Jury Duty

It's 9:15am, and I'm sitting in the jury assembly room of the Hall of Justice in San Francisco. Yeah, I got called in for jury duty—my first time ever. I'm kind of excited. I'm hoping I get picked for some grisly murder trial. Nate tried to burst my bubble by saying that if I get picked, I'd probably get something traffic related. But I say pshaw to him and remain hopeful.

The Hall of Justice is an intriguing place. On my way to the jury assembly room, I got quite an interesting proposition from a gentleman who was either an undercover cop or a career criminal. I expected to see at least one or two superheroes, but either they come in later in the day (who could blame them?) or their mild-mannered disguises are quite effective. I did see suits, random thug-like characters, and police officers. A lot of police officers. In fact, if you have a handcuff fetish, I'd recommend dropping by (I wonder if one can volunteer for jury duty).

Unfortunately, once you enter the jury assembly room, it's like they've put a bubble around you to separate you from The Element. But don't worry—there are a hundred fifty or so potential jurors in here with me so I've got plenty of people to stare at. Like the guy at the table next to me with the feather holding his wavy hair in a bun. Or the woman sitting in the darkest corner of the room wearing huge, dark Jackie O sunglasses. Or the red haired guy who just plopped down at my table and busted out his laptop (people with electronic devices often band together).

There are TVs in here. Maybe they show movies? Not that I care—I came armed for bear. Aside from my reading material, I've got Tucker. A girl doesn't need much more than that. Just don't tell Rodrigo.

If only it didn't reek like stale body odor in here. I guess not everything can be perfect.

Addendum: Now it's 11:15am. I'm waiting outside my assigned courtroom and guess what? There's a superhero right here. I swear to God—he has a cape, full body armor à la Batman, and everything. I'm wondering how he got past security with his suit. Did he have to take it all off and then reassemble himself? It looks like he's charging up—he's plugged into the wall socket. Maybe he's getting ready to fly off and beat the baddies. Somehow, that thought comforts me.

Author Visits Hell, and Other Random Highlights from the Week

Life's even better on the porch now.

Seen in the trash: one oversized "Life's Better on the Porch" sign. Apparently life on the porch, drinking an orange mocha, wasn't as good as Starbucks originally thought it would be. Personally, I think it was the orange mocha that was the mistake. Maybe strawberry frappucinos and the porch will be more successful combination for them.

The joys of writing in public.

If you're a writer, have you ever noticed people say "I know you're working so I won't disturb you" right before they launch into a half hour dissertation about the growth on their right pinkie toe?

Cupcake up for grabs.

While riding on the train, I heard some say "I only have five personalities, but I'm trying to get rid of one." The personality he wants to get rid of is named Cupcake. Although his new girlfriend's already met Cupcake and she still around, so how bad could Cupcake be really? Maybe Cupcake does laundry. Or bakes.

Author visits hell.

I spent the past several days holed up in my friend Suzie's house working on the first book of a series about an artist who inherits what turns out to be Pandora's Box. It's is affectionately titled The Book from Hell, and if I don't finally finish it this week... Well, just keep an eye out for stories regarding an author who went berserk and took out a Starbucks in San Francisco.

Suspicious

The first thing I noticed when I got home was the small vase of scarlet-tipped cream roses. I paused in the doorway, looking up at the numbers outside to make sure I hadn't accidentally entered the wrong flat.

"Love, are you home?" Nate called from inside.

"Um. Yeah." Guess this was the right place. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

He walked into the living room, smiling. Before he could do anything, I pointed to the vase and said, "What is that?"

"Roses. For you." He slipped his arms around my waist and squeezed me tight.

Dodging his lips, I asked the next logical question. "What did you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't bought me flowers in—" I shook my head "—years. I'm not sure I can count that high."

"You don't like them?"

"They're beautiful. Those are my favorite kind of roses."

"I know." He grinned with pride. "I remembered. You're not a red rose type of woman."

"No, I'm not," I said, distracted by the innocent looking flowers. "Are you sure you didn't do anything? Spend five hundred dollars on a golf club? Spill something on the couch?"

"I just saw them and thought of you," he replied, nuzzling my neck. "So I got them."

Suspicious. "What have you done to the Nate I know and love?"

"Are you complaining?"

"No. I love the flowers. Thank you." I cuddled into him. "But if you offer to do the laundry, I'm going to check for signs of alien invasion."

I'm too Sexy... by Rodrigo, Laptop Extraordinaire

I'm not kidding. I'm the cat's meow of laptops. It's no accident Kate describes me as "so hot, so sexy."

Well, that's how she used to describe. Lately, she barely looks at me. I thought it was because I was getting a little out of shape, so while she was out of town I spent a week at the fat farm (otherwise known as Dell's Servicing Facility) getting spiffied up for her return.

It worked. I came back all sleek and refreshed, and she fawned over me—for about a week. Then she turned to Tucker, that frickin' upstart PDA. So what if he has a foldable keyboard? I'm packing, baby, and you can't tell me size doesn't matter.

When Tucker first came onto the scene nine months ago, I wasn't worried. Kate's like that—she needs variety. So she has her little flirtations, but she knows who loves her. And at first, yeah, that's how it was. She'd "work" with Tucker—a late night here, an early morning rendezvous there—but she always came back to me.

And she even set him aside for awhile. He wasn't easy to work with, she said. Small computer complex, I think. Whatever. All I care about it that for months she stayed away from him. I was happy.

Only then she went away and I just found out she took him with her. There I was, flogging myself to get in shape for her, and she was spending every day with a computer named Tucker. How sissy boy can you get?

And now she ignored me all weekend. Yeah, kind of concerned here. It's enough to make me doubt my virility. But, damn it, I am sexy.

Am I losing her? I miss the soft caress of her fingertips. Should I start flirting with other people? Maybe that'd get her attention. Except the only other person I can think of is Nate, and he's really not my type.