Houston to Home.

Of all the places and all the times I've ever thought to look for you, HERE was the absolute last place I suspected! All this time I've been waiting for you...and here you were all along. I hardly even recognized you, you look fabulous! Have you lost weight? Muscle toned? Tanned? Teeth Whitened? Botulism Toxins? Whatever it is, I must say it certainly agrees with you.

This post is a bit different than my normal blatherings, but still full of knowledgeable, informative nonsense. I've been going through some changes, myself. Big changes, people. Big things. Big, big things...

When last we saw our little Heather, she was moving to Houston, ready to join corporate America. A scared, lowly North Dakotan, about to make her mark on the South. With suits in her closet and business cards in her briefcase, she met with big wigs and upper management hoo-has across the globe... I was madly in love with a foreigner, learning the ropes of a big city, and expanding my comfort zone a hundred times over. Later that year, I traveled to Wales in the United Kingdom for a month to train at our head office. Excited, I boarded the plane with all the comforts of home I could cram into my suitcase. A new country! New and exciting things! New foods! After a few weeks in the Welsh countryside, I learned to abhor their bland, inedible food and temporarily came down with a mild depression every time I got hungry. The people, I found, were equally unappealing. When a co-worker asked if I would like to join them in scotland over the weekend, and I politely declined because I wanted to explore and hike around the countryside and mountains I was currently in, I was labled as 'rude', and treated as such for the remainder of my stay. While I was there, alone, tired, and outcast for being nothing but a polite American, my Canadian love of 4 years called to abruptly halt our relationship. There was nothing I could do. When that happened, when I truly realized it was never going to be the same...I lost something. I was hurting more than I ever had before that time. When the month was over, I hobbled my half-starved body onto British Airways seat 33A and fell asleep. Despair, is the only word dark and lonely enough to describe the next 6 months.

I grew to hate my work, and the people there. Everything reminded me of the life I was supposed to have. Unhappy and unwilling, I left my job and had enough money saved to try to pull myself back together before starting a new one. I went out. I shopped. I went on blind dates...many, many, really, really terrible blind dates. The kind you read about in magazines under the "mortifying moments" column. The kind where I not only pay for my food, but his as well, and not because I want to but because he asks me to. When religion, politics, abortion, and past relationships all come up as topics of conversation within the first hour. When he says "my friends are joining us in a few minutes" really means "Nobody's coming to save you." The kind where he begs you to come up to his apartment because "he has a really nice bathroom." The kind where you start looking for the candid camera. They were the kind of dates where I was asked "So tell me...what are you all about?" followed by a long, drawn out silence, all the while he stares at me and waits for me to reply.

And then, just when things couldn't have possibly gotten any worse, a young, strappingly handsome Danish pilot sauntered into a restaurant that serves nothing but pie, 24 hours of each and every day. The perfect storm. I asked him to join me at my table. He said yes. He asked me to wear his ring to marry him forever. I said yes. Shortly thereafter, we left palm trees and 80 degrees behind and moved up to join the family in North Dakota.

Cut to now, 2 years later: a dim light glows in a small, dirty room. The unmanaged hairs of a whispy ponytail whip back and forth with the rustle of papers flipping elegantly in the air. Mud is encrusted in various nooks and heretofore known as "crannies." The smell of concentraion and peanut butter m&m's ooze from a mustard-colored hooded sweatshirt to fill the air. Fingers ferociously fly across a black keyboard with each pressing 'click.' A whiter than pale hand raises up from the computer and dives into the bag of m&m's for more fatty satis-fat-tion. The chair turns. Enter: Heather. I am a petroleum geologist now, workin' for a living in the oilfields in North Dakota! I wake up each morning ('morning' is an extremely loose term, I've found. All those in favor of calling 3:00am 'morning', go stand over there with the unicorns and Easter bunnies.), walk past the oil rig to the work shack, sit at the computer and start my day. Rock and dirt from 20,000 feet below the earth come up to the surface, are shoved into a canvas bag, and slopped onto my desk. I then proceed to wash the dirt...wash...the dirt...and test it for traces of oil. Lather, rinse, repeat. Twelve hours later, I hit the hay and start the whole process over again.

