Barb’s Burblings

I was going through all entries of this blog when I ran into an entry from 2005 in which I mentioned that my workday normally started at 7:30. This was particularly appropriate today, because I had to get into the office at 7:30, and spent a LOT of time complaining about it. At some point in the past 5 years, I’ve gotten SUPER lazy. After that job with hours starting at 7:30, I had a job in which I worked, I think, 8 to 4:30. But that job was downtown, so I was probably catching a bus a bit before 7. Which meant I was getting up at 6 or 6:15. This is unfathomable to me at this point in my life, which sees me getting to work anytime between 8:30 and 9:30. Of course, I’m leaving work later, but that’s OK. (Particularly on nights when I go downtown for a show or book club, and don’t have to be there until 6:30 or 7 anyway.)

Really, I can’t imagine getting myself back to that point. I’m sure I could; I didn’t have THAT hard of a time with it this morning. Honestly, my alarm goes off at 7:15 nowadays and I mutter “Blergh” at it and hope it goes away. I’m just going to say that it’s because people in my office tend to work a later schedule, and blame it on that. Peer pressure!

I put up my Christmas tree tonight (and it’s looking a little sad–it may be the last year for this tree. Not a bad run; I got it back in 2000, so definitely worth the investment!), and after hanging up lights in the living room, I turned on Invasion of the Christmas Lights on TLC. My favorite thing driving around this time of year is seeing cars with Christmas trees strapped to the roof; but seeing how people decorate is definitely up there, too. (And flying at night this time of year is fantastic.)

It brings me back to when I lived in Montana. The town we lived in was mostly flat, settled along the Missouri River. But on the edge of town was a hill, with a development of houses on the hill. And we lived on that hill. When I told people at school where I lived, they asked whether it was true that there was a clause in the contract when my parents bought the house saying that we had to decorate for Christmas. I doubt it, but it’s true that people in our development sure did decorate. That was the first time I remember my dad ever putting lights up on the house. (Actually, my sister may have done it one year.) We kept it pretty low-key, but some people put up some nice stuff. And you could see it from around town, the houses on the hill, covered in lights. And people would drive up and around the development, looking at the lights. Which was an issue. There was only one road leading to the development, which was set up like a V, with roads between the two edges. It took us a LONG time to get back to the house after Christmas Eve services.

Of course, none of us went as crazy as these people on TLC. I feel like the people who live across the street from them must have special curtains to block out the lights at night.

I’m having one of those times when I feel just really, really fortunate in my life. Hugs from a Tony-nominated actor? Third row seats to see Les Mis? Geeky history talk with another actor? Family coming for Thanksgiving? Tickets to see Hugh Jackman on Broadway? Going on a cruise (and a cabin with a balcony)? Stay in a hotel room overlooking Camden Yards? Nothing to do until Monday?

Woo! Life is really good, sometimes. I’m very lucky.

…or, How I Won at Jury

I was called for jury duty this week, for federal district court. I’ve been called a couple of times before, but this time, I actually sat on the jury. I was no longer Barb; I was Juror #4. (Or 93, which was my number in the total group called that day.)

As an experience, it was really interesting. A lot of my friends have mentioned–and this was my attitude, too–that they want to serve on a jury. They want to see the process, experience what it’s like.

In some ways, it was really cool. There were times during the trial that I had to stop myself from smiling just at experiencing stuff I’ve seen on tv and in the movies so many times. One that really got me was when the defense attorney was questioning a witness. Prosecution objected, and the judge overruled, but did the whole, “I’ll allow it, but get to your point” routine. And when the defense attorney objected during the prosecution’s rebuttal because it was so repetitious. (Because it was INSANELY repetitious.) I also found myself giggling almost every time we went into the courtroom because we had to line up by number, but we didn’t sit that way in the jury room, so we’d be scurrying around in the little ante chamber, trying to line up. I felt like I was in elementary school again.

