Oh yeah: jury duty. Except now I live in a much teensier county, and they don’t give jurors anything like a questionnaire to fill out and send back, so I can’t offer my trademark, “I have a Ph.D. in political theory and I double-dog dare you to call me” and save myself a trip. I reckon I’ll just show up and promptly get tossed out on my over-educated butt as usual. At least the drive to Georgetown and back is pretty, and it’s entirely possible to park there.
For those of you just joining us, I get called for jury duty ALL THE FRICKIN’ TIME, and despite the fact that I have always wanted to serve on a jury, they never, ever, ever pick me as soon as they learn my terrible secret. So basically, it just wastes my time and makes me even more cynical about the juridical system.
In other news, I got married again last month. Yeah, I know. My single life: blink and you’ll miss it. It was a really cool Buddhist ceremony performed by a former rockstar student of mine (although technically, he’s really more of a folk/bluegrass/Celtic star). I wore purple, because really, who am I kidding? It was also really fun. I can certainly provide more details on that if you’re interested, dear reader.
One of the many things we did to save money was to buy all the booze for the bar. It’s probably going to take us until our first anniversary or longer to get through the leftovers. Said leftovers — including a few cases of wine — are stashed in the garage, which is at the lowest point of the hill-perched house. This of course has led me to refer to the garage as “the wine cellar.” It’s so much classier than “booze-infested garage.”