I come back to Minot at the end of each well to a very handsome boy and a very fluffy puppy. Soon, I will come back to Minot to a little red house where the very handsome boy and the very fluffy puppy will be. Even sooner than that, I will start a new job that I recently just accepted with a new company in Minot and can come home to the house, the boy, and the puppy, every single day.

You just never know what tomorrow will bring.

Happy Job. Happy Puppy. Happy Husband. Happy Wife. Happy Home. Happy Heather. Happy Day. Happy Life.

Peace out,
H

Give it to Me Straight, Doc.

Ahh... you're here. It is so refreshing to know I can always count on you to be here. You have this peacefully calming affect on me...it's such a breath of fresh air in the midst of a hectic day.

My life is a bit more peaceful than it has been in the previous few weeks. The stress and physical strain of making a huge life-altering decision has come and gone. I have peacefully and comfortably turned down an incredible job offer. Alas, I am the only one who fills my shoes, and dare I say I chose Keens over Stilettos.

My mind is at peace, but my emotions and physical body have endured somewhat of a good ol' fashioned 'beat-down.' Many a-sleepless nights and nail biting daydreams of a potential and successful future in Houston left me in the groggiest of spirits. I've got all the symptoms: sore throat, scratchy voice, a seemingly endless supply of thick rubbery mucus that surfaces at the most convenient moments possible (delighted to know, I'm sure), and a fuzzy haze of lethargy.

What do you make of it, Doc?

"Well, Ms. Fogarty, stay here in this backless paper shirt and I'll be back in about 20 minutes to give you your diagnosis. Here, sit on this butcher paper until I return...and feel free to peruse this 'Highlights' magazine while I'm away. I recommend the hidden objects page; it can be quite tantalizing. "

(Little does he know that all but one of the hidden objects have already been circled by previous patients. One of these days, I will prevail in having the 'first crack' at it.)

"Okay Ms. Fogarty...you can put your shirt back on in a minute. The parchment paper robe is merely so I feel more authoritative. I have some bad news."

"Bad news? ...What is it?"

"Well...how should I put this...It's... news that's not good."

"No, I mean what is the bad news?"

"Oh. The bad news is someone has already circled all the hidden objects in all our Highlights magazines."

"Tell me something I don't know. What's the good news, then?"

"The good news is the results of your tongue depressor tests are in."

"Am I going to die?"

"Yes. We all die eventually, but there's no telling when or where."

"No, I mean what good news do you have to share?"

"Well, since you asked, I just saved money on my car insurance, but that's none of your business."

"Did you really? Oh wow, well who do you have insura--No, no, I meant what are the test results?"

Diagnosis: I've determined you to be...'drained.'

Prognosis: 100% chance of recovery...but it will be tough.

Prescription: Take one (1) nap, for ten (10) minutes each day, until gone. Do not take on an empty stomach."

No empty stomach, hmm? I think I can tackle that minor detail. Chocolate pudding is the herbal remedy for many weaklings. For others, ice cream (hard, soft, and the malted variety) has become a staple: the medicinal therapy of choice. My sick food? Planters Cheeseballs. I personally have come to believe that one whiff of the artificial cheese powder on circular puffs of crumbly air nurses my immune system back to health almost instantaneously. I have faith that this, in combination with the purest elixir found in nature - pulp-free pineapple orange juice- is the ancient tribal healing secret.

...And rest, I shall. I'll be blunt, there's no reason to hide: I milk it. I milk it like a maid. Being sick is an opportune time to let yourself be vulnerable and leave your well-being to others. People, I will share this with you one time, and one time only: If you don't milk it, you aren't taking advantage of all that being sick has to offer. This is your time to have everything you need to survive within arm's reach. Warm cozy blanket? Here, have four. I brought your pirate slippers with the googly eyes, too, to keep your feet snuggly. Big puffy pillow? Let me fluff it for you. Thirsty? Here's a sippy mug full of pineapple orange juice, there's an endless supply in the fridge, ring this little bell if you need more (I imagine those very words are being spoken in heaven on a regular basis). Tissues? I got you Kleenex, quilted, with lotion built right into each sheet. I'll even throw your snotty tissues away. Hug? No--gross, what are you trying to do, get us all sick?

