Strong opinions don't make you right...

Let me remind you of an Uncle Tommy-ism right off the bat. Your opinion doesn't make you right, sometimes you are just a loud wrong. Opinions, we all have them. Hell, we are all entitled to them. It's a free country, say and feel whatever the fuck you'd like. Just don't scream "FIRE" in a crowded theatre, right? Seems simple. However, since we now have a profusion of folks that think that social media seems to invite our every thought to become public, there's a shit ton of you who think your opinions are fact. Why, I can't imagine. Putting something in print doesn't make it so. Ask anyone who writes for a living. There are fact checkers, editors, rules, disclaimers...I could go on, but you get the point. If I like the color lime, that doesn't mean it is the best color on the planet and everyone should now love it and wear it, paint their walls that color, and buy lime green cars. Personally, I couldn't give a fuck less if you like what I like. You are you, which is NOT me, by definition, and therefore, have your own likes and dislikes. Even intense beliefs, those are all yours. Mine are all mine. Should they be similar, wonderful. If not, it doesn't change my day in the slightest.

Pan over to a typical day in social media land. Everyone is announcing the minutiae of their day, what they ate, how they feel, the mundane tasks of housework, all of the things we'd all rather not know. But fine, tell me what you washed, where you drove your kid for the umpteenth time, and that you have another stuffy nose. I may not care, but you are free to clog my feed with whatever nonsense you see fit. Part of our freedom of speech. Let it out, let it all out, baby. But bear in mind this one simple fact, your opinion is not the gospel truth. It will not affect how I live my life in the least bit. Don't expect it to. If you want to be on a totally organic vegan diet recommended by some guru you found on the internet, go ahead on with your big, bad self. Announce it all over every site you belong to with gusto. Do NOT expect me to follow suit. I will not do what you say just because you think you found Jesus in your new obsession. I am a highly educated, extremely intelligent woman. I do not need someone to think for me. Should you decide that you disagree with the President of the United States, you are free to do so. But, you must refrain from calling me and everyone like me an asshole for supporting him. There is more than one political party for a reason. Differing opinions about how the country should be run. Right, wrong, or somewhere in between...we, as a nation voted this man into office. Raging up the left and down the right isn't going to change my opinion about Mr. Obama.

So many topics upon which you've become an expert. So many ideas you want to shove down my throat. Being gung ho about something doesn't make it right for everyone. There's the parenting arena, one I threw my hat into many years ago. We all have our own way of doing it. Starting from pregnancy to childbirth and points beyond. Don't tell me I can't eat pizza and Chinese food every night of my gestation. How do you know what my baby wants? I didn't give birth to a hippo, so I guess it was fine. You want to wear your child like an accessory because you believe it's the only way to bond? Have at it. I didn't, yet my child is as close to me as any only daughter could possibly be. Hmm, is your way the best way...the only way? Not really. Breastfeeding. I could go on for hours about my opinions on the subject. I have very strong opinions against it. I think it's a savage way to feed your child. Do I care if you do? Hell, no. They're your ta-tas, do whatever you want with them. I have no say over that territory. My boobs are mine, all mine. You cannot tell me what to do with them. If I choose to keep them in my bra, rather than whipping them out for all to see in order to feed my child, it's MY choice. I am not a bad parent. My child will not have asthma, allergies, food allergies, lowered immunity, be overweight, or insecurely attached. She will not be mentally stunted nor have learning difficulties. Oh, that's right...she's 19 and has none of the above issues and never has. Bottle baby all the way. I didn't even pump. So, suck that, breastfeeding Nazis.

Anti-vaxxers! Holy fuck they are everywhere. "I'm not vaccinating my child because immunizations are dangerous, untested, cause Autism, and death." What the fuck? Can you prove it in your own neighborhood? At your child's school? In your house? I can prove otherwise right in your mirror. You, like me, like everyone else our age and older, were fully and completely vaccinated. Are you Autistic? Did you die? No? Then what is your proof? I'm not even going to remind you that there are vaccines that aren't even around anymore. Why? Because we've eradicated those diseases from our society. But let's put that aside for a moment. We are a living testament to the fact that they work and cause no harm. You disagree with me. Excellent. Do not vaccinate your child. Prevent them from being protected against disease. That is your choice. And that's okay with me. My child is and always will be protected from as many diseases as possible, so the fact that you want to expose yours to every funky ass bacteria that could cause serious issues, including death doesn't affect me...or her. Trust that I won't go all redneck crazy on your ass, filling your feed with my opinion, telling you how wrong you are to have made the decisions you have. I don't care enough.

