Rock on Tom Jones

Today kind of rocked.

I wouldn't normally say that jury duty is awesome, but it was today. I came prepared. Even the security guard laughed at me because it took two trips to get all my stuff through the x-ray machine. I told her, if nothing else, I was efficient. Staking our a chair next to a credenza so I could splay my crap, I was able to grade, scale, score, norm, and record a whole set of second grade IQ tests (which does seem oxymoronical). Following that I created spreadsheets of all my students for the next 4 weeks for accurate record keeping. Two hours later, I was ready to dig into Jen Lancaster and try not to snort in the jury room.

We we dismissed at lunch without providing any service besides getting a mo'fo' of a backache from a crappy plastic chair.

Noon and no plans to speak of? No baby? No husband? Freakin' party!

My windshield has a crack, so i decided to take care of that. But the guy is a friend of my Dad's and I didn't want to embarrass him, so I headed to the U-Do-It car wash. I run it through, only to remember I need to get my door fixed because it leaks water when it rains or in car washes. Like cars are supposed to be waterproof anyway.

I can't help but think I am the nerdiest girl at the car wash in the ghetto. While I'm going through the drive, I pull out my Windex and paper towels, climb around the car and clean all the interior windows. It is a sight to see, I'm sure. Then I pull around to the vacuums and the other two vehicles in bays have their doors open with music blasting gangsta rap. I'm not sure whether this kind sharing was intended to scare me or make me think, "Wow, he must have huge testicles to listen to that kind of music."

The culture of opening windows to blast your music is an odd one to me. I don't get it. One - I don't like loud music. Two - I don't expect others to like the music I listen to, at least at the exact same time as me. Whether it is your apartment, your car in front of your house, at a stop light, or at a car wash, turn that shit down!

With my sense of irony intact, I decide that I too have the right to play my funky music white girl. I stop vacuuming Cheerios and goldfish out of the back seat long enough to scroll through my iPod and crank my Ford factory stereo. What might my friendly new car wash neighbors like to enjoy with me? I pick the whitest music I can find that isn't country (that is too easy). Hello Tom Jones! He would like to ask you what is new, Pussycat.

Of course, the music alone isn't enough. Please imagine me with my mini-SUV with clearance rack diapers spilling out, my own bottle of Windex, in a pair of mid-thigh length khaki shorts belting along while I clean, "WHOOOOOA, WHOOOOA, WHOOOOA....Pussy cat, pussy cat, I love YOU! Yes, I do! Wooopppeee Doooooo!"

Word to your mother.