the mug and the spoon lie in wait

I woke up hungry.

Paul's phone was beeping, which is why I was awake. So I picked up his phone and saw that Jeff from work had called. I figured it must be important for Jeff from work to call so early and so I woke Paul up and then stumbled back into the kitchen for food.

And I mixed myself some instant breakfast which I love because it's like getting to drink chocolate milk for breakfast and you also get vitamins and who doesn't love vitamins, and that's when I noticed something:

A white ceramic mug and a spoon sitting on a place mat. They looked like they were waiting for something, and while of course it is not at all unusual for one of my very own mugs to be hobnobbing with one of my very own spoons on one of my very own place mats, I felt sort of funny, like I was returning to the scene of a crime.

And then I remembered. Vaguely floating around in a fuzzy puddle of memory, there it was, this picture of me waking up in the middle of the night and making my way to the kitchen where I pulled from the refrigerator the mixing bowl of cookie dough and poured myself a glass of 1% milk and ate what I can only assume was a massive quantity of cookie dough before carefully recovering the mixing bowl and returning the milk carton to its home, leaving the mug and spoon behind.

They had waited for me, the only remaining co-conspirator, and I had returned to the scene of the crime, just as they knew I would.

i find myself stumped by a t-shirt

I consider myself to be a reasonably witty person.

You know, more so than some, far less than others. Reasonable. Except for maybe I'm not so witty, because the other day I was totally, completely, utterly and in all ways possible, stumped by a T-shirt.

So I'm riding the subway, see? And I'm about to get off, and this dude is about to get on, and I see his shirt as I pass. It has a picture of a busty lady pushing a baby carriage, and a caption reading Junk in the trunk.

I don't get it.

I ponder this all the way home.

What does it mean?

Does the mom have junk in her trunk? Is this a misogynistic statement about attractive females? But what about the baby carriage? Is the baby the junk in the trunk? Is this a rallying cry for single fathers wishing to skip out on child support and thus ditch the junk in the trunk?

Is he saying he is attracted to women who have given birth? Is he making a statement about post baby bodies? Because if he is I would like to soundly kick his trash and then shove a watermelon up his nostril to see how he likes it. Or does he like the post baby body, in which case I will recant my previous watermelon shoving wishes but still give him a stern lecture about society's objectification of women.

As Paul and I walk home, I ask him. You're a dude, I say. What does it mean? The junk in the trunk phraseology combined with the mom pushing a baby carriage?

Paul doesn't get it, either.

BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?????????

I mean, whatever it means, T-shirts are just not the place for those sly, wink-over-your-shoulder nods to some private joke you have with your buddy Wallace. T-shirts are the place for obvious humor. You know, snarky stuff like "I'm busy you're ugly have a nice day", and "Trust me, I'm a doctor". Stuff that kinda makes you want to smack the wearer of the shirt, but at least you know what it means and you don't spend like a whole week trying to figure it out, calling into question your very abilities to recognize wit and asking everyone qualifying as a male because apparently they have a secret club where they come up with T-shirt ideas that make no sense whatsoever.

Not cool, man. Not cool.

Seriously, though. WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

I mean, I've already asked all the guys I know. Maybe I'll go ask the super. Yeah, Plinio might know.

I just don't get it.

my journal is a portal to the outside world

Okay, so guess what I just found.

Go ahead, guess.

Okay, I'll tell you:

I just found, lurking on a closet shelf behind my wedding veil (which I refuse to get rid of because of the completely awesome Halloween costume potential), my old junior high journal.

Uh huh.

Hilarious. Painful. Embarrassing. Melodramatic.

Awesome.

Just in case you didn't believe me when I told you how delightfully geeky I was (and continue to be), here's a little taste.

My friend Meridth gave me the journal at my twelfth birthday party. She wrote my name in fancy calligraphy: Andrea Gale, 11/15/91. Your my bestest friend, your very special to me! Love, Meridth. And she drew a little paw print next to her name.

Nice, right? Yeah, except for it's scratched out. And then I've copied the same wording above the scratched out part, and at the bottom I wrote: I crossed it out when I was mad at Meridth. I'm not anymore. Sorry, Meridth.

So, I guess I must have thought my journal was some sort of portal to the outside world accessible to all those close to me, and that's why I needed to right the cosmic wrong I had committed by scribbling out Meridth's well wishes. Go figure.

This journal also marks my first attempts at free thinking, as evidenced by my first entry: Since this is a diary and not a journal, I will write when I feel like it.