You know what? It's not even lack of caring that prevents me from pounding you with my opinions, attempting to sway you to my way of thinking, my beliefs, my concerns, my likes and dislikes. No, it's not that at all. I truly believe that I am more evolved than you. I can live and let live. My life is not changed by how you live yours and I naturally assume yours remains unaffected by my choices. Somehow, I think you may know this already. Sadly, I don't think you care. Cro-magnon thinking, knuckle-dragging, pushy, opinionated cunt buckets haven't a clue that the rest of us don't give a shit. We don't base our decisions on your mindless, brainless rantings on social media. You do realize that, don't you? You can't believe your incessant jabber matters, can you? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

There Ought to be a Law: Part 2

You didn't think I was finished with this topic, did you? I warned you last time that there was more on my mind, more areas in which you fail. Not wanting to be remiss in my obvious concern for your well-being and how you present yourself to the world, I am here to continue to talk to you about some of these other issues that keep cropping up lately. No one wants to be THAT person. The big buffoon. The ass clown. The helmet-wearing window-licker. Have no fear, I am here. Moving forward from last time...

4. Parenting license:  Why is it we need to register to vote, get licenses to hunt, fish, drive a car...hell, you need to take classes when you want to drive...but to become a parent, likely the most important job any of us will ever hold, you just have to fuck? Don't get all up in my grill if you have had to take extraordinary means to have children, I do understand is isn't always that easy. I get it. My point is, most people just have to have sex and lo and behold, they are allowed to raise a child, Just like that. Here you go, have a child. What qualifies you to do so? I've seen some doozies out there, rationalizing with two year olds, potty training one year olds, or the reverse, having almost five year olds in diapers...who decided that making diapers in size SEVEN would be a good thing in the quest to get children transitioned to underwear? But I digress. There are people who have kids and then seem to want nothing to do with them, as opposed to the hover mothers out there who won't let their kids' feet touch the ground. Why have children if all you really wanted to do is continue to act like foolhardy singles, going out every night, working long hours, and taking couple's vacations? On the other hand, if all you wanted was control...that wasn't the right avenue to take, either. Some of us are amazing at it...not to pat myself on the back, but I have a pretty good kid. One who is independent and strong. What more can I ask for? Kids today are being raised so poorly, I'd have to wonder if they'll ever survive in the real world. Let's start issuing licenses to only the truly qualified. Sure, it'll cut the population down, but think of all the available parking!

5. Rambling answers:  Get to the point! Is it that hard? A yes or no question requires a one word answer, not a dissertation about why you chose the two letter word over the three and why the sky is blue today and your shoes hurt your feet and the cashier at Safeway didn't smile at you...I don't give a ripe fuck. Do you want another cup of coffee, for example, doesn't require endless paragraphs about caffeine, peeing, headaches, and your hemorrhoids to say, "yes, please" or "no, thank you" in reply. Also, and not to be totally rude, "How are you?" is a simple question, not a request for a complex diatribe on all that is wrong in your world. I do care, or I wouldn't have asked. But spare me the hour-long response. I can't focus on anything for that period of time. I can't even watch TV without getting up and down, checking my phone...in case Jesus has tried to contact me, running to the kitchen, and talking to one of the cats. You can't expect me to listen to you drone on and on for more than a sentence at a time. Pretend you are talking to a child, not talking down, just use brevity with me. Act like you are running past me and have but a few seconds to respond. Is that too much to ask? Do you love the sound of your own voice so much that you can't be asked to cut down on the verbiage? Trust me, it ain't that pleasant.

