Jury Dutes: How I Fulfilled My Civic Duty

I had managed to avoid my civic duty for the last four years by making the excuse that I was in school, or out of the country, but as soon as I got back, I received my jury summons. I know that my mom always gets out of jury duty because she pretends she "can't to speak the English very well". People have also told me that I can get kicked out of the jury pool by expressing incredibly extremist beliefs. I couldn't do either of these things so I was pretty certain I was doomed for sure.  My day went a little something like this:

12:30 pm
I was about to leave the house wearing a plaid shirt, some shorts and a pair of flip flops, and I walk out of my room, and my mom's like "You can't wear that. You have to wear pants. And shoes." I was thinking like...man...adulthood is hard. I tried to think back to the last time I had to wear shoes. Clubbing?

1:00 pm
Arrive at the court-house and go through security. I follow some people up to the second floor and there's this huge waiting room full of people. I check in and the lady in the window asks me who I work for. This totally throws me and I give her this goofy look and say "...nobody..."
I find one of the empty seats and sit down next to this nurse lady who keeps sighing. I felt kinda bad cuz she actually had somewhere to be. The fact that everyone else in the room was acting so serious made me want to giggle, but I knew it'd be like one of those instances where if I started giggling, I wouldn't be able to stop so I'd end up creating this huge awkward scene.

1:15 pm
A boring instructional video came on, and all these jurors started talking about how serving on the jury changed their lives and they came to respect the system and what not. An overwhelming wave of 170 tiredness washes over me and my eyes start feeling super heavy. The room feels so comfortably warm...I wonder if "I might fall asleep during the trial" or "I have a really short attention span" is a good enough excuse. Yeah, I'm a terrible citizen...

1:30 pm
We were informed of the location of the bathrooms, and a little room where there were snack machines and free cups of water, but we could only eat/drink in the boundary of that room. I walked in and there was this woman with such an angry look on her face that my heart seized for a moment and I had to look away immediately. I had to gather up the courage to look her in the eye and she glared at me. After that I was too scared and avoided looking back in her direction. In the course of my time in the little snack room, I had 1 bag of Cheez-its, 1 bag of Funyuns, 1 bag of Sour Cream Ruffles and 2 cups of water.

2:37 pm
A judge came out and made an announcement that a lot of times the defendents don't actually think that thier case is going to trial so they put off taking the plea bargain. In this particular case, the defendent who was on trial decided to plead guilty, and was sentenced to 30 years. Which meant that this case no longer needed to go to trial, (and it was going to be a week long trial) that we were free to go, and would not be called upon again for 12 months. Everyone started cheering and getting up...I think I was about 5th in line...when the lady at the window basically said "PSYCH! There are two other trials that need jurors so you are not free to go." And then the judge was like "Ooops, I was told you was all mine...MAH BAD." I wonder if reality is actually a lot less funny than the way I imagine it...

4:15 pm
I'm sitting out in the waiting room spacing out and watching Paula Deen. A bunch of people have made jury duty friends and are chatting it up and hanging out on the sofas or outside in the hall. I'm mesmerized by the sour cream muffins...Suddenly, one of the ladies behind the window comes out and turns off the TV and someone in the back yells "TORTURE!!". There's an announcement that some of us are free to go, and they start to annouce the names. They get to about the S's and then say that everyone is free to go and we're free for the next 12 months! Hoooray!

And so concludes my first post-grad interaction with adulthood.
<G

Operation: Joker Rims

After purchasing the whip last week, I couldn't wait to start all the projects and fix-ups.  I began with the rims.  The previous owner...decided to put red rims on the hatch.  After rescuing her, I decided to embark on said project.  Little did I know, that painting simply didn't require spray painting the rims while they were still on the car.  Oh, simple minded Crystal.

I woke up at the crack of dawn because I was so excited, 5am actually.  My homeboy and I began by jacking up the car and removing the lugnuts, and then removing the tires from the car.  Tires are actually pretty heavy.  In essence, the process involves giving the tires a good wash down, sanding the parts to be spraypainted, priming, shielding, taping what I don't want to be spraypainted, clear-coating, rotating the tires and then finally putting the tires back on.  This sounds like a quick process, however, from 5am to 10pm, I still wasn't done.  I still have yet to clear-coat the rims, but that'll be saved for another day after my legs and back have healed.  I guess the weight-lifting techniques I learned from the gym came in handy...because what I did all day was deadlifts and squats picking up and moving the tires from one place to another.  Oh fun.  It's been about 3 days, and I am still sore.  There are also oil/grease stains that I can't quite get off my legs.  Oh well, I don't mind the strange stares.
 

 Look how clean the inside of the rim SHOULD be. The one on the right took half an hour to scrub out.

 Laying the clean tires out to dry.  Waiting time takes time!

 Using 3x5 index cards to shield the tire so they don't receive extra color.


Will post pics of the rims when the project is done, hopefully in about a week.

Crystal

Change of Scene

My current state of mind is in some beach town, a suburb of the larger Los Angeles metropolitan area where the beach is a short bike ride away. And, get this, beach cruisers are legitimately used here. There isn't some naive tiny Asian girl dreaming of a fantastic sequence of events that can happen while on her buttercup yellow bike...in the bay area hills. No, everyone who owns a beach cruiser not only uses it for the retro aesthetics, it fits the terrain of the land. This whole imagery of a Colbie Caillat music video totally has something to do with real life--or at least my version of it anyway.

Within the last three days I have been in Southern California, it has rained, become incredibly humid, and changed into an evening that required a few drinks at the bar so you can bear the sudden breeze from the ocean. Maybe this doesn't apply to all of the LA area (excuse: don't know I don't live here), but the ocean-side views and warm breeze make me want to slip into shorts and a floppy hat, play a Jason Mraz number on my banjo, and bike my beach cruiser down to the water. Keep in mind, this is all happening simultaneously and I will definitely be on some high. "Natural" happiness.