It was a criminal case, with two counts–felon in possession of a firearm, and possession of a firearm with an altered serial number. We started on Tuesday; that morning was just selection and swearing in. In the afternoon–after the earthquake, which hit one sentence into the prosecutor’s opening statement, and the subsequent evacuation–we had the prosecution’s opening statement and two witnesses. Wednesday was the prosecution’s second two witnesses, and they rested. We got the defense’s opening statement and two witnesses. And then lunch! After lunch was rebuttal, the (long) jury instructions, and closing statements. And then we were sent to deliberate. Which we did. All day Thursday. And all Friday morning.

The problem is that part of “possession” is that the defendant knowingly possessed it, and there just was not much evidence of that–and what evidence there was came from one witness. It all came down to this one guy’s credibility. And the questioning was just completely inadequate. The prosecution rested, and I was like, “What? No! I still have so many questions!” I’m sure part of that is that there was undoubtedly evidence that they weren’t allowed to submit for whatever reason. But just things about timing of things, and where people were. The prosecution just focused on completely the wrong thing. And their “star” witness was a bit belligerent during rebuttal. The defense attorney did a good job of redirecting us, I think, and managed to get a witness who was with the defendant at the time of arrest. The case came down to a he said/he said scenario.

When I heard the charge, I was like, “This has to be a slam dunk–how can there be questions?” But when you’re given very little in the way of hard evidence, you’re left with a ton of questions. We actually started heavily in favor of not guilty. My reasoning was that I just didn’t know–and if I didn’t know, I couldn’t vote to convict. We talked. And talked. And talked a lot. It was a great group, honestly; there was a lot of diversity, both in race/gender/age and in opinions, and everyone treated each other with a lot of respect. And there was a lot of laughter, too. Really, I couldn’t ask for a better group. Which is good, because as I said, we spent 8+ hours (longer, you’ll note, than the time spent actually presenting the case) in a small room, talking to each other. (Not taking into account the numerous times we waited in the jury room for the court to be ready for us.) After 4 hours of discussion, we got stuck. The judge told us to keep going. So we talked more. Gradually, the room moved more toward guilty. But early on, we had people say that they were not “sway-able.” Too many doubts to convict. No doubts. The rest of us moved around, and we agreed on a verdict for the second count (not guilty–the prosecution submitted literally nothing into evidence that the defendant knew the gun had an altered serial number). But we hit a wall. So we wrote another note to the judge explaining where we were and how we got there. And so we submitted a partial verdict, and were dismissed.

(How did I wind up voting? I spent a lot of time undecided. But this morning, we read something in the jury instructions that brought me over to guilty. I explained my thoughts ["I'm ignoring all of the controversial stuff and just focusing on the fact that there was a gun on the floor of the car. And this instruction allows me to use my common sense."], and another juror said that I had swayed her. I totally win at Jury!)

But first, the judge came into the jury room to talk to us. He didn’t seem terribly surprised, and acknowledged that the prosecution didn’t do a good job at all. It really should’ve been an easier case than it was–here was a guy in a car with a loaded gun at his feet. But they brought up enough extraneous information–and they did it, not the defense!–that we wound up questioning the credibility of the main witness. So we were a hung jury; there was a mistrial for that count. The defendant will probably be tried again on this charge, and he may very well be found guilty. As a group, we sure thought he was guilty–but did the evidence prove it? Not enough.

It was a good experience. It took longer than I would’ve hoped, but it was really fascinating going through the process, considering everything, debating points. It helped that the other jurors were so respectful and good-natured. I’m not foaming at the mouth to serve again, but I certainly wouldn’t mind. If nothing else, it would be interesting to compare the experiences!

Plus, I have an awesome certificate of appreciation, suitable for framing.

I went to a friend’s house last night for a cookout. It was a great time, and it was SO nice being out in the middle of nowhere–she lives a few miles outside of Gettysburg. (Ironically, I did NOT meet this friend at college.) I loved sitting outside, by a fire, chatting, enjoying the quiet and the peace.