6.  Slang instead of manners.  Didn't your mother teach you anything? Seriously? We've become a lazy bunch of motherfucks. Who here wasn't taught to say, "You're welcome" when someone says "Thank you" to you? When did it become socially acceptable to shorten and bastardize all our responses into horrifically informal, uneducated-sounding shit? If I thank you for something, "no problem" "you bet" and "gotcha" are not acceptable answers...EVER. The only appropriate and polite response is "you're welcome" and nothing else. Hello. One word, five letters. Can you say it? Neither, "yo" "what's up" "how's it goin" nor "hey" will suffice. What the fuck is your problem? Unlike the jackass in number 5, you opt to abbreviate everything. My ADD can handle entire words and sentences. Use them. Manners are not out of style, you're an asshole. "Can I" has replaced" May I" all over the place. Can I go to the bathroom? Uh, I don't know, can you? Are you physically able to? Can I see the salt? Can you? Would you like to hold it, too? Perhaps even use it? It's in there, I know it is. You can't be that fucking moronic. It's impossible. I refuse to believe that no one taught you proper English and how to politely speak to others. In addition, not only should you speak proper English, but learn to accept compliments gracefully. When someone tells you they like your hairdo, don't pull all that self-effacing bullshit that you normally do and insult yourself. Just say "thank you" and mean it. Now, was that so hard?

To be clear, there are many more areas you completely blow it and if I had the time or inclination, we'd discuss them here and now. Sadly, I have actually stopped caring. It could be the fact that I've run out of wine, I'm tired, I need to pee, or you are just beyond help and I've decided to give up. In any event and whatever the actual reason is, it's all on you now. The torch has been passed, God help me. Take my advice, do as you're told, straighten up and fly right, fucktard. The world was not meant for people to behave the way you do. This is a civilized society and you are expected to blend the fuck in, not stand out like a sore, mentally deficient thumb. If you choose to ignore my well-thought out advice, don't come crying to me when someone bitch slaps you for acting a fool. And they will. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

There ought to be a law!

People, please, get your shit together! Why I have to even do this is a mystery to me. These things should be obvious, even to the dumbest of you ass clowns. Lately, I'm shaking my head so much, I'm giving myself headaches. That rubs my ass so far in the wrong direction, I'd like to punch you in the throat. Wasting my prescription narcotics on you window licking, dipshits pisses me off. Stuff your mother should have taught you, things you should have learned in kindergarten before it became Common Core 2nd grade, shit you should have figured out as a functioning member of society...it's somehow my job to pound it into your thick skulls.  Fine. Here goes.

1. Screaming children.  No one knows better than I do that children scream. Children are loud. They love the sound of their own voices and all the fun things it can do. I get it. I really do. But there is a time and a place for all things, loud little snot rockets included. One of those places is definitely and most certainly not a restaurant in which I am dining. Nothing jars me out of my happy place, which is eating, more than the fingernails on a blackboard sound of someone's spawn shrieking at the top of their lungs while the parents do nothing about it. I realize that kids will erupt like the little asshole volcanoes they are at the most inopportune moments. It's what YOU do directly thereafter that counts. Realistically, you should have trained your little monkey how to behave in public, but they are volatile and will test limits, I know. As soon as you start to hear that God-awful sound, grab the little fucker by the hand and lead them outside. Do whatever it is you do to show them the error of their ways and return to your seat with a better version of what fell out of your vagina.

2. Barking dogs.  I love all animals great and small. I really do. I've had more pets and have loved them all equally. I love my girls, Becca and MJ, like they are my other daughters. So, don't go all animal activist on me. By the way, I hate you extremist mother fucks. Moving on before I get distracted...oh look, a butterfly. Barking dogs are cute on the end of their leashes held by their mommy or daddy. I love to pet them and get little doggy kisses. However, when I am in my home, and your little furball is letting out all of his or her verbiage for the day at top volume, penetrating my very thin walls, and annoying me and the cats, I no longer like your dog. As a matter of fact, I am envisioning all sorts of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things. This is not like me at all. I do not like the visions that pop into my head. The image of me grabbing Fluffy by the scruff and drop kicking him across the parking lot is not pleasant to me. But, you...you have the ability to erase this image. Doggies can be trained, just like children, to be quiet...obedient. Do it. Do it now, do it quickly.

