

I heard someone murmur that classes were postponed until after his speech and we crammed our way inside. A short brown-haired frat guy stood filed in next to me, coffee cup in hand. I prayed he wouldn't spill any on me. We packed so tightly into that room that everyone had to take off their bookbags and shove them between their feet. An English major, I never had more to carry than a notebook and a novel checked out from the library. I shifted the weight to my left arm and pressed them to my chest. Hundreds of students stuffed in that room in a few moments of solidarity because we thought the President's words would actually mean something.

It's funny that I can tell you everything about that speech except for the actual speech itself. And that was the singular time Bush's words meant anything to me. When I turned on House last night and saw a different type of House, I lasted until his horseshit facade of being pleased to say, "Madam of the House," before screaming and throwing the remote.

You know he turned "Madam of the House" into a dirty joke in his head.

No one likes to be dumped

and there are women out there as finicky as me.

So this kind of thing happens to other people too.

If I ever had to return a Creme Brulee torch to Williams-Sonoma, I imagine it would go very much like this.

Keep a hanky nearby while reading. I laughed so hard I drooled on myself and snotted in my tea.

Dirty Secret #85

I had a relationship with a professional hockey player.

The very last summer I spent where I grew up instead of Athens, I got a job delivering pizzas. The price of gas hadn't blown out of proportion yet, making it a very lucretive summer job.

My very first day on the job sends me into one of the nicer neighborhoods. There, swamped in the ugliest red polo that's ever touched my skin, I rang the doorbell and it was answered by a very large and very hairy boy. He looked me up and down and grinned.

"You're the hottest pizza delivery person I've ever seen!"

I looked down and tugged uncomfortably at my polo. It reached my knees. I was clothed in a red tent that gave me no figure. "Um, thanks," I shrugged, completely not believing him.

I handed over the pizza and he looked at me expectantly, "Where's the Coke? I also ordered a two-liter."

My eyes widened. It was my first day and tasks like checking tickets and grabbing two-liters out of the fridge completely eluded me. "I'm so sorry, but I forgot it. When I return to the store, I'll take it off your bill."

"No."

"What?"

"No. I ordered a Coke and I want it." His voice changed tone, from stern to flirty, "You'll just have to bring it back by later."

"Um, okay." I didn't want the people at the store to know I messed up, so I thought I could just drop it off during one of my other runs.

"When do you get off of work?"

"9:30."

"So I'll see you at 10 then?"

I had been home from school for a few weeks and hadn't gotten out much. My friends were all back at school or had gone to their respective homes. Besides, I wasn't even on speaking terms with half of them after a particularly rough semester. The Brawny Man was standing in front of me and thought I was hot. I needed friends in the area.

"Uh, okay." I stammered.

I got back to my truck and looked at the cash. He tipped me $30.

In Celebration

Some mark their blog milestones by visitor count, others by age of the blog. Although I have never celebrated a blog milestone before, I mark mine in my writing. I smiled when my blog posts rolled into triple digits. I gave myself a pat on the back when I hit 365 posts, a year's worth of entries.

This is my 500th post, proving that my life is anything but ordinary.

To review:

2003:

• Living in Athens.

2007:

• Living in Atlanta.

2003:

• Living in a one-bedroom with no air-conditioning.
  

2007:

• Living in a one-bedroom with no doors.
  

2003:

• Had sex dreams about boss.

2007:

• Had relationship with said boss.

2003:

• Know what day it is based on the drink specials.

2007:

• Know what day it is based on the TV schedule.

2003:

• Terrible at ballet because I was hungover.

2007:

• Terrible at ballet because I just have no balance.

2003:

• Drinking nasty things like PBR and Miller High Life.

2007:

• Living the high life by only drinking Sapphire martinis and tonics.

2003:

• Introduced my employee Will to my friend Bonnie.

2007:

• Saw pictures of Will and Bonnie's wedding last month.

2003:

• Buys Ramen noodles with pocket change.

2007:

• Buys Ramen noodles by the case.

2003:

• English student writing obscene amount of papers on Shakespeare and Chaucer.

