Grand Jury Dutay

When I first learned that I had been summoned for jury duty, my first thought was: How do the fuck do I get out of this? Then, I looked a little bit more closely at my official summons. I soon learned that not only was I chosen for jury duty, but I was being called to serve on GRAND JURY duty, for two weeks. Oy vey! How would I swing leaving my classroom for two whole weeks!? Luckily (or unluckily) your employers have no choice but to let you serve.

When I arrived at the court house on Tuesday morning at nine am, we, the prospective jurors, were told that out of the three hundred people gathered in that room, only forty-six people would be chosen to be split into two different juries for the next two weeks. The forty-six people would be chosen through a random lottery system. As each name was pulled, and called out loud, I breathed a sigh of relief that my name hadn't been called. That is until I heard my name, forty-sixth, dead last. That's right. I was the LAST person to be called for jury duty. Some guys have all the luck.

Well, here I am. One week down, and one week left to go. I am certainly learning a lot. For starters, my job on the jury is not to decide the guilt or innocence of a person. (Thank God!), but it is instead to decide whether or not to indite on the charges being presented. I am learning lots of legal jargon. I am learning, that I could never, ever, ever be a lawyer. I'm learning that I lead a sheltered life, and that hearing about the rape and murder that take place in NYC, all day long, makes you miss the innocence of the third grade just a little bit. But, what I am learning most of all; is that attending jury duty each day is a lot like attending high school.

Each day we come to our small, windowless room, and find our assigned seats. And similarly, just like in a school setting, it is the people nearest you who become your friends. That's right. There are cliques and crews in jury duty. A jury is supposed to be a sampling of New York City, a cross-section of people, a diverse group. And, sure there are some older people, there are people of different races. But, in my section; there are three boys, and three girls, all between the ages of twenty-four and twenty-nine. These people have become my jury duty besties. My very own jury duty crew. Each day in our one hour lunch break, we explore Chinatown and find new places to eat together. Socially, I am quite enjoying jury duty. (An aside: I even developed a jury duty crush, one that I hope will last once our call of jury is over).

Jury duty ends each day at five pm. And, just like in school there was always that annoying person(s) who would ask a question just as the bell was ringing. Everyone would grew increasingly frustrated, and think, Why does this person care? Shut the fuck up. Class is over. (If you were that person in high school, I hated your guts).
In Jury duty, we have our own grown-up venison of this. Each day at five pm, our day's end, the two most annoying jurors (a unanimous opinion amongst the jurors), ask their long winded questions just as it is time to leave after a long day spent in our windowless room.

In a short amount of time, Jury Duty has already changed my perspective on things. It's provided me with an unusual take on certain issues, one that I may not have realized before. It's really wonderful to learn new things about yourself. And, perhaps the greatest lesson that I have learned is that, sometimes it's nice to have a little break from your real life. It is. But, boy am I ready to get back to my favorite little eight year old booger picker-eaters.

Stop, Drop and Roll.

I take a big risk by blogging so candidly. I am letting people (some who are strangers to me) into my life, in a way that is very personal. And while, I have almost zero problems with sharing the details of my life, (the good, the bad, and the mortifying), it's still scary.

A few months ago, I was on a date with a boy. Over dinner we had gotten into a conversation about writing. Writing is one of my greatest passions. It ranks right up there with Luke Perry, watermelon and ketchup. Writing relieves my stress, and brings me an inner calm, that is hard to verbalize to others. With such a great love, it is only natural that this subject came up, when getting to know someone new. With the mention of my blog, my date asked me for the website. I cringed. I did not want to give it to him, not yet. I wasn't ready for a new person, who I could have been interested in, to see my writing. To run the risk of him being turned off by a drunken tale, or personal tidbit. My BGbabe said it best, "Fisher, guys you want to potentially date don't need to read that you like to poop naked." And, well. She's right. But, despite this risk, I continue on...