3. Cutting people off on line.  This one should be obvious! No cuts. You learn this in kindergarten. When the bell rings and you line up, you fill in behind the last person you see. No fucking cuts! You get pushed if you do. And you know what? You deserve it. It just frosts my cookies to see some grown ass person approach a line from the side, seeing another person making a direct course to the aforementioned line, and thrusting their cart in front of the person in the right of way, cutting the line. WHAT THE FUCK?! You saw the other person, I know you did. You acted with malice aforethought. My attorney followers will enjoy that reference, but it's true! How dare you think you are more important than someone else in such a grotesque manner? Moreover, what in your little pea brain made you think it was perfectly fine to do it to me? It's a fucking playground rule, douche canoe. You just don't cut. Others may allow it, keep quiet, hold back. Not me, baby. I will let you know how you've wronged me...loudly. Don't make me discipline you. Mommy should have years ago. I'm not your mommy.

We've only scratched the surface today. There are many more areas where you fail. Don't worry, I'll tell you all about them next time. I wouldn't leave you hanging like that. I am a kind and compassionate person who doesn't want you to walk on this earth acting like a buffoon any more. I've taken on this job to help you. A job I take very seriously because you annoy the living fuck out of me and I am this close to hating you. This close to junk punching you. Don't think I won't. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

I'm bringing booty back...

What the hell is a size 00? I need someone to explain this to me, very slowly and with great detail. What is exactly is a size nothing? No, wait, a size double nothing? I'm pretty sure it's impossible to to be invisible. So what the fuck are we doing here? Why does the fashion industry think it's perfectly acceptable to put out clothing that is meant for anorexics or non-existent human beings? Unrealistic standards for beauty! That's what they are pushing in our faces, every damn day, in every damn way. Magazines, TV, billboards...all presenting us with the skinniest people they can find. Not only that, let's be honest here, everyone is photoshopped these days. Models, movie stars, assholes on social media sites. Everyone is doing it.

When did looking like a woman fall out of vogue? When did having an ass become something ugly or repulsive? Why do we need to airbrush out inches of curvy thigh before a photo is acceptable to share? Hips are narrowed, asses are slimmed down, faces sunken in to deathly hollows, stomachs erased to concavity...what the fresh fuck is this? Who looks like this? Heroin addicts, girls with serious eating disorders, and malnourished children in third world countries. Tell the truth, men, is that what turns you on? Does a pair of bony legs put lead in your pencil? Do hips resembling a ten year old boy's pump up your chub? Does a flat ass tickle your pickle? I'm gonna go out on a limb and answer for you...no fucking way. I know everyone has a type, and some prefer less meat on their woman's bones. But I do not believe for one minute that the emaciated-looking shit they are shoving down our throats is anyone's sexy ideal.

I'm not even going to rant about how this nonsense is the genesis of the eating disorders of today's youth. This is not news. Everyone with half a brain can make the connection. So, let's not belabor this. Instead, let's raise our voices against the sucking away of our femininity. What makes us women. What separates us from the boys...aside from the obvious. We are built to be soft, rounded, and curvy. Our curves are part of our makeup for bearing children. We need the room! That notwithstanding, we should embrace ourselves instead of despising what makes us beautiful, sexy, lush creatures. We shouldn't be forced to hate the very essence of who we are.

A full, round ass is sexy on a woman. I challenge you to contradict me. Meghan Trainor even defends my stance in All About That Bass. You all enjoy a bouncy set of fun bags...do you think they come naturally on a twig? Hell, no. They are made of glands and fat. The more fat, the bigger the boobie. You did know that, didn't you? My luscious hooters are not surgically enhanced, they are God-given...and enhanced only by good food and excellent wine. No silicone in these puppies. And why should there be? The rest of me is all real, too. That's just it. I am who I am and I make no apologies for it. None of us should be sorry for the way we look. Women in particular. We are constantly on display, being gawked at, leered at, judged, commented on, picked apart in the fishbowl that is our lives. By men, by other women...by society in general. It's bullshit.