2007:

• Writer writing an obscene amount of papers on toilets.

Nice to know some things never change. :)

Untainted

But hey who's on trial?
-- Interpol, "Evil"

After the laughter had subsided, the prosecutor looked down at his notes.

"Mr. Kl-"

"That's me!" I find it easier just to cut the person off rather than sit there while he uncomfortably works out my name.

"Oh! I missed you!" he said, breaking eye contact with Juror #26. I get confused with being a man pretty often. I was named for a boy; my parents were expecting a boy. I was able to disappoint pretty early on in life.

"And how do you feel about guns?"

"I believe in gun ownership, as long as the weapon is obtained legally."

"Do you or anyone in your family own a gun?"

"I do not. My step-father owns a whole closet-full. I grew up around them."

"Do you still live with your parents?"

"No." I humph a little, vexed. I was the only person out of 60 asked that question, including the Georgia Tech graduate who looked about 14 years old. I was the only single twenty-something female in the room. Of course we single gals live with our parents; it's what we do when our future husbands haven't bartered for our dowries yet. I told my father not to go over 60 sheep personally.

"So why have you personally chosen to not own a gun?"

"Because I live in Midtown," I looked pointedly at the very cute juror in the front row, "alone." It actually came out a whole lot creepier than I intended, probably explaining why he hasn't called yet. Only I can turn jury duty into a meat market. "Honestly, I'm nervous about owning a gun and having it used against me."

The prosecutor seemed to accept my answer. "And what would happen if you were at your place in Midtown and someone threatened your life with a deadly weapon. Would you shoot him?"

"Absolutely." I'm a little uneasy having said that under oath. I sort of feel I have to deliver now.

"And what would you do after shooting someone in self-defense?"

"Call the police." Yes, they asked everyone that question. I think it's safe to say the entire jury would sign a statement saying we would all call the police after shooting somebody. Obviously we gathered that the defendant, in fact, did not.

"You stated earlier you don't watch lawyer shows on TV?"

"No, I don't." This time the prosecutor did not believe my response, challenging my honesty with his stare. I looked at my hands and mumbled, "I prefer the medical ones." The jury giggled.

The prosecutor smiled, "Nothing wrong with that. No more questions, Judge."

The defense stands up. "You stated earlier your step-father owns a gun?"

"No, I said he owns a closet-full of guns." The jury laughs again.

"Is he in any gun clubs?"

"The NRA. He also teaches hunter safety."

"Earlier you stated that you know someone who has made mistakes in the past and has turn their life around. Who was it?"

"Er, I was referring to my brothers and me."

"Explain, please."

"Well, we all ended up in court while growing up." I tried my hardest to see if I could get away without saying what the actual charges were. If I had to list my brothers' and my collaborative charges -- minor in possession of alcohol, three incidents of public drunkenness, open container, and a DUI -- we'd all look like crazed alcoholics. Good news is by the time I ended up in the pokey, my parents were used to the drill. "We learned from our mistakes and grew up into productive citizens."

"Was this juvy?"

"Erm, no." The jury had a good laugh. At least I got away with not saying the charges.

When asked if I or anyone I knew had been a victim of a crime, I replied in the negative. I grew up in an upper-middle class neighborhood with senators and D-list celebrities. My string quartet used to play at Newt Gringrich's Christmas parties. There was no crime.

However when other people had to answer:

"Yes, my grandfather was murdered."

"Yes, my grandfather was carjacked and then murdered. Twenty years later my mother was murdered."

"Yes, my brother murdered his wife."

"Yes, I was held up at gun point."

"Yes, I was shot. In the face." (She was a CNN camera operator and it happened in the Gulf War.)

Also, it should be known that I am a statistical marvel because I live in the city and have not had my car stolen.

"We had our car stolen. Twice. The second time at the courthouse when we were testifying for the first theft. It was taken right from the police lot."

"We had a burglar and I shot him in the leg."

Oh holy crap. After hearing all that testimony, I do believe it's time to learn to shoot.