Whoever said that dating is easy, has never been single, in New York City, in their mid-twenties. Because simply put: Dating. is. not. easy. Sure, it can be a lot of fun. But, it can also be confusing, stressful, and totally exhausting.

You just never know, and there are no guarantees. The dates that you think go well, the ones with chemistry, and end with a post-date text saying that he can't wait to see you again...turn out to be the guys that you never hear from again. (This phenomenon still baffles me). Note to all boys: Do not text a girl telling her how much fun you had, and how much you can't wait to see her again, if you have no intentions of ever seeing her again. Then there are those guys who you never want to hear from again. (Those who are thirty minutes late to a date, and then talk on their blackberry for twenty-five minutes, while you sit at the table sipping on your water). And of course, you always hear from this group of guys again, say--six text messages in one night.

There are those that you thought things may have ended with, and just when you least expect it, creep back into your life. Or maybe there are those that you wish would creep back into your life. And then, there are just the plain old creeps. It's enough to make you want to throw in the towel. Except for one thing. Every time I sign on facebook, someone else my age is engaged, or married. I have never been one to be influenced by what my peers are doing. But, it is hard not to notice this trend. And, oh yeah. My aunt just called to remind me that in less than three months I will be twenty-seven. (Dating aside, this is scary for many reasons). So yes, thank you for that.

I have a love/hate relationship with my mid-twenties. It is one of mostly love. But the hate part comes with the paradox of how different every one's lives are becoming, though we are all the same age. (Do I accept change, or what)? How do I have close friends that are married? How do I have close friends who are still waking up in stranger's beds...in other states? And, how are we leading these very different lives, in the same city, at the same age? As we get older, the change that takes place is inevitable. Like it or not, (not), this is life.

If there is some sort of conclusion to my darting thoughts, it is this: Dating is hard, but the inner optimist in me, hopes for a rewarding end. And, also this: Change is a part of growing up. It's a part of real life. And, so I will continue to surround myself with friends and familiar faces to make these transitions a little bit easier. And though it may not always be easy. Sometimes, you just gotta stop. drop. and roll, with the punches.

Juray Dutay

Tomorrow begins my two week stint as a grand juror, on jury duty. Am I excited to sit in a court room for the next ten days? No, not really. However, I am relishing the chance to sleep atleast an hour later than usual. And, I'd be willing to make a small wager that I will feel atleast sixty-four percent more well rested, than I do in a normal work week, (where I'm say, surrounded by hyper-active eight year olds). Yes, this is a bet, I'm certain that I could win. I'm not saying that people who work all day (with adults) do not feel tired. I'm sure they do feel fatigued, sitting at their desks, staring at the computer screens. But, there is a certain brand of tired, that is reserved solely for teachers. And, well...this week, I will get to see how the other half lives.

Over the next two weeks in court, I will probably not see any apology letters, (apologizing for calling someone a dirty elephant butthole). I'm also mostly sure that my fellow jurors will not arrive to jury duty with a vile of their own blood with them. (No, Nicole. You can't share that for show and tell). And, most likely I won't see any jurors flinging their bodies into the railing above the stairs, only to cry out in pain, "Oh, my weiner!" (Matthew, do you need an icepack?) Yup. I'm thinking that a chance to be around adults might just be the change of pace I'm looking for.

Do I Know You From Somewhere?

It doesn't take very long for me to write a blog post. I tend to think in blog format seventy-eight percent of the time. Part of the reason that I love to walk everywhere in this city, is that my walks provide me with lots of time to think, and formulate my thoughts. The words and phrases I think in my head, later become my writing material.

My very best blogs usually come from my workouts at the gym. It gets boring up there on the elliptical. So, I am left to let my thoughts wander. (Most likely to think about things that a sixteen year old girl thinks about such as; boys, and what I will wear to school tomorrow).
(An aside: I must look ridiculous while I work out. I belt out the words via lip sync to the songs on my ipod, as if no one else is in the room with me). Tonight was no exception. I was singing, partially dancing, and having the workout of my life, with my newly updated ipod. (Thanks to M. Kirschybar).