I want your daughters to be able to walk proudly down the street, with their heads held high, unafraid of what others think of their appearance. We come in all different shapes and sizes. Every one of them is beautiful. When we can break down the expectations of unrealistic and often unattainable body size, we can finally love ourselves the way we were meant to be loved. Fuck anyone who says different. Who gives a shit what others think? You have to live with you, you'd better love you! Big, small, or somewhere in between, it's all perfect. I'd much rather drink booze and eat dessert than be a size 00. What's the fun in that? I'm bringing booty back. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Customer Service Reps Can't Afford to Be PC

As usual, I was making my bi-weekly call to Anthem Blue Cross when I was introduced to Daniel. Cozy in his call center in India, Daniel, otherwise known by his friends and family as Sanjeet, was on the other line. Seems like they can't get the simple things right, like my zip code. Because of that little brain fart, we have no insurance cards and haven't for months! So, I am asking nicely if I my address has been finally updated as promised two weeks ago. He tells me that he will put in a request for a new set of insurance cards. I tried to explain that they should have gone out since the only hold up was the zip code...which of course was causing the cards to go to Egypt and points beyond. Is the zip code updated? He repeats that he can send out new cards that I will receive in two weeks. Dude, are you fucking listening? It was at this point that I started to get stabby and kicked it into Queens-girl mode. As nicely as possible in that particular state, I explained yet again that my zip code was causing the card to be sent to the wrong location. I then went on to tell him that I had already put in the address change request with the good folks at Covered CA, the people who made the mistake in the first place, and they were to send that change to you people at Anthem. OK, I actually said that the request had gone through Jesus and the Pope and should be to them by now. It was at that moment I was talking to myself. That fucker hung up on me!

Am I to assume that using religious terms was somehow offensive to Sanjeet? My insurance cards had been sent to points unknown three times until I was the one who discovered, quite accidentally, that they had transposed two of the numbers of my zip code. One would think that I'd be slightly frustrated by now and could be permitted to use language befitting the situation at hand. Here I am, no insurance cards and three payments in, and you want me to be PC? How do you suppose I go to the doctor? Do you think Walgreens is going to be forgiving when I try to pick up another bottle of happy pills without my card? Come on, Sanjeet, cut a bitch a break! Customer service has the word service in its name...where's the service you claim to provide? Hanging up on me isn't helpful in the least. As a matter of fact, it makes me want to rip your liver out through your mouth. You are paid to talk to me. You are paid to listen to me. You are paid to put up with me and fix my goddamn problems!

Normally, I would have called back and asked for a supervisor. Any other day, I'd have had Daniel's ass in a sling and gotten something for free for my troubles. However, issue number one being that it's an insurance company and they have nothing to offer me for free left me a little empty. Which brings us to issue numero dos...having Daniel reprimanded for his bad behavior. Honestly, I hung up laughing so hard, I was sure tears were going to run down my leg. Something about being hung up on for saying Jesus and Pope struck me as hilarious! I couldn't stop laughing...my ass was in danger of falling off. Although if it had, you'd all know by the epic, newsworthy earthquake. Realize, I've been hung up on by customer service reps more times than I care to count. Each one of those other times, I've called back with a vengeance. But this time, oh this time was different. Religion was the deal-breaker and I couldn't be more overjoyed!

Daniel, Sanjeet, Asshole, whatever you are calling yourself today, thank you for the best laugh I've had in a very long time. It warms my heart to know that you are so hyper-sensitive, so fucking easy to offend, such a goddamn pussy, that I could cause you to hang up the phone after using only two harmless words. The power I wield in my mouth is immense. My words are like weapons. I feel so bad ass, so I thank you. Will I call back in another two weeks when my insurance cards aren't in the mail as promised? Yeah, sure, you betcha. Will I be as offensive...or more so? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Welcome to my asylum, where even the cats have Anxiety Disorder.

Don't adjust your screen, you read that correctly. Previously I have regaled you with stories of my and my daughter's bit of crazy...our anxiety disorders. Our prescriptions, our nightmares. But yesterday, I was given the strangest diagnosis from a vet I had ever heard. Mary Jane has anxiety, the kind that needs meds! What the fresh fuck? Are you serious? We had taken her in because she was coughing like 2 pack a day smoker with emphysema. That croupy sound could be heard from anywhere in the house and it was time to find out why and how we could help the poor, Zaftig baby. So she's a little on the Rubenesque side? Beauty comes in all sizes, I've told you that before.

This poor cat not only has asthma, but she is anxious. Anxiety and asthma are a lethal combination. One begets the other...begets the other. Why not? Why not have a very human issue that exacerbates your illness? Well, if you live in MY house, you may as well just grab yourself a cup of mental illness and sit right down and join the family. Take your pick: bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or maybe a little multiple personality to spice things up. This household prefers panic attacks, but all are welcome. Line forms to the right, be sure to have your diagnosis handy for inspection. We like to keep your paperwork on file, in case. We haven't had to restrain anyone since 1994, but better safe than sorry.