The defense looked at me, "Do you feel like you could be a fair and balanced juror?"

"Yes, I do." And I knew I was selected.

I had the untainted mind.

Siberian for Sale

• Number of times I woke up last night thinking that guy was trying to get in again: 15.
• Number of times I woke up thinking I was being strangled when I was actually just twisted up in my sheets: 4.
• Number of times I woke up at the foot of my bed: 1.

I did not sleep very well last night. The dog, however, was snoring away under the bed.

Yeah. I'm still scared.

Holy crap, that was scary. Like defecate in your pants scary.

*Note to self- put pants on before the police arrive.

*Tip- if you want to murder someone in Atlanta, you have at least twenty minutes after she has called 911 to stab her and get the hell out.

Twenty minutes folks. That was the response time. After I buzzed him in my complex, the police called me for directions. Oh yeah.

"I'm having trouble locating your building number."

(Busy from dying of a heart attack) "Um, that's because there is no building number. There's just the one building."

"Where's the parking?"

Really? Your big bad squad car won't let you just park anywhere? "Around the back. There's actually a parking deck."

He finally showed up at my door. I gave him a description (head shaped like peephole) and he said he would search the grounds for him.

That was over 2 hours ago and I haven't heard from him since. He told me to not leave my apartment.

It's times like these I wish I had someone to call to freaking sit with me and keep me company tonight.

I should really make more friends in the area.

This sucks. This sucks bad.

Um, I'm a little scared right now.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"There is someone trying to force his way into my apartment."

"What's your address?"

"[Address]"

"What's the gate code?"

"Gate code?" The full effect of what is happening is beginning to overcome me. I'm shaking. I'm pacing in my apartment, quietly, so the guy banging and trying the handle doesn't know anyone is home.

"Does your building have a gate?"

"Um, yeah. But there's no universal code. You have to call me through the call box." And by the way, why the fuck isn't there a emergency code so the police, fire trucks, or ambulances can get in that much quicker? I don't need to know what the code is; it should be worked out between the complex and the city.

"What's your name?"

"J-Jamie." The operator is no nonsense and not very calm herself, which is making me that much more on edge.

"The police will call you to buzz them in shortly."

The good for nothing fucking dog is sitting at a distance and staring at my door. She knows it's not a friendly knock and is just watching, not barking, by the way.

It had been a good five minutes and the banging on the door has stopped. The police aren't here yet. I took off my shoes and tip toed to the front door and looked out the peephole.

I sharply inhaled. He's still there and slumped against my door jamb, pathetically trying to turn the handle.

Insane fear of peepholes back on.

So what do I do? I run to the computer and blog about it.

I wish the police would get here soon.

The longest process. Ever.

I was fortunate that Juror #26 sitting next to me was a lawyer. He explained to me in detail the process of jury selection when he wasn't tapping away constantly on his Blackberry like every other lawyer I know.

It was 2:30 PM Day One of my three day stint at the Fulton County Superior Court. I unlocked my bright pink slider phone and composed several text messages that I would never send just to look as important as the lawyer next me. The deputy walked by and we both sat up straight and hid our phones. We had already been called to the courtroom and waved our juror number cards to several preliminary questions.

"What's going to happen now?" I leaned over and whispered.

Juror #26 put his phone down, "Now they are going to ask us questions individually."

"They aren't going to let some people go yet? Like you? Obviously they aren't going to choose you because you're a lawyer."

"Some judges let people go early. Some don't"

"Oh."

They called the first fourteen people into the juror's box. "That's the row you want to be in," Juror #26 whispered. "They hardly choose out of the first row. We're not too bad off in the second row. It's the third and fourth rows that have the highest chance of being selected."

"Because they can be picky with us?"

"Right."

For the next hour and a half, the each juror in the first row was interrogated. We could put together pieces of what the trial would be about: most questions inquired about personal feelings about guns and gun ownership. I wasn't happy with the idea that I had to get up in front of a room full of strangers and answer some really personal questions; it felt like we had to testify against ourselves. Had we ever been arrested? Explain in detail. Had we ever been a victim of a crime? Explain in detail.