And oh wow, the fireflies! It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen–even more amazing than the adorable baby little horse we visited. There were so many fireflies, but the coolest thing was seeing them in the trees. It was…seriously, I can’t describe it. It looked like there were Christmas lights in the trees. I’ve never seen anything like it.

On the other hand, my feet and lower legs are covered in bug bites. So, there’s a downside. But I think the awesome time won out.

The combination of seeing Follies last night and it being prom season has caused yet another bout of nostalgia for me. (In fairness, it doesn’t take much.) I had to look for a formal dress for an upcoming event, which meant prom dresses. Dave and I saw a group of kids waiting for prom to start at a hotel in downtown Baltimore last Friday. It’s all over late-season television. Prom.

I didn’t go to prom. In fact, I didn’t go to a single dance in high school. I went to all of them in middle school, even the ones in sixth grade that took place right after school. “Stairway to Heaven” gives me flashbacks to standing in East Ridge’s cafeteria, watching whichever guy I liked at the time dancing with someone else. In college, I went to 10 formals. (That’s right–almost 3 a year. That’s what happens when your service fraternity has a fall AND spring formal, and the school has one each year, too.)

I have mixed feelings about it. I only get really sad when I look at pictures my friends in Connecticut posted on Facebook. I still associate growing up much more with Connecticut than Montana. In Montana, there wasn’t a junior prom and a senior prom–there was just one prom, for everyone. My senior year, I asked a guy friend to go with me, but he said no. And I didn’t go. I’m sad more in theory; I’m sad that I didn’t get to go to prom in Connecticut. I’m sad for my parents that they didn’t experience the joy of dealing with finding a dress and pictures and so on for me. But do I wish I had gone to one in Montana? Eh, not really. I didn’t have the emotional connection there that would make me really regret it.

There are things in my life I wish could’ve been different. Do I wish I had gone to A prom? I guess. I think the formals I went to in college made up for it. And part of me loves cheesy teen comedies and makes me sad that I can’t relate. But it was years ago that I accepted that I wouldn’t have the high school experience I might have liked. I’ve had more direct control over my life since then, and that I can’t really complain about.

Looking back, I probably was in a constant state of crushing on someone from the time I was, say, 10 or 11 until I was 21 or so. It makes sense–I was in school, I saw guys a lot. How could I not spend those pivotal years crushing? Since college, I’ve certainly weathered my share of crushes, but they’ve been fewer and far between. Fortunately, I’ve also actually dated during that period. Dating involves its own share of uncertainty, God knows, but as I’m once again experiencing the world of crushes, I feel like I’m much more analytical about the whole thing.

Stage 1: Realization of the crush. “I think I might like him” is the key phrase here. When around him, there’s the almost constant perception of where he is, what he’s doing.
Stage 2: Crush! Yay! By far, the most fun stage. There’s a lot of giggling, a lot of idle fantasies. In this day and age, Facebook stalking. (So evil!) Analysis of all interactions, wondering how he feels. Happiness over the random hugs, then flirty banter, the Facebook chatting.
Stage 3: Despair that he will never reciprocate. Overanalysis–my downfall in all areas of my life–kicks in here. He seems flirty. Probably with everyone. The way he acts around me is probably the way he acts around all his female friends. What’s the point of this, anyway?
Stage 4: Acceptance. This is a comfortable place–one that I’ve spent a LOT of time in. It’s fun spending time with him, flirting with him, etc., but the highs and lows have evened out. There are still moments of both, but it’s a lot more even.
Stage 5: I’m not positive that this stage exists. Theoretically, it’s the stage in which something actually happens with the object of the crush. This is not a stage with which I am personally familiar, but I’ve seen it happen to others. This is the stage that continues to provide hope.