As usual, I was getting lost in my own thoughts, (and in Christina Aguilera's, Fighter), when I felt someone staring at me out of the corner of my eye. The machines are set up so that everyone faces each other while working out. It is only natural to check out your neighbors, I do it all the time. But, I could feel the stare boaring into my soul, and it was starting to make me feel a little bit uncomfortable. I tried to look away, but eventually we made eye contact. At that moment, my across-the machine neighbor spoke to me. He said, "Hey, hey you, in the gray headband...don't I know you from somewhere?"

I had never seen this human before in my life. However, I have been told that I have the kind of face that looks familiar, so I went along with him. I told him that I didn't think I had ever met him before. (Another aside: Ever notice that at the gym, no one is really talking? So, if you are talking, say over the noise of the other machines, it feels like you are screaming, and your conversation is being heard by millions?) Yes, well. Picture this conversation taking place over an immense silence, while sweating, while trying to talk, breathe and run all at the same time.

"Oh, I know!" said my across-the machine neighbor, "Didn't I sit next to you at Rachel's birthday dinner?" I have quite a few friends named Rachel, but none of them were born in October, and therefore I did not attend a Rachel birthday dinner. When I told him that he must have had me confused with someone else, he said, "No, I know that I know you from somewhere. I know, he said excitedly. I've seen you on Jdate!"

There are four things wrong with his exclamation.

1. I am not on Jdate. I'll admit it, two years ago, I was there. But, only as an attempt to appease my mom who both convinced me, and paid for me to join. However, after two bad dates with a couple of nerdy Jews, I was outta there.

2. There is nothing wrong with online dating. It is a big part of dating culture; after all it is the '90's. However, this is not something that I would want a stranger to scream across a gym filled with healthy, hunky twenty-somethings.

3. Admitting to "knowing" someone from some kind of online forum is moderately creepy in my book.

4. My across the machine neighbor was Indian.

And, so, as I told him that he did not see me on Jdate. He apologized for any trouble he had given me. My machine neighbor avoided eye contact with me for the rest of our work-out. Amen.

Go Figure!

Sometimes you have plans with someone. And sometimes you just don't feel like going. You are tired, or busy, or something seemingly better comes along, and so you cancel. Sure, we've all been there. But, I recently got an excuse so good (or so awesomely bad), that I had to share it here.

I had set plans with a boy. Let's call him Robby. Robby and I have been trying to meet up for a couple of weeks now, but one of us keeps cancelling on the other. (Hmm...this seems to be an unfortunate pattern for me). All excuses thus far have seemed valid and legitimate. But, it was almost becoming funny how bad we were at getting together.

Just as I was getting out of the shower, getting ready to meet him, I received a text from Robby. He told me he wouldn't be able to make it after all...He had just been hit by a car. (I am not a terrible person for sharing this story here, he is okay, just a broken wrist).But, now, okay. A little bit hilarious? Yes. Of course, he was hit by a car; the night we were supposed to meet one another after weeks of cancellations.

Now, that's dedication to cancellation! Throwing your body into oncoming traffic to avoid hanging out. Just kidding, of course. Robby was very apologetic (though, he did not need to be--the kid just got hit by a car)! And, who knows! Maybe we will actually hang out..unless of course, one of us gets hit by a bus. (Knock on wood).

P. Diddy Roofied Me

The title of this blog is an inside joke that is not related to anyone I am writing about here, but well, I just had to.

My first time drinking took place at a camp friend's sweet sixteen. My fifteen year old friend (and accomplice), Brooke, had swiped us some alcohol for the big night. I drank a shot of vodka. No one prepared me for the way that shot would burn in my throat, or told me that chasing a shot down with some type of non-alcoholic beverage would have been helpful.