Because we were in the courtroom and in the presence of the judge, we were not allowed to read or write or do anything but pay attention to everyone's sob story.

"My wife's cousin's best friend is a lawyer."

"Really."

"Yes, sir."

"Well does your wife's cousin's best friend discuss court cases with you?"

"No, sir."

I quietly groaned and sank lower in the Pew That Waged War Against My Butt. I slid my phone open and messaged someone I knew would respond, "I can't feel my ass." At this pace we were going to be here forever.

Finally the second row was called up. I took a seat in the plush juror chairs and swung around, my butt tingling from regaining blood flow. "It doesn't recline," I pouted to Juror #26. He didn't laugh. I stopped swinging my chair.

Seated on the other side of me was a borderline senile old black lady. She had complained earlier that she wasn't old enough to get out of jury duty and had to wait a couple of more years, which placed her in her late sixties. Her gray hair was dyed a yellow-blonde color and it was twisted into a bun and pinned tightly to her head. I've never seen a bun that tight. She wore a faded yellow two piece suit which swallowed her upper body whole and stockings covered her feet, which hung out of sandals. The casual kind. Her lips were painted bright red, but the lipstick had faded since lunch and just the bright red outline remained; this little old lady was a trip.

"State your name and city ma'am," the prosecutor asked her.

"Heh?" she honked back.

"YOUR NAME AND CITY" rang over the speakers in the courtroom.

"Oh. My name is Rose and I'm from College Park."

"Do you own a gun, Rose?"

"Heh?"

"DO YOU OWN A GUN?"

"No, but I consider buying one every other day."

"Why?"

"Heh?"

"WHY?"

"To have one around the house. For self-protection."

"Have you ever fired a gun before?"

"Oh yes, I have."

"When?"

"Heh?"

"WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU FIRED A GUN?"

"Oh. New Year's"

This time I was the one that let out the loud honk, along with the rest of the courtroom. The prosecutor began laughing.

"You shot a gun on New Year's."

"Oh yes."

"Where did you shoot the gun on New Year's?"

"In the air."

Most of the people in the room had to put their head in their hands to not laugh too obviously. The prosecutor was visibly shaking.

"So you just shot it like this?" He raised one arm up and pointed an index finger to the ceiling.

"Yes, sir. I done shot it just like that."

"How many times?" We all knew by this point that the questioning had nothing to do with the case; we had a deaf old black lady in a too-big suit in the box testifying about shooting a gun for kicks on New Year's in the city. We had to find out as much as we could.

"Just twice." Just indeed.

"Excuse me, ma'am," the judge piped up. "Where do you live again?"

"College Park, Judge."

"I just want to make sure I'm not anywhere in the area when you're shooting that gun!" he laughed.

"It was just for New Year's!"

Just indeed.

More MySpace Fun

No, you didn't know me at Georgia. That's because you didn't go there. I'm hip to your lame-o tactics.

Punk.

Boing!

In case anyone is curious, the DVD release of The Little Mermaid does not have the bishop's erection in the wedding scene like my VHS copy.

Um, not that I own two copies of The Little Mermaid now.

And not that I stare at priests' crotches, searching for erections either.

So I was selected

But not for the Brian Nichols case.

Day 3 of court begins tomorrow. Obviously I can't say any more than that. Be back in a few days with some good stories!

Because God thinks I write crap. Literally.

My project that I so thoroughly enjoyed last year, the one on waterless urinals and dual flush toilets, has awarded me a magazine article! About urinals and toilets!

Um, yeah. Not exactly what I meant when I said I wanted to be a writer when I grow up, but whatevs.

I find that writing about urinals is very akin to writing a factual essay about unicorns: they're both something I have no experience with, nor have ever really seen.

During my research whenever I came up with a question about the mechanics of urinals, I wrote it down and presented the survey to actual urinal users and learned one very important thing:

Men pay absolutely no attention to where they pee.

Back to writing about Charlie and the Candy Mountain.