It was quite an emotional dilemma, but through the magic of cheeseballs, I am miraculously and slowly nursing myself back to health.

Peace out,
H

Houston, we have... a Heather??

Welcome Back! Something is different about you today... Did you change your hair? ...New outfit? ... Lost weight? ...I can't quite put my finger on it, but whatever it is, I love it.

My hair is a few shades lighter these days, thank you for noticing. A quick trip to a beauty salon, and a checking account deduction of 70 US Dollars yielded a hipper, trendier, me. Some hairs on my head are unquestionably more important than others, and I felt as though they should be highlighted as such...mission accomplished.

The reason for my sudden leap into the world of those who spend more than one minute on their hair in the mornings? The ominous and ever-intimidating "job interview." Yes, soon, I will be joining the ranks of the full-time, gainfully employed. I will uncharacteristically leave out the fine print of the whole ordeal, and give you the big scope: I was flown to Houston for a big bad job interview. It was quite the adventure to be whisked away to an all inclusive 3-day, 2-night job interview experience.

It's a pretty nifty little gig that I auditioned for... they are the hooligans responsible for the 3D imaging on google earth, and are also the little rascals that are contracted to expand the Panama Canal. The division of the company that yours truly would be gracing, is a division who markets geological oil basin and oil well drilling data to big wigs like Exxon Mobile, Texaco, Shell, Chevron, BP, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I had to wear my "big girl" clothes and "grown up" heels the whole time. Heck, I even accessorized. I can see you've inched (or for our Canadian readers: centimetered) closer to the edge of your seat; you should know by now that in this intricate little relationship of ours, you will be the absolute FIRST to know what the future holds for this little geological girl-wonder....don't you worry.

I often wonder what my life will evolve into after I enter the real world... is there life after graduation? I try to picture myself in a downtown highrise apartment, with my hip highlights and trendy new 'do, cleaning and putting away groceries, planning and organizing for the next work day. Then I snap out of it. "This is my life, here, not my delusion," I tell myself. It'll be more like watching TV in my apartment in sweats and a ponytail, eating chicken fingers I ordered in from Applebees with paper plates and plasticware. While in mid honey-mustard dip, I'll suddenly realize I have a presentation to a client the following morning, but nonetheless plan to pull an all-nighter after my chicken strips are thoroughly consumed.

Although, I may surprise myself (and my mother). There are times when I display a bizarre and twistedly unfamiliar bout of cleanliness around the house...I dare say there is a slight-albeit slight- chance that in some unthinkable way, bits and pieces of that behavior may be carried over into my soon to be new, grown-up life. Is it possible?

Come to think of it, you'll never believe this (I can barely conceive the notion, myself), but there have been times, whilst the family was away and I was left to fend for my own well-being, that the entire kitchen remained a sparkling, pearly spit-spot combination of cleanliness and Comet, with a hint of Palm Olive and bleach. Ladies and Gentlemen, let the records show: I, Heather, cleaned, on my own accord. This was not just for a minute, not just for a day, but I assure you, this was for the entire duration of my time alone in the home. If I wasn't there for the episode in person, I would have scoffed in disbelief at anyone who tried to convince me otherwise. Indeed, mere minutes after their arrival, I recall walking in the room to find it in a complete state of disarray. Every cupboard door was swung open. Drawers were no longer flush with the counters edge. A peanut-buttery aroma filled the air as I found our JIF jar in a new home near the toaster, lid unscrewed. Crumbs of every shape, color, size, and texture were strewn about the cutting board as if Hansel and Gretel one day needed to return to that very spot. Previously non-existent grocery items paraded the counter tops. A frying pan lay dormant upon the stove. A box of Saran plastic wrap was prepped and ready to pounce at any bowl of left-overs that dared not be fresh.