To me, this isn't a curse. NosireeBOB. I like to think of it as my little blessing in disguise. Dealing with the inmates here helps me to not kill you. As annoying as the rest of the occupants of planet Earth can be, and you all irritate the living shit out of me at some point in the day, you can rest easy knowing that I won't shank you all any time soon. Why? Because not only am I medicated, but I have vast experience dealing with crazy so you will always pale in comparison simply due to the fact that I don't have to live with you. There's always an escape from you. Feeling lucky? No? Perhaps that's wise, I AM nuts. My diagnosis is also on file.  I'm not only the owner, I'm also a client.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Who here believes that...show of hands. Yeah, I doubted that bit of trite bullshit when I was but a young lass. Didn't quite understand the validity of it growing up in the house that I did. My version of it was, what doesn't kill you...means you live to see tomorrow, whatever the fuck that's gonna be. At the time, I didn't know there was a name for what sparked his episodes. Didn't know it could have been stopped. Had no clue that a simple pill could have changed my entire childhood. Back in those days, you didn't speak of such things. Mental illness was a taboo subject spoken about in whispers, like the word "cancer." And you certainly didn't tell anyone outside the house that bad things were happening inside it.

Maybe that's why I embrace my diagnosis like a well-worn, cozy blanket. Could be why I talk about it so much, why I can laugh about it and not feel embarrassed in the slightest. Hey, look at me, I take Zoloft! Woot! My kid takes Klonopin! Hooray! And now...my cat is on anti-anxiety meds, too! We is craaaaazy! And that's okay. We are no less than, no worse off, not one step below anyone else as a result. As a matter of fact, I believe we possess just a bit more awesome because we DO know our flaws, we HAVE addressed them, and still function like everyone else. Those who still, in this day and age, try to ignore what's staring them in the face, sweeping it under the rug because it causes them shame and disappointment...they are the ones who are screwed up as fuck. They are the crazy ones. You aren't doing yourself, your child, your husband or wife any favors by pretending they are normal. Normal...what a fucktarded word. What is normal, anyway?

What have we learned here? Admitting you have a problem is the first step. Mental illness affects everyone. And my house can officially be called an institution. Be not afraid, I go before you always, come follow me, and I will give you drugs. OK, maybe that isn't how that song goes, but it suited my purposes. Remember, knowledge is power and drugs are your friend. Embrace your crazy like it's a long lost friend. Unless you want to be fitted for one of those fabulous, white "hug myself" jackets with the big, shiny buckles. I know I don't. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Being a Potential Juror Sucks the Big One: Part Two

Jumping right back in, the following Tuesday arrives and I have been prepping for this moment. Go ahead, call me in, ask me anything. I'm fucking ready. Once again, I park in Ten Hour Meter Bumble Fuck, and make my way to the courthouse. Yanking off my belt as I approach the security area and plopping all my possible alarm-worthy shit on the counter, I walk through the metal detector smiling. Ha. Beat that shit. Shoving my belt back into my loops and heading towards the stairway to the second floor, I begin to panic. What if I do get picked? What if I am stuck on this jury, listening to the spewing of bullshit from that piece of dog turd and his equally greasy lawyer? What if I have to be there all fucking summer? This does not work for me in any way. This cannot happen.

Oh look, there are all the men, sitting pretty on the benches. Please, allow me to prostrate myself at your feet and sit upon the dirty carpet again. Thank you for the honor, dickhead. Parking my ass, I look around at the crowd, assessing them for their possible competency. Yeah, they are all WAY more suited for jury duty than I. At least that is what I am telling myself to keep from vomiting. Check it out, Miss Crunchy Nuts is here...excellent. Great. Thank the baby Jesus she is not sitting anywhere near me today. Fuck, they are calling names, here goes. Nope, it's for the other trial, whatever the fuck that one is. I'm sure that's a week long case about some petty theft. That's why I'm not in that group. And so we sit, and sit, and sit. Finally, Andrew, I call him that because that's how the judge refers to him, comes out and starts calling us to come in. First, the numbered jurors who are to be questioned, then the rest of the poor saps who have to sit and listen.