By my senior year of high school, I was chugging whisky in the back of boys' cars. (Bad ass McGee). And now, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I have been drinking for the better part of the decade. For the exception of my 24th birthday (where I clung to walls, and Asians in electric blue wigs), most of my friends tell me that they really can't tell when I'm drunk. (Translation: I have the sober personality of a drunk person). The only differences in my personality while drunk, is that I have the tendency to become a bit more forward (with the gentlemen), tend to retell stories that have already been told, (Oh wait, I do that soberly too), and I continuously text my friends who are not at the same bar as me, telling them how good the music is where I am.

I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. As long as I have my friends, and some mid 90's dance music, I'll have fun just about anywhere. As far as drinking goes, I always thought that I could keep up with the best of them--bring it on bitches! That is...until this past Saturday night; had it not been me making my own drinks, I would have sworn that I had been roofied.

Saturday night, I went to Providence, Rhode Island to visit some of my most favorite men from college. (Did you guys like that? I just called you men). Jimmy, Brent, Andy and Corey, just some of my college besties. The purpose of this blog is mostly meant as an apology to these boys, (that I love) because I literally don't know what happened to me. And well, they don't either. They expected to spend the night with their human friend, from New York City, Lauren Fisher. Instead, they got an intoxicated mess in heels.

After a six hour drive, (it usually only takes three hours), I could not wait to get my night started. The only problem was, besides for my four bowls of frosted flakes in the morning, and four sushi rolls and a banana (eaten at the boys' place), I did not have anything to eat all day. (An aside: This is extremely rare for me. My sweets intake alone, could be my entire caloric consumption for the day). With little food in my stomach, my downward spiral would soon begin. At the boys, I had just two drinks, and is all that I had for the duration of the night). While sipping slowly, we reminisced about college, and took a poll of who was a worse driver, Andy or me. (As it turns out, Andy was voted worse than me, but everyone would rather be in a car with Andy. Due to my reckless speeding, survival rate in Andy's car would be much higher).

After my two drinks, our night would begin. Unfortunately, I can't tell you much about it; except for this: My knees are completely bruised, scraped and cut, because YES, I fell down that many times. I was THAT girl. Apparently, we all went out for a meal after being out, I remember nothing of this meal. I was later told that I spent most of the time in the bathroom. (Yes, trying to pull my own trigger). Additionally, I was also told the following day that I walked into the wrong bathroom, twice.

I woke up the next morning and felt pretty embarrassed about the previous night's events. Let me just say this, it takes A LOT to really embarrass me, but it can be done. My friends told me not to worry, after all I was the same girl who, five years earlier, had passed out on their front lawn, in the rain, at two am. So, to Jimmy, Corey, Brent and Andy; I will say this: Thank you for taking care of me, for listening to me repeat myself about how much I had not eaten all night, for listening to my pooping trick (I'm sure you didn't want to hear that once, let alone six times), for unknowingly lending me your hairbrush, and for a delightful egg sandwich in the morning. Here's to the next time that we are all together, a human, I will be!

A Growned Up Job

If any one theme is clear and consistent with my blog, it is this: I don't want to grow up. But, if I must, (and I guess I have to), I am glad to know that everyone else is growing up alongside with me. This weekend, it really hit me that my friends and I are not only growing up, but have real, actual grown up jobs. (And have had these jobs for some time now). While my job may not always seem the most sophisticated, (Ie: sitting on the floor reading stories, and watching eight year olds stick their fingers up their noses), I know that I am the grown up in the room that my students have to look up to. And well, that is something.

My friends are real smarty-pants(s). They are doctors, lawyers, accountants, financiers, fashionistas and lots of other things; most of which I don't really understand.

This past weekend, I was feeling sick. Instead of going to my regular doctor, I went to a different doctor. I went to one of my best friends, Joelle. Joelle is my age and is now officially a doctor. (It sort of terrifies me that people my age are doctors, because I know what people my age are doing on the weekends). I went to Joelle's apartment and she examined me just as my own doctor would, (only she did not ask me questions about my sexual history; this is probably because she knows everything anyway). It was amazing. Joelle diagnosed me. She told me what would help make me feel better, and then she sent me on my merry way! If growing up means that I get to be comforted and made to feel better by a close friend (fo free), then alright. Maybe this isn't so bad after all...