I remember smiling, knowing that it was not I (this ONE time), that made a mess and left it there. Furthermore, this was in fact proof, that there could be other times it may not have been me, as well (it's a bit of a stretch, but evidence is evidence, your honor).

I suppose whether I am ready to grow up or not, I will eventually have no choice. Am I ready to give up my relaxed jeans and Keens in lieu of fancy pants and accessories in the heat of Houston? ...Let's just say I have five days to figure that out. Wish me luck in the decision! It's a doozy!

Peace out,
H

Trick or Treason

This is so weird... I dreamed about you being here, reading this very blog, just last night. And here you are! ...Spooky!

Speaking of spooks, (ooh, nice segue) on halloween night, some houses struggle with the concept of "candy." Let me enlighten you:

There are "good" houses, and there are "bad" houses. The best trick-or-treaters know to avoid the latter. We all love Halloween, but wish certain homes would just stop handing out the classically bad "treats." They weren't good last year, the year before that, or now....and don't kid yourself: Word spreads fast. Once you've been identified as a "bad" house, it's virtually impossible to redeem yourself. Whispers will spread like wildfire through every child in every neighborhood in town. One wrong treat, and you'll find witches, ghosts, princesses, and firemen avoiding your house like the plauge. Take the big orange marshmallow shaped like a peanut for example: handing out one of these doorstops will dishevel your home from trick-or-treaters for a minimum of five (5) years. And stencils? ...You're looking at ten to life.

If you want to be the cool house on the block, you'll know better than to hand out any of these eye-rollers:

1) Toothbrushes

Dentists and orthodontists should not be allowed to celebrate Halloween if they're going to get all tooth-doctory on us. Do not bring your work home with you, folks! We all have a personal responsibility to brush, and maybe some of us will forget, but your complimentary bristles on a stick (instead of a Snickers) will not help us remember. It will make us despise you and your trade.

2) Raisins

Little boxes of stuck-together shriveled globs are not what little kids schlep around the neighborhood for all night. When they say trick-or-treat, they want candy that will rot their teeth, not wrinkled grapes. No preservatives? No thank you. (Using an empty box as a kazoo-like instrument, though, is kinda fun.)

3) Candy Corn

Ah, the fruitcake of halloween; it just never goes away. If you love them, fine. But don't subject the rest of us to the sickeningly sweet triangle that tastes like neither candy nor corn. It's the exact same rock-hard candy corn you had sitting in a dish by the door LAST halloween-- you're not fooling anyone.

4) Smarties and Necco Wafers

These chalky candies are supposedly "fruit-flavored," but no fruit I know tastes like hard dust -- and makes everything eaten after that taste like hard dust, too.

5) Dum Dum Lollipops

Usually, foods on a stick are yummy (corn dogs, ice pops), but Dum Dums just can't be included on that list. Not even if they were breaded and deep-fried and served at a fair. A quick rule of thumb: If you're A) drooling out more than you swallow, or B) feel like you need a wet wash cloth mid-way through... kids don't want it, either.

6) Apples

Evil people have long been handing out apples even before "poisoned candy" scares. Ever seen Snow White? Avoid anything that does not come in its own wrapper. And no, adding your own cutesey wrapper with those "offical halloween markings" on it does not count.

7) Tootsie Rolls

It looks like chocolate and sort of smells like chocolate, but the mini brown tubes are not real chocolate. They taste like watered-down chocolate, and have a chewy texture that will strip the fillings right off your molars. It's also the cheapest possible option for candy givers. Kids know it. They resent you for it.

8) Miscellaneous, Wrapped Hard Candies

Halloween is supposed to be a holiday for children and young people alike, not senior citizens who suck on hard candies all day. Something about the strawberry-shaped strawberries, gold-wrapped butterscotch, and peppermint in cellophane that just screams "I'm past the expiration date." (These usually get set aside for Granny.)