Short skirt, long boots

I'm almost done returning my Christmas presents. Don't get me wrong, my family did a great job with picking clothing out for me (of course they do have a list of preapproved stores), but I wanted to see if I could do any better with the after Christmas sales and, so far, I have.

For instance, I got this great skirt at Pre-approved Store #1: White House Black Market. My step-mother got me a shirt that was almost identical to one I already have from there, so I wandered through the sales racks and found a very short, very form-fitting gray skirt that would look amazing with my black leather boots.

I pranced around the office in my black boots and tiny skirt and it was very well received. Everyone in the sales department personally complimented me. My office husband asked me out to lunch for the first time ever -- I'd like to thank the skirt for such progress as I didn't have to do the asking this time.

12:30 comes and we walk out to his truck and I open the door and panic. He has a full-sized truck with super-sized tires. And no running boards. And the truck was parked on a upward incline for me. My very short, very form-fitting skirt would not allow me to climb in his truck. I tried grabbing the Oh Shit bar along the roof of the door, but I couldn't pull myself up into the seat. Office husband laughed; I nervously giggled.

Next I tried "backing" into the seat. I stuck my back to the seat and put my hands behind me and tried to jump up and sit, but alas, I'm not much of a jumper -- I'm rather white in that area. Two or three very poor attempts and I'm laughing too hard to even jump anymore.

Office Husband started coming around the truck, "Do you need help? Should I pick you up?"

"No!" My pride kept me from needing help to get in a freaking car, even if I did look completely ridiculous in the process.

"Turn around!" I half-laughed, half-ordered. He did. I hiked my skirt up to my hips, flashing the (I hope) empty parking lot and climbed in. I yanked my skirt back down. "Okay, I'm good."

Office Husband turned around and got in the truck. Hmm, the shirt my step-mother bought for me wouldn't have given me this many problems.

But remember, I looked very sexy, even if I didn't act like it.

Meeting

It was a holiday for the underpaid
Everybody got a haircut and lemonade
-- Angie Aparo, "Spaceship"

"Will you come into my office, please?"

Oh fuck.

"Shut the door behind you."

Double fuck. Fuckity fuck.

"Fuck."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

She picks up an envelope off her desk and tries to hand it to me. "Open this, please."

I just eye it suspiciously, refusing to touch it. "Is it pink?"

She laughs, "No. We're offering you a raise." She extends her reach again.

This time I grab the envelope.

Photo Envy

I've posted new photos from a couple of parties I went to during my blog hiatus on MySpace. They are there if you want to take a look. I've put them on my front page in a slide show format so non-MySpacers can take a peek. Just click on the big MySpace link on the blue sidebar.

Of all the people I wish would fall off the face of the earth and die

I swing the door open to an apartment I've never been to before and scream, "Love of my life!" Craig proved third time's a charm for living with men. Of course it helped that we split the rent and had separate bedrooms. And never had sex. Craig is my former roommate and platonic life partner.

Craig was back in Athens and throwing a party right before Christmas. I love these holiday parties in Athens because it's a great reunion for anybody I met during the 6 years I lived there. We all make the Mecca back to school and drink for posterity's sake.

Craig heard my doorway bellowing and turned towards me while I jump in his arms. I miss Craig. I truly, honestly don't know how I made it through the past year without seeing him once. Craig picks me up and swings me around and I survey the party for the first time.

And I lock eyes with someone.

And I have no idea who he is, but I know he has nipple rings.

I wouldn't know he that has nipple rings unless I know him. Unless I know him in a shirts-off kind of way. Craig sets me down on the wood flooring and Nipple Rings and I stare at each other. He smiles, obviously remembering me.

"Hello there. Long time," nods Nipple Rings as he tips his beer towards me.

I swallowed and choked on my own spit. Of course he would remember me. I too would remember the girl I met at a party five years ago where I split a fifth of vodka with her and took her back to my place downtown. There I would get her in my bed... where she would promptly projectile vomit on me and my bedding.

Yup, I would remember her too.

Happy New Year!

Love, the Girl Incapable of Taking a Proper Photo (GITPP)