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I had jury duty last week. Again.
They didn't pick me. Again.

But some guy showed me one of his camera phone pics from Mardi Gras, which is always nice when you've been sitting at City Hall for seven hours looking at the back of some gross Fishtown lady's bleached and scabby head and trying not to breathe too close to her pitstained Bud Light t-shirt that bulged out all over her ridiculously tight bra clasp.
I pretended I didn't look and was all like "sir, you just showed me pictures of breasts. Here, in the Halls of Justice. You don't even know me. Why would you think that was appropriate?"
And he was all like "er, um, well, I didn't know if you knew that girls really took their tops off in New Orleans and I thought you might want to know".
And I was all like "whatever" but instead of saying whatever I made this face where I scrunch up my left eye and cheek and shake my head a little bit but it was probably lost on him because he was sitting to my right. Looking at boobs.

Then I almost got picked to be Juror 12 and he was Juror 11 and I wanted to tell the attorneys that there is no way I can sit on a jury that is estimated to last well into three weeks next to a dude who showed me titpics on his I phone.

They saved me from tattling by asking me if my husband's career would influence me in my decision regarding the case and I said, "excuse me?". And then the one attorney was all like "well, Mrs. M_, we have found that some wives identify strongly with their husbands and we've had a problem in the past with ladies who can't see past the fact that their husbands are attorneys and they tend to decide with whatever side of the law they practice."

Fists balled, deep breath, pinch my leg, bite my cheek, curl my toes, okay.

First of all, no one calls me Mrs. I feel that it's insulting and an archaic way of announcing to the world that someone owns me. An advertisement that shouts "My greatest accomplishment in life is that my last name is not the one I was born with and I'm already taken so back off while I put this casserole in the oven and try to forget the fact that I am no longer referred to as anyone but my husband's wife". (Shhhh, hear that? It's the sound of 100 Mrs.'s quickly dropping my feed).

Second of all, identify with who in the whatnow? You are assuming that I don't primarily identify with my own damned self? WOW. Ouch. Clearly we are working off of assumptions. An assumption that says that I am not able to separate myself from nor think freely and apart from the man I married. Because I'm just a stupid girl. Does anyone have any lip gloss? Look at these shoes! I couldn't possibly eat that.

Third of all, I don't really know what Dave does at work. He goes to work at work. He's a lawyer, so I'm guessing he lawys. I know he wears a suit on the days he has to go to court but not on the days that he doesn't. Based on that knowledge, I have no allegiances to either side of the law. My relationship with Dave transcends his profession, and if we talk about work at home, it isn't about job descriptions.

Such bunk.

But they were old men and I don't really have as big a mouth in real life that I do here (why are those of you that know me in real life LOLing right now?) so I said, "Sirs, it's Ms. M_. And no, my husband's career would never influence me."

Then they asked me if "being a social worker would cause me to sympathize with the injured parties" and I said, "you'll notice that my career is not listed as 'Social Worker' but 'Social Work Administrator' and those are two very different careers. Any job I may hold would not cause me to sympathize with an injured party, but the fact that I am human would. However, this does not affect my ability to be an impartial juror because I'm not a complete idiot who can only function upon gut-level emotions and knee-jerk reactions".

And then they excused me from the juror chambers.
And sent me on my way with my $9 check and a pat on the back and a note that said I will likely be called back to duty in one year's time.