9) Laffy Taffy

I do not laffy when I get these. I sobby. I get depressedy. Because it gets all stucky to my teethy and doesn't even taste that goody.

10) Anything Fun-Sized

Who started calling it this? Since when is one bite fun? Indulgence and a teeth-rotting sugar rush: that's what's fun. Portion control doesn't need to start this young. A normal-sized candy bar will make you the most popular house on the block. A king-sized candy bar will have you calling in for back-up. Want to really watch their heads spin? Whip out a soft carbonated beverage...they'll never know what hit 'um.

One last word to the wise: Don't even THINK about handing out those disgusting peanut butter flavored chewy candies wrapped in orange or black waxed paper. It's a death sentence. You might as well leave a basket outside your home marked "free eggs, fire at will."

Happy Halloween, everybody... and good luck.
Peace out,
H

Make Marriage, Not War

Hooray! You're here! I was hoping and wishing that you'd still be here when I got back from my trip... and here you are! I'm glad you made it because you are cordially invited as my guest, via pictures, to the wedding of Molly Petrik to Chris Healow.

This past weekend I traveled afar to a beautiful place called Missoula, quietly nestled in the mountains of Montana, hippies abounding around every street corner. Sarah and Adam Rassier, Kyle, and myself, headed to the land of the very free on Thursday morning. The occasion? An outdoor wedding of a childhood friend, Molly Petrik, to her beau, Chris Healow. It was well-worth the 13 hour drive in our tan Camry.

Adam's road rage driving techniques made for some interesting moments along the way, but we miraculously all made it there in one piece. These questionable instances include, but are not limited to: flying past a frightened student driver on the highway, profuse horn-honkage, a death-defying grizzly bear encounter, getting a little too up-close and personal with the median ("Is this a lane? Are we in a lane?" .... "Oh whoops, no, this isn't a lane at all"...[quick sudden jerk to the right]..."There."), and seemingly attempting to break the sound barrier (between you and me, let's just say we made excellent time). For all you mothers out there: our seat belts were in-tact the entire time. We arrived at the Mountain Valley Inn in Missoula Montana, precisely at 5:10pm. Here are some pictures of the weekend's events, as promised...a story board, if you will (and indeed, you will):

1) The rehearsal dinner in the park. Shortly after checking into the Mountain Valley Inn (heretofore known as the MVI), we revitalized our butt-to-seat laden bodies and found our way to the park for a pig roast feast. I like to call it a feastival. A party, as you all are well aware, is simply not a party until a deliciously meaty pig carcass arrives in the back of a rickety old Jeep, driven by a portly yet jolly gentleman in suspenders.

2) The North Dakota Gang. North Dakota was generously represented at the rehearsal dinner. From left to right: Sarah Rassier, Adam Rassier, Kyle Labrecque, I am the stunning vision in white, Jake Carolan, Jenny Carolan, Kris Smetana, Jason Nisbet's head, and Matt Nisbet.

3)The world's best pants. After the rehearsal "feastival", we putted back to the MVI. Before turning in for the evening, we stopped by a friend's hotel room, where, much to our astonishing elation, we were greeted with a gift of fleece pants. I refer to mine as "Heather and the amazing technicolor fleece pants." I am uncertain as to whether these pants are actually as amazing as they appear in the photo, or if the pant models are merely "working the pants" all too well.

4) Here Comes the Bride. The creek-side wedding the next afternoon was held at a beautiful estate nestled into the mountain-side. The guests and groom sang George Harrison's "Here comes the sun," while the wedding party and bride walked down the grassy aisle. The sun did indeed make an appearance, and temperatures soared to over 90 degrees. Fear not, however, this little white Norwegian-Irish girl applied SPF 50, as well as a double dose of Secret (it's strong enough for a man, but PH balanced for a woman).

5) Bring on the Funk. The girls were decked out in little silk halter knee-length numbers, while the boys donned brown linen pants, a striped blue shirt, and brown suspenders. The officiant was the couple's music professor (Dr. Funk, appropriately). Molly and Chris wrote their own heartfelt vows, and there wasn't a dry eye for miles.

6) The Other Happy Couple. Kyle and I after the wedding, just steps from the ceremony site. I wore my hair down, and slightly curled, for as long as any sane human can tolerate in that magnitude of heat...21 minutes, 38 seconds exactly.

7) Things are Heating Up. When beads of perspiration began to overcome my cotton smock, I gathered my locks and threw them up in a pony tail, as seen here.

8) Down Came the Rain. Clouds loomed over the area not long after, but the rain just missed us. The welcoming cloud cover cooled off the event to a comfortable 75 degrees. Check out that gorgeous view! I checked for ticks at least four times after coming back down the hill; I am happy to report that I was and still am tick-free.

9) Let them eat Buffalo. The wedding feast consisted of salmon, roasted buffalo with huckleberry sauce, asparagus stalks, some sort of cous-cous/quinoa concoction, iced dill potatoes, and a bun. I decided that it doesn't matter where you come from or what walk of life you choose to take, everyone loves a good bun. I, myself, am no exception to that rule.

10) SPEECH! SPEECH! Upon the commencement of the meal, the microphone was open for well wishes or stories for the new couple. Here, the parents of the bride look on. As a high school friend, I felt as though it was my utter obligation to share an embarrassing story of dear Molly. I stormed the mic and received an uproarious applause. Kyle greeted me back to my seat with "You really know how to work a crowd!" Thanks babe!

11) The Garter Toss. When the speeches came to a close, a few people insisted on speaking a bit more. When the speeches came to a close again, the evening's festivities were soon underway. To kick off the night, the bouquet was thrown, and the garter tossed.

12) Reunited and it Feels So Good. We Three Amigos: Sarah, Jenny and Myself, workin' it at the reception...kissin' the boys and makin' 'em cry! Yowsa!

13) Dancing the Night Away. After the Citronella Tiki Torches were activated, Molly and Chris had their first dance as husband and wife to the music of a live folk band. The music was oh-so contagious. By the second or third song, the driveway dance floor was filled with swirling, twirling bodies until the wee hours of the evening. To listen to the bride and groom's song, click here.

14) So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, See ya Later. We said our sorrowful good-byes, and headed back to the MVI for the night. Kyle and I were starving and ordered a delightful pizza at 2:00am, when pizza tastes best. We dined on our usual pepperoni and cheese until our bellies could take no more. After checking out of the hotel the next morning, (You're forever in our hearts, MVI) our tummies were yet again eager for sustenance. "What better place to fill your gut than Famous Dave's BBQ?" we all thought. And so we dined on ribets and chicken baskets until our little hearts were content.

It was quite a delightful trip, and I thoroghly enjoyed myself during the entire adventure...it was hard to say goodbye. If e'er you need advice on how to survive hippies or renegade drivers, look me up. I have plenty of pointers.

Peace out,

H

Missoula or Bust!

Welcome back! Seeing you here is the best part of my day.

Thursday morning I am off to beautiful Missoula, Montana. In case you aren't familiar with the area, it's just 3 miles left of NoMansLand, and 560 miles west of MiddleofNowhere. Hang a right immediately after the vast expanse of NothingForMilesandMiles ...just look for signs, you can't miss it.

I will be attending a wedding there, clad in bare feet. I got a pedicure this morning, just for the occasion. My toenails are now a luscious pearly pink. I feel pretty... oh so pretty...

You can assuredly expect a full report on my outing (complete with photographs in full technicolor) when I return home early next week. I can hardly wait to share them with you...the suspense is already killing me!

As previously stated in an earlier post, my procrastinating ways have yielded packing until this evening, mere hours before the trip ... just think of all the time I saved doing absolutely nothing for all those hours! I must get to packing. Alas, time is slowly creeping away and I must cut short our meeting here this fine evening. I have so much to tell you, but it simply must wait.

Feel free to catch up on past blog posts until I return. I would love to hear what your favorites are! Have a wonderful weekend! Until we meet again...