I mean, that's something, right? I didn't even date it. What a rebel. The next few entries also lack dates, like that somehow reinforced the whole "diary and not a journal" idea. Also I'm pretty sure that doesn't make any sense. Whatever. I was twelve.

The last entry on the page pretty much sums up my adolescence:

I am feeling better today. I have made up my mind to be very (as) glamorous as possible. I plan to grow my hair long- real long. I found a cute hairstyle today.

And that, too, is scribbled out. I have this vague memory of reading that paragraph and being horrified. I even have a vague memory of scribbling it out.

I love it.

I love that at the age of twelve, when I weighed maybe eighty five pounds soaking wet and had braces and had to wear neck gear, that I had this unconquerable desire for glamour. It just seems really Don Quixote of me. And I love that at some point, I re-read that entry and was horrified.

I mean, it is pretty awful. Right there, in black and white, in the cursive writing that I used in junior high and only in junior high, the uncensored longing of my past, and the hilariously unsuccessful attempt to erase it.

It's like seeing two versions of myself at once. And then, I turn the page:

I am going to write a sequel to "The Music Man". Nobody must know about it, and Stephanie must promise to keep my secret. It may take years, but i will finish it. It is to be called "Marian". I feel good and warm and happy. O, it might have been!

Yep.

Whatever. I was twelve.

in which i reject ed asner

Last night I had a dream that Ed Asner asked me out on a date.

I said no.

He's not really my type.

paul boerem issues a formal statement

I, Paul David Boerem, would like to issue a formal apology to any babies who may have read the previous post.

I may have forgotten my own past obsession with plastic honking spinney things. Also as Andrea and I have no parenting experience whatsoever, it is highly likely that when we discover that the plastic honking spinney things are what keep our children from screaming at abnormally high decibels, we will have our own collection of said items.

Also I don't think babies are Neanderthals. Not that there's anything wrong with Neanderthals.

Thank you.

i catch a glimpse of my elitist future

Paul: When we have kids, we won't have any loud toys.

Andrea: (dubiously) Uh.....sure.

Paul: I mean, come on!! That plastic spinney thing in the nursery that makes the honking noise? No. Way. No way.

Andrea: Except for remember when we didn't have kids yet and had no idea what that would be like?

Paul: Well, but we're the grown ups! We get to say what is and is not okay, right?

Andrea: But what if someone gives us a spinney thing that makes a honking noise?

Paul: Then we give it to someone in need. Like, "Here, here is a toy for your Neanderthal baby to bang his fists upon."

Andrea: Except for kids bang their fists instinctively no matter what, right?

Paul: Our kids will bang their fists on wood blocks, not like the other babies, banging their prehistoric heads on plastic honking spinney things.

Andrea: Wow. We're elitist when we're parents.

sometimes memories bubble up

It is Sunday night, and I am staring at a red and white card imprinted with my future, or, to be more specific, my future for Monday, June 29th 2009:

Jury duty.

Blechy. Double blechy with a side of extra blechy.

I meant to call ahead of time and ask for a postponement. That was kind of already a long shot since I'm on summer break and have plenty of time to fulfill my civic duty, but I DON'T WANNA, so I was going to tell them it was my ladies time and then start crying. Also I thought I might tell them I have monkey pox or the Ebola virus.

This all seems like a completely brilliant plan until Sunday night when I realize I have written the date wrong, and I am expected to present myself, Ebola virus or not, at 100 Centre Street at 8:45 a.m. Monday.

But I don't wanna, I whine to Paul. I would like to shirk my civic duty. Paul isn't terribly sympathetic. He loves fulfilling his civic duty. He also really likes the word "duty", but that's a different post altogether.

So, on Monday morning I pack my book, an umbrella, five packs of fruit snacks, and head out. This will be fun, I tell myself. You can people watch. You love to people watch. There, I've got me. I do love to people watch. I also tell myself that I will maybe enjoy fulfilling my civic duty, even though really I think it will be like last semester when I thought taking Political Science would make me like politics but really it just confirmed how completely a-political I actually am.

First, I go to a big building with columns in a desperate attempt to convince someone that I am unable to serve on account of it being my ladies time. I really think I have it in the bag because all the interviewers are dudes, until a lady who looks like a cross between Hilary Clinton and Margaret Thatcher stands up and calls my name.

Dang. She's not sympathetic at all. Also it seems like she thinks my excuse is lame, which it is.

So, 9:30 a.m. Monday morning finds me sitting in a huge room with one hundred and fifty fellow New Yorkers, most attempting to pretend the other one hundred forty nine people aren't actually there, except for the one guy wearing loafers with no socks who talks to everyone in his immediate vicinity.