I had lunch with my grandmother yesterday and she was telling me about her time as a secretary and how she did the correspondence for her boss. And it was after telling me the following story that I realized that my occupation was written in my genes:

My grandmother was typing up a letter for her boss, and she saw that he used the word “irregardless.” So she changed it. He argued that “irregardless” is a word, but she wouldn’t give in. The word went in the letter, properly, as “regardless.”

In a cute follow-up, she saw a comic recently that had a joke about that usage and mailed it to him, leading to a nice phone call. Awww.

Hopefully he’s realized the errors of his ways, but I didn’t ask my grandmother whether he had any recent pronouncements on the issue.

I was reading the comments to a Carolyn Hax advice column that involved an elderly woman who watched tv all the time. A number of comments devolved into individual television habits, and a few people wondered whether a person who didn’t watch much tv most of their lives would increase that substantially as he or she got older.

Growing up, I don’t remember watching a ton of television. We had cable from the time I was little and I remember watching Saturday morning cartoons and some MTV and sitcoms at night and Jeopardy and such, but we weren’t a family that always had the tv on. Maybe it’s because we’re a family of readers; I don’t know.

Interestingly, though, we’ve all increased our tv consumption. I know I have the tv on a LOT. In large part, it’s because I live by myself and I don’t have a good stereo. I should get a speaker for my iPod, I know, but I do wind up listening to iTunes a bit. I’m usually not totally focused on the tv; most of the time, I’m also reading the paper or playing on the computer or something. (For example, right now, I’m watching Community.) But the tv is on a LOT.

Same with my sister’s place. They don’t always have the tv on; amusingly enough, sometimes my 3-year-old niece will turn it off because she has other things to do. (So much for the concept of all kids being automatically entranced by tv.) But the tv is on a fair amount.

AND at my parents’ house. They usually have on MSNBC or the local news or, like me, baseball. I guess we watched the news a bit when I was little, but certainly not this much.

I wonder if part of it is because of the open floor plan so popular in newer homes. The family room and the tv at my parents’ house is right next to the kitchen table. My dad sits at the table, on his computer, working, while the tv is on. I’ve had dinner there with the tv on. Not a lot–they still turn off the tv for meals most of the time. But it has happened. Though in fairness, I believe this was the Christmas that we were snowed in. After so many days of not leaving the house, you don’t really have much to say to each other.

I still read a lot. For all the screeds about tv being the Idiot Box (and dude, there is a LOT of that in Roald Dahl books), I’m not sure how true that is. Does it keep me from exercising? No, that’s just my laziness. Is having the tv on a lot a bad thing? Well, it’s probably not a good thing. But honestly, increasing use of this computer is probably worse.

They met at a mixer their first year at Penn State. She picked him up, which was possibly very progressive for the time. Their first date was November 22, 1963. He was majoring in engineering, because his father was an engineer. She was majoring in math and tutored him. Their initial courtship wasn’t a serious one. She, at least, was dating other men. There was a senior for a while, and a guy named Bob with whom she would forever associate the Rolling Stones song “Get Off My Cloud”. He, presumably, also dated other people. He was in the ROTC; worrisome, in the 1960s. He had to take time off school to get surgery on his knee, sparing him a trip to Vietnam. At some point, they reconnected and became serious. They talked of getting married.

So they did.

They lived in a bunch of towns with M names: Mapleshade, Muncie (New York, not Indiana), Mamaroneck, Mahopac. He got an MBA. She programmed computers, back in the days that computers took up entire rooms. They bought a house and had a daughter and got a dog. Then they had another daughter, and realized that obviously they couldn’t top what they had, so stopped having kids. They had some good times (children who apparently were incredibly well-behaved) (or were so horrible that memories of this period have been erased) and bad times (moving to Montana).

She’s more pragmatic. He’s more demonstrative. They don’t agree on everything, but their marriage has remained strong.

Today they celebrate their 43rd anniversary. Again: 43rd anniversary.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad.