This jury duty thing is rough. I mean, I got there at 9, after which we were all treated to a loving-hands-at-home video about How It All Works (Stephen Spielberg has nothing to worry about, believe me), we all turned in our little address verification sheets, and then were dismissed at 10:30. Tomorrow the courthouse is closed for some sort of training session, and if my panel isn’t called (which I can check online tomorrow evening), I may not have to go in on Friday. The Orientation Lady said jurors actually serve about 10 hours over the ten-day period.
So far, I’m liking this a lot.
Autumn is definitely upon us here in Nuevo Mexico. The sky is a brilliant blue, pumpkins adorn doorsteps, there’s a dusting of frost on rooftops in the morning, and — in the why-life-is-worth-living department — the ash trees have all gone a bright lemon yellow, with the occasional renegade red maple to keep things interesting. I suppose I’ll get serious about decorating this weekend, if for no other reason than I’m getting tired of looking at four-foot wide bats and spiders in my office. #5 is having his school Halloween party next Wednesday, as it happens, so we have to address the costume issue, anyway. He says he wants to be a zombie, but he got this glow-in-the-dark skull mask and wants a weapon of some sort. Should be interesting. At least I don’t have to do makeup this year. Just plop the mask on the kid (as well as the as-yet-to-be-determined cosh-tyume, as Mr. Rogers used to say) and head out the door.
Speaking of #5. . .all the fifth graders went to hear the NM Symphony Orchestra yesterday, so he got to wear his shirt and tie. Came downstairs (at 8 a.m.) and announced he “needed” cologne. And a pocket handkerchief.
No Queer Eyes needed in this house, thank you. We’re good.
And speaking of apparel in general. . .so we’re standing in line in Wal-Mart yesterday (no, this is not the only place we shop, but we do find ourselves there more than is probably good for us), and the husband mutters, “You’ve got to see what the woman in the next aisle is holding.”
I look. It’s a poncho. A fuzzy poncho. With lots of dangly things. In murky green. My first thought is how badly it’s gonna get caught in the blond beehive when she goes to put it on.
“She’s going to look like she’s covered in algae,” the husband says.
“Then again,” I say, “maybe it’s her Halloween cosh-tyume and she’s going as Swamp Thing.” Which she’s going to look like anyway with all the little bits of murky green fluff caught in her hair.
The husband considers this as we check out. I can tell this is really bugging him, however (it’s just one of those things, what can I tell you?), because when we’re back in the car, he says, “It’s bad enough that I can’t figure out why anyone would wear such a thing, but why would anyone make something like that to begin with?”
Since the woman was about to buy it (and probably not because she was going as Swamp Thing for Halloween), I thought the answer was pretty obvious. But, smart woman that I am, I just said, “Yeah, you gotta wonder,” and let it go. 
I, however, purchased a tres chic (for Wal-Mart) belted sweater coat that looks like something right out of Remains of the Day. Because I’d much rather channel Emma Thompson than Swamp Thing, any day.