A most unhappy lady wearing exercise attire enters late, and attempts to convince the clerk she doesn't belong there. She has a tattoo of a spider on her shoulder blade. A fellow slumped over in his chair is snoring.

The jury clerk pulls out an ancient olive green spinney thing from which he pulls names. Mine is the second name called.

It's been a long time since I've been in a courtroom. Six years, I think. I don't like it. I don't like how white and bare the walls are. I look at my jury questionaire. Have you been the victim of a crime? Have you testified at a trial?

Yes, I check. And yes.

I mark the boxes without emotion. It's a fact, like I have green eyes and I like Easy Cheez. It was a long time ago, a different me ago.

The judge calls out our names one by one and we take our seats in the jury box. Angry spider tattoo lady is in my group. Every few minutes she shakes her head, and mutters under her breath. Elliot looks remarkably like a garden gnome, and Lucy, much to my delight, looks exactly like Lucy from Peanuts with like fifty years tacked on. Jennifer sits in front of me. She has a southern accent and is wearing a frilly hot pink shirt.

The defendant sits next to his attorney. He stares straight ahead, sometimes looking down. It's a drunk driving case. He looks young. His suit looks too big, or he looks too skinny. I can't decide which.

It's the prosecutor's turn, and she's picking on different jurors, trying to weed out the undesirables. Elliot has two kids, eighteen and twenty. He doesn't think that would interfere with his impartiality. Lucy ran a victims' advocate center for twenty years. Jennifer attends bible study. One time her boyfriend got pulled over, but it was a really twisty road and also it was raining. She's glad the officer was making sure they were being safe. Now she just has a social drink every now and then. John got pulled over at checkpoint one time, but he hadn't had anything to drink and he felt like the machine was malfunctioning.

Ms. Boerem?

Yes.

You have been the victim of a crime?

Yes.

Can you tell us about that? You can approach the bench, if you prefer.

Uh, yeah. I'll approach the bench.

So, I approach the bench. It's a fine looking bench. This business of approaching the bench is so delightful that the prosecutor comes too, along with the defense attorney. He has a mustache that's been sort of twisted at the ends, like a villain in an old movie, or someone in a barber shop quartet.

It doesn't take long for me to tell my story. I've told it before, lots of times. Usually it's a really positive thing, you know? Like I'm telling someone how I'm a better person now, or how amazing our capacity for healing is. Now, all of a sudden I am flooded with memories I haven't thought of in years and it feels like cold water, like re-opening a wound long since closed over.

Would you be able to disregard your opinions?

I attempt to ignore the twenty nine people sitting to my right. This is the first time in almost ten years that I have had to answer this question. I look at the judge, at the attorneys.

I don't know.

I mean, I wish I could tell you differently, it's just that....

I don't know.

And all of a sudden I am presented with a me who is not impartial. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I thought I was impartial. When Paul shaved that handlebar mustache last winter and I actually didn't like it I totally reserved judgement, and while I am a shameless Harry Potter freak, I completely respect the anti-Potter camp. That's pretty impartial.

If I instruct you that the law requires you to disregard your personal preferences and opinions and listen objectively to the arguments of both sides, would your answer change?

No, I say.

I feel for a moment like I am the one on trial. Like judgement is being passed. Maybe it is. That's okay. Maybe it's not. That's okay, too.

I take my seat. The prosecutor finishes, and after lunch, the defense attorney gets his turn. Know what? I don't like the way he uses words. As a matter of fact, I'm not so much a fan of the prosecutor's treatment of the English language, either. It's like words exist only for manipulation, only to extract the desired answer.

One time the defense attorney asks a question and the judge yells out WATCH IT, YOU'RE ON DANGEROUS GROUND, and it's just like Law and Order and it's kind of exciting except for Mustache Guy just re-words the same question and now I want to put him on trial.

It's upsetting. The blank walled room, the bored looking judge, the over-eager lawyers. It's upsetting but then...

I don't know. It's like the old memories bubble up, but then they recede, healed. So quickly. That me is gone, now. It feels like when I take pain medicine, like something being kept at bay.

I am not broken.

It's not like it was erased, because it wasn't, it couldn't be. It's been replaced. Something else lives there, now. A distant relative. Something joyful and wizened like fingers wrinkled from bathwater: visible marks that fade, clean and warm at the same time.

When they announce the selected jurors, my name is not called.

Neither is Angry Spider Tattoo Lady's. I guess she's not impartial, either.

I could have told you that.