Also, a total aside, but this just happened, and I wanted to share. In my math class we are learning about Greater Than, Less Than and Equal To (<, >, =). One of my students asked me what age I would want to be greater than and what age I would want to be less than. What a fun question! My answer was that I would like to be greater than seventeen, but less than forty. Almost all of my students said that they would want to be greater than seventeen. One of my students raised his hand and said, "How come everyone wants to be seventeen? Is it because seventeen year olds can jump really high or something?" Yup. Or something.

In Case You Missed Them

Someone recently said to me that my blog is not really about my students anymore, but that it is often about me getting drunk. Well, what can I say? Priorities, priorities.

But, in case you missed them...here are some highlights from this past week in the Third Grade...

In math class, we are studying estimation. I pulled out all the stops on this one, bringing in jars of jelly beans, m & m's and skittles. My students and I had a good time trying to guess how many of those little suckers fit into those jars. (And, then we had an even better time afterwards eating the math manipulatives).

The number of individual objects, strategically placed by me, were all under 200. Therefore the counting of these items outloud together, was a relatively painless process. That is until, Miles, (one of my students) asked if we could estimate, and then count all of the legos in the classroom. Oy. The legos are kept in a GIANT blue tub, and there had to be at least 1,000 of them in there. As a teacher, I know that when your students have an interest in something, you are supposed to capitalize on it, but I didn't know if I had all that counting out loud in my already hoarse voice in me. Soon, desperate cries of "Oh, please can we count the legos, Please," were heard around the room. How could I say no to this vested interest in estimation? And so, with a heavy heart, I trudged over to where the legos are kept, pulled out the box, and began to count each individual lego, piece by piece with my students. Two math periods, and 2, 456 legos later, we found our answer. And, I know mine. Fuck what my students are interested in.

One of my most adorable students is a small Asian girl (with a super-Irish last name) named Annie. Annie has bangs that cut straight across her forehead, adorable little glasses, and a smile so contagious, I can't not smile when I'm talking to her. (She is just that freaking cute). Annie has an infectious personality. Though, she is a new student this year, she is the friendliest, most outgoing child I have ever met in my life. Each day Annie arrives to school wearing a striped t-shirt, a solid color skirt, (usually pink), and some sort of print on her leggings. (Animals, flowers, polka dots). On her feet, she wears colorful mis-matched socks with sandals. Today, during read aloud, Annie curled up in my lap while I read. After about five minutes of reading, I looked down at her, and Annie was fast asleep. It was precious. I let her sleep until I finished reading. And, wouldn't you know, when Annie woke up, and took her head out of my lap; there it was. A tiny little puddle of drool on my skirt.

Dismissal at the end of the day is done from our individual classrooms. During dismissal time, kids have a free choice time. They are able to draw, read, play with games etc. This is also a time that my students ask me to play music from my computer. Here are this week's latest requests: Taio Cruise-Dynamite, Eminem-Lose Yourself. (2002, Holla!) Lady Gaga-Pokerface, Katy Perry-Teenage Dream (my personal fave these days), and as always the song that is popular every year in my classroom, We Will Rock You.

And, lastly...a story not about one of my students, but about me, and my butt. You see, I have a pair of boxers that I love to sleep in. They are soft, and comfy, and I have had them forever. The one problem is, somehow what started as a little hole in the butt of my boxers, has turned into a giant window, where you can see my entire ass. (Picture ass-less chaps, but in boxer form). Despite the giant hole, I continue to wear them when I'm alone in my apartment. Washing the dishes in my kitchen one night, my roommate had walked in the door from work. With my back to her, (forgetting that I was wearing my faux-ass-less chaps), I heard laughter coming from her. Bonk looked at me, and simply said, "Fisher. You're disgusting." Oh, if only I had a dollar for every time I heard that...