In case I haven't made it clear, I did get a number. Number 20, that was me. We file into the court room and take our assigned seats. Mine being next to a guy who couldn't stop talking to me. His running commentary was making want to jam a pen into my ear canal. Today, the judge was going to ask us a variety of questions based on the things she read in our voir dire questionnaire. Cool, have at it, baby. My answers are gonna be golden! As she makes her way through the jurors, the stories I am hearing are priceless. "My step sister from my mom's previous marriage, once-removed, who I've only met five years ago, was fondled by her step uncle on her father's side when she was eight...that was 40 years ago. I'm not sure I can be fair." "Do you have a relationship with this woman now?" "No, I haven't seen her since we met five years ago." Really? I can see how the intensity of this issue coupled with your very close and lengthy relationship with her would make this trial challenging for you.

Another schmuck tries to sell a similar line of shit, the "I have a distant relative that I don't speak to who accused another distant relative of some kind of touchy-feely 85 years ago, so I shouldn't be here." Right. And I am Jesus come down off the cross. Shut the fuck up, ass head. Oh, this is a good one, "I have a conference to attend where I've been invited to speak and it's been two years of hard work for me. I won't get the grant money that I've already laid out for the trip if I don't go." Um, ok. So, your job is more important than everyone else's sitting here? Or is it your inflated sense of amazing that causes you to believe it so? By the way, that was Miss Crunchy Nuts. Sorry, Crunch, keep on sitting there. "My daughter needs to be driven to work and I am the only one who can do it. There is no public transportation where we live and her job is far." Your daughter chose a job that she could not get to on her own and now it's MY problem? Eat my ass.

Yay! It's my turn. "So, Ms. Fiore, do you have any prior knowledge about this case from any form of media?" "I do." "From which form?" "The news." "Do you think you can still be fair if we imposed upon you?" "No, I do not." "One more question, Ms. Fiore, in the matter regarding your mother, do you feel it was handled fairly?" "I most certainly do NOT." "Thank you for your honesty." Well, that should do it. I'm feeling pretty good at this point. Almost superhuman. The judge thanks us all and sends us on our lunch break. A break from the action, quite nice, but extended because a bunch of the potentials decided to pass notes to the judge which then had to be discussed at length in chambers. Thanks, assholes. I guess they didn't realize they'd be affecting ALL of us with their invented excuses for why they couldn't possibly serve. We return after having to wait in the corridor yet again, only to have these notes addressed, one by one, painfully. After the notes were rendered useless to these boobs, the judge hands us over to the prosecuting attorney.

Very nice guy, amiable, funny, personable. But he wants a jury. I could be someone he wants, badly. I'd be a dream for his side. He goes around the room, asking, joking, getting more ridiculous answers and stories. The same lady who has the inept daughter now admits that she hardly understands English. That's a legitimate impediment. "How long have you been in this country, ma'am?" "Twenty years." OK, there's a line and you just jumped right the fuck over it, lady. You cannot be here that long and barely speak English. How the fuck do you survive speaking only Tagalog? This ain't the Philippines, honey. Yet, you may be excused because you're an idiot who refuses to learn the language of the country that provides you a lovely life. Nice.

Did I mention the attorney's name was Mr. Butts? Very unfortunate. Mr. Butts gets up to me and says he isn't going to ask me anything because I've made my stance very clear. Well, ALRIGHTY!!!!! That is what I wanted to hear. He moves on to Blabber Boy and whoops, we are done for today because we've run out of time. What does this mean? You guessed it, we get to come back tomorrow! Fabulous. These are three days I won't ever get back. Thanks, jurors 1-19 and 21 for making sure we couldn't possibly have finished today by sharing all of your sob stories. Driving home, I think about tomorrow and wonder what the greasy defense attorney could ask me and begin planning my answers. He isn't ready for me...he's never met someone with no filter in a court room! Wait for it, Clancy, I'm coming at you.

