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My Date with Sunshine
Last Friday my husband asked me what I wanted to do for Valentine’s Day. I told him that I honestly not giventhe matter any thought. My peculiarly macho temperment is perplexed by sentimentality (and other such slop). My husband learned this the first (and only time) he brought me flowers. I tried to be gracious —and failed miserably. I handled that bunch of flowers the same way I handled the garter my mother sent me before we got married: “Um, thanks.” (READ: What the fuck am I going to do with THIS?!?). My husband ended up putting them in a vase and finding a place where the cats couldn’t eat them.
It was not my intent to come off as an asshole (though I did), I am simply not hard-wired to appreciate such things. Give me an old mug shot, clock components, power tools or some weird (and preferably vulgar) piece of garbage found on the street and my eyes will light up with glee. Give me flowers and my mind goes 404 Not Found. I felt (and still feel) pretty bad about this.
Karma works in strange ways. I learned this the following Saturday when I checked the mail. My lack of planning has been rectified courtesy of the Kings County Judicial System. I have a date this Valentine’s Day. 10:00 a.m. at 320 Jay Street, 2nd floor. As a juror. Lucky me.
Yes, I know it is my civic responsibility— and I suppose I don’t have anything better to do. According to the brief questionnaire on the back of my summons anyway, which wants to know my occupation, employer, “regular days off”, etc. I have yet to come up with answers to any of these questions that won’t get me jailed/fined for contempt. (Any suggestions regading this matter would be greatly appreciated.)
I busted a gut when I noticed this summons was signed by one “Nancy J. Sunshine”, the County Clerk. This was the crowning turd. Whoever generates these notifications, unless he/she is totally bereft of ANY sense of irony (which is entirely possible) probably laughs their collective asses off at this. I know I would if I were in their shoes.
Amusingly enough, I knew a girl named “Sunshine” in grade school; she was anything but. A better name for her would have been “Overcast with freezing drizzle”. Suffice it to say that she was not a very happy person. I blame her (ex-hippie) parents for this. (BTW: I hate hippies.) That said, I hope I get to see “Ms. Sunshine” during my ramblings in the Kings County Courthouse. I envision her as either a dour and humorless office frau or a burned out ex-hippie. Maybe both.
As far as I’m concerned we have a date— and I am not the least bit happy about having to call her the night before to confirm it. If Ms. Sunshine wants to play the field that’s her prerogative, but don’t expect me to go along with it. Asking me questions about my employment status or demanding that I wear proper attire only fuels my ire: I got enough of that crap when I dated. The fine bachelors of this city (in all their resplendent “Peter Pan” glory) are what moved me to import my (now) husband from out-of-state.
Then again, if juror selection is anything like the dating scene I have little to worry about. If personal experience repeats itself, I will be quickly and resoundingly rejected. Probably for being an over-educated weirdo who won’t put out.
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Destiny Crider
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