Peace out,
H

No Further Questions, Your Honor.

You're back! You never cease to amaze me!

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I am at liberty to say that after weeks of endless rain, I can now declare the sun: officially shining!
"But Heather," you say, "Why are you at liberty to say so?"

My, but how funny you should ask. My fellow citizens--and Kyle--I have been potentially selected to honorably represent all that is peaceful and just in this fair county of ours...to serve, and protect...to keep those innocent who have not yet been proven guilty by penalty of law, and to lock up the poor sap who so much as looks at me the wrong way. My congressmen, my Americans, my census talliers, and my proven felons: you have potentially chosen me to represent you in your time of treachery and need. Yes, I am a potential juror--ready to report for duty.

The trials and tribulations of a juror's duty sentence are far less than that of the accused lug in the hot seat. I will do nothing but my best to ensure that justice has been fulfilled. I can see it now... I am quite positive that my defendant/plaintiff (thank you, Judge Wapner) experience will be exactly like that of a movie courtroom scene. If not, I intend on making it as such.

I will walk in with glasses on. My hair will be loosely tossed in a messy bun, held up by a yellow number 2 pencil. This, I assume to believe, is known as "lawyer chic." My fellow Americans--and Kyle-- let it be known: there is no time for such nonsense as "hair ties" when a young man's life is at steak. Banana clips and scrunchies of every color and texture are immediately meaningless in such a consequential event...even the holy grail of hair ties--the velvet scrunchy--suddenly pales into insignificance. The number 2 pencil has been, and always be, a symbol of authority of utmost importance. Veteran attorneys scoff at those donning any other number. Also, in any question of authority or status of rank: bite-marks always beats no bite-marks.

I will, no doubt, be sporting a simple dark brown pant-suit circa 1991, with black clod-hopper dress shoes. My pant-legs will be precisely 2 inches too short, and my black nylons will have a run in them, exactly 6 inches long.

I will walk to the jury bleachers with my clip-board in tact, and a black clicky-pen in hand. There will be a low murmur of "is-he-or-isn't-he?" whispers that fill the air. No one will speak above 5 decibels. The room will be a floor to ceiling cherry/walnut wood facade, with a fan radiating every 5 feet across the ceiling. The windows will have vertical blinds that sway with the circulating air of the fans, and the light that passes through each length of blind will cast dusty light beams across the room, one of which, shining directly into my left eye. While no smoking is permitted in the building, cigarettes will be smoldering in ashtrays in random spots throughout the room, drawing swirly gray mists up to the walnut ceiling.

When the trial commences, I will cross my legs, and rotate my clicky-pen upwards, 90 degrees, and, with a furrowed brow, begin to chew. This action subconsciously dictates to all parties involved, that I am heretofore primed and prepared to heed opening arguments. If the pen has not yet crossed the oral threshold, I am not yet attentive, nor alert. Every two minutes, I will uncross, and recross my legs in the opposite direction. Once opening arguments indeed proceed, I will squint, and listen, occasionally nodding my head. I will not actually be listening, as I tend to daydream within minutes, but that is irrelevant.

I will stand proudly and announce a verdict: "GUILTY! HANG HIM! TRAITOR!"
The judge will reprimand me: "Miss, the trial just started! Take your seat or we'll have you escorted out of here."

I will, indeed take my seat, and proceed with the rest of the obligatory "fair trial." Guilty or not, my mind is already made.

I will embrace the potential experience. Some ask, 'is it worth it?' ...Is missing a few days work worth a minimal $40 dollars a day? If it's good enough for Rachel Ray, by gum, it's good enough for me. Is it worth being isolated from society for a week? I consider it a perk. Is it worth sitting on a walnut bench all day to grant some stranger a chance at freedom? If it means I get to wear a hand-me-down pants-suit: you betcha.

It is my American duty, and my dear dear pleasure to serve, honor... and convict. Calling all Potential Felons: See you on the stand...and good luck...you'll need it.

Peace out,
H