jury duty and tweakers

I was summoned for jury duty last summer. I finally had to do it this month. In Yamhill County the service commitment is for a month. I have to check in four times a week to see if my juror number is up. 78. It was. So I rescheduled all of my meetings. I am a very busy woman, you know. They called numbers one through ninety. I'd guess about fifty of us showed up. Of that 50, the first 18 were seated for voir dire. As a Grisham fan, I was thrilled at the opportunity to be in the room for this part. It was an all white jury for a black defendant. A black man accused of impersonating a police officer. In Yamhill County. Now, if you know my lilywhite neighborhood, you'd know, first, that a black officer would stand out like a sore thumb. It would be a fool's errand to try. So we have a fool at best. Guilty? I don't know. Maybe it was Halloween. Anyhow, I didn't get to the box. The judge empaneled his twelve from that group of eighteen. But there is hope yet! I still have to call in for the remainder of March. That was Thursday. Friday morning I woke up to find my work laptop had been stolen out of my(unlocked) car. Feckin' tweakers. It is a strange feeling to be robbed. I did the same thing when my whole truck was stolen several -- many -- years ago. I kept looking for it. As though I would somehow misplace a whole truck. Friday morning I kept opening each area of the vehicle, certain it must be there and I just missed it. It wasn't. I called work to see if it was in my office, if I'd forgotten it entirely. Nope. I finally gave in and called the Yamhill police. Andy and Barney. They told me the whole neighborhood had been hit. The thing is, there were four years of thinking on that machine. Four years of my brain. Was a time when I printed everything anyway -- didn't trust the magic of the computer to keep forever safe the nuggets that occasionally find their way to my fingers. Lots of work. I am crushed. Which I just now typed as cursed. Maybe.

tracy's last birthday

I am so sad. I am so so sad that I am losing my friend and yet, and yet, and yet, it was and still seems to be, a tough relationship for me. Tracy brought me to my first AA meeting, thus, saved my life. Nothing short of that. She carried a clear message and embodied that phrase, "Whenever anyone, anywhere, reaches out, I want the hand of AA always to be there." Tracy, though, across our 35 years, has been one of those female friends whose suns rise and set on the attentions of men. The remaining space, head and heart, for female relationships, is carried by those of us on the other end. I used to feel resentful that I had to carry the friendship alone. I got over it a long time ago, but as her diagnosis has landed and time is short, it surprises me that she still, in the face of death, is more concerned that her most recent lover dumped her. Ah well. I have tried, twice now, to be in her presence and get the shit said that I have a need to say. I want to thank her for saving this life, for showing me the way, for allowing me to stand on her shoulders. It seems, though, that I will not get to say these things unless it is in a letter. And maybe that is how it should be. At the same time as we are losing Tracy, Cooky is losing her shit. Last night was Tracy's last birthday party. It was a pretty big shindig at the Mark, the old hotel where I used to be a motel maid. My great claim to fame is that I made a bed, stood up too fast after making it, and nearly fell backward out the 9th floor window of the honeymoon suite. Anyway, Cooky is, naturally, devastated, and it seems to be exacerbating an advancing dementia. She is falling apart. So, for me and for Kurt, the party wasn't happy. It was hard. Tracy had the spotlight, that thing she most craves, and good for her. I am delighted that she takes such evident joy in a big party. Once again, there were a thousand people I knew but didn't know, and no opportunity for intimacy. I saw many people I love, and chatted and drank lemonade and there wasn't enough food to go around. Shona had to make an announcement. I did get a cream-puff. I eventually saw an old friend, of both Kurt and me. As we caught up, I left Kurt to chat with her. He began the story of Nicole, the one that rips his heart apart, the one in which I play the evil stepmother. "I have to choose between my wife and my daughter." That little bit of fiction finally came clear for me. I have said, and have no regret for saying, that I can no longer live with Nicole. It stresses me out to the point of illness.