Fast forward, it's Wednesday, and I am back at the court house, sitting on the goddamn floor AGAIN. This time I am dreaming of ways to castrate the men in the benches. My kindle and I are connected at the eyeball and I am just waiting to hear Andrew call us in. Lost in my trashy novel, the sound of "Department 4"rings through the corridor and I am jostled into reality. Fuck. It's that time again. We stand up and file into the court room and take our now familiar seats. Judge O'Malley talks to us about today's portion of the program. Oh just bring it on already. For this segment of jury selection, we are going to be questioned by the defense attorney, Mr. Sleazebag. He bumbles up to the podium on wheels, spreads out his stapled-together file folders covered in Post-It notes, and starts talking to us like we are old friends. I think not, fucker.

Mr. S tries to make jokes but they fall as flat as his comb-over. Nobody wants to hear his stand-up routine on day three. Get to the fucking point. He decides to shake things up and go backwards up the juror list starting with number 21. Great, that means I go second. Then it occurs to me, he should gird his loins. I'm a force to reckoned with, bitch. He asks us all the same question, "After reading the paragraph on the first page of your questionnaire, and seeing 150 counts, 14 children, and a teacher, what was your gut reaction?" Excellent. Here's my chance to draw blood. After Mr. #20, he turns to me and asks the question. My response, "I was disgusted and repulsed. This kind of behavior is absolutely unacceptable in any setting but to be perpetrated by a teacher is reprehensible. As a fellow teacher, I am furious with his actions and treatment of children. We are trained to behave a certain way. That is not what we do, it is not how we are trained, it is inappropriate, and illegal. This man is evil in my eyes and there are boundaries when dealing with children and he crossed all of them."  "So, based on that, will you be able to sit through the testimony and be fair?" "No way!" The judge chuckled and said, "He did ask for total honesty." Mr. S thanked me and moved on.

Now if you think my response was classic, you haven't heard anything yet. One woman began tearfully explaining that since "I can't have children, I am very sensitive to children.*SNNIIIFFFF*. I just don't think I can, *SOB* sit and listen to the testimonies of all those children. *Blows nose and wipes eyes* I'm not sure I could be fair given my situation. *SNIFF, SOB* Lord, holy, baby Jesus H Christ on a Ritz cracker, lady, are you fucking serious??? You don't have kids, yet this is more traumatic to you than, let's say, the rest of us who DO? Damn. And just when I thought she was the most ridiculous woman on the entire planet and I was cursed to be in the same room with her, Mr. S. gets to Mrs. Chem Instructor. To clarify, she's Ms. Crunchy Nuts and also the one who had the conference, making her very important. Well, when asked the very same question we were all asked, and then asked if her anxiety was going to cause an issue, her face dropped. Hey, you gave the note to the bailiff, you wanted it addressed, here it is, dipwad. As her chin began to quiver, she broke out into tears as she choked out the words, "It would be, be , be very difficult for me because *SNIFF* my husband and I talk about everything and *SOB, SOB, SNIFFFF* we discuss our entire day with each other, and I wouldn't be able to tell him about, about, thiiiissss. It would be so hard *SOB* to hold this back from hiiiimmmm." "Would you tell us if you needed a break if you felt you needed one, if you felt anxious?" "Yes, yes I would." Awww, you poor wittle baby girl. You has anxiety disorder? Which means what? Oh, I know, I know. You have a prescription for something that helps abate that feeling before it even starts. I do. Pop a fucking happy pill and suck it up, Buttercup!

Everyone had been questioned and we were all looking around at each other, wondering what was next? Would they make us come back tomorrow? Will we find out today if we've been excused? The judge tells us that she needs to confer with the attorneys in chambers and we should wait for their return. Sure, why not. We all start chatting among ourselves and my seat buddy tells me that he knows there is no way I'm going to be picked. I laugh and tell him that I'd be a dream for the prosecution and a nightmare for the defense. The three stooges return to the court room, the judge sits down and begins to tell us that several of us are being excused for cause. Translation, you people are the worst candidates for this trial, EVER. She starts calling names as I sit impatiently, tapping my toes on the floor. Finally, number six, the last juror released of duty is, you know it....ME. We are asked to go to the jury office and turn in our release slips with our badges. I've never run down a flight of stairs so fast. I'm not even sure my feet touched each step. We wait in line, hand them in, and walk out together, incredulous. One of the older jurors turns to me and says, "This is it?" I look at him and say, with utter glee, "We are done!" Did you think this would end any differently? Are you friggin kidding me right now???