All of a sudden, while envisioning this scene as I bit into my Spinkles' red velvet cupcake that my dear friend bought to greet me, I realized I actually thought of living somewhere else other than the bay. Sure, I thought how New York would be, but all that place is is a romanticized version of Annie, Home Alone, and 30 Rock. Tina Fey and I would do musical numbers and play tricks on goofy criminals, while eating cupcakes from Magnolia's. Cupcakes are always a huge part of my fantasies. Anyway, with that being besides the point, the warm weather of SoCal didn't seem so bad in relation to the dreary bay, which I adore with every fiber of my being. See I think rain is good. For emo-ing out. And stalking. And definitely singing. Also, the rain allows for a type of self-assessment: am I an idiot for wearing flip-flops today? It teaches you lessons in bettering yourself. Be the best that you can be! There can only be one you! Love yourself for you are loved! HUG.

Stupid tangents. Continue less inane train of thought: Thinking of how SoCal could potentially be a home to my 18 chinchillas and myself, I had to think in terms of an adu--a rational adult. Who makes money at a job. And uses that money to pay bills. And buys big ticket items, like a car to commute to the city. Where these jobs are located. They all began to click in my head. The synapses are firing; message comprehend!

My goodness. If the nightlife were something to be envied, LEAVE ME HERE. So, Friday night, we attended a party in Hollywood at the House of Blues. Okay, first clubbing experience in that area should not include a crowd that was at least 18. I should have learned my lesson when Crystal, Garkay, and I went to Blake's (a bar/restaurant type place in Berkeley) when they had some form of college night. Drinks were being spilled left and right (some ended on us), dance floor was far too packed, and little boys were far too rowdy and grabby.

Same DEAL that night in Hollywood. No no, it was a lot more crowded, smelly, and sketchy. After creeping down a hill and walking 2 blocks with my 5" pumps, I was ready to have fun. Go inside, there is absolutely no room. You were practically dancing with everyone since everybody was touching. Even people who squeezed pass managed to cop a feel intentionally...I think. You know what I did? The safe thing. Danced against a column with my girls on either side. Safest bet in the house (keep this in mind) especially when underaged kids pull out a bottle of Jack, swig it for swag, and offer it to you. I'm really into my column at this time and don't notice it. The column had this vintage wallpaper that was ripped off at certain sections and I don't know if its intentional or from age but aesthetically it worked for the venue. Sadly, my musings were interrupted when more kids were trying to break into our circle, offering their hands and tiny man arms for dancing support. But but my column is so great! No offense, I just love structural feats and MY GOODNESS is this REAL OAK? 

A hand reaches into the group and is offered to the friend on my left. Mercedes, she replies using the alias she had just come up with 10 minutes prior after we escaped the mosh pit of hell. OH NO, I'm next in line. Oh, I say. Bob. He moves in closer to see if he heard correctly, What? I simply repeatedd, Bob. Needless to say and fortunately, boys don't really want to dance or grope girls named Bob. We were finally left to our devices. 

Okay, I shouldn't use that night to base my entire 21+ LA experience off of--especially with Disneyland the next night to cancel out the sticky horror of rubbing against hundreds of other strangers. I should give moving down south another chance. However, I just realized, if it is just based on my proximity to Disneyland, I might not be mature enough anyway to figure all of this out. I need more time.

<3 Malee Bob-Loblaw 

My New Whip

Hello fellow aliens and humans alike, Crystal here, to engage you in the mediocrities of my life.  Ahh, the time has come when we all must leave the coop.  But in this case, I didn't leave the coop, I just added a member into the family.  And when I say member, I mean, new whip!  She's a beaut'! However, the reason of this post is not to brag about how unique this vehicular device is, but rather--to shout to the heavens how frustrated and crazy I was today.

Ye whip, thoust manual.  (I learned to drive stick 2 days ago at 11pm, go figure).  So when I tried to drive my chariot up the driveway, I stalled. I cursed and waved my arms frantically.  I started the vehicle again, and once more tried to maneuver up the steep driveway.  STALLED again.  I restarted and stalled my engine so many times, I started to smell something burning.  I then decided I would wash my car in it's current position...halfway in my driveway and halfway out the street.  I walked out of the car and sadly looked at my strange parking job.  Who in their right mind would wash their car when it was half out of the street?  I then proceeded to throw a small fit.  I jumped up and down in circles and yelled "WHY ME?!"  The neighborhood squirrel just rolled its eyes at me.  I then gathered my car washing materials (sponge, bucket and dish soap) and lifted the hose ready to pre-rinse my vehicle.  At this moment, my mom called me and asked if I could drive her to the BART the next morning.  I then proceeded to tell her, how can I drive her?...when I couldn't even drive up our own driveway.  I heard her shake her head and cackle as I hung up the phone.  Then, something within my heart sparked--a burning desire to accomplish this seed of frustration and doubt.  I jumped back in my vehicle, pressed on the clutch, rev'd the engine and released the e-brake! I drove perfectly into my driveway, with the front wheel just millimeters away from the garden hose! just kidding.  I stalled 3 more times, but I finally got up the driveway, running over my sponge.  I had to reverse, relocate the sponge and try it again.  Four hours later, I washed, vacuumed and clorox-wiped every inch of that car imaginable.  I still need to polish the spare though.  And the final result, is my whip.  I'm in the process of giving her a name.  I want something fierce and womanly.  I mean, what kind of girl drives such a beast?

<3C

The Beginning of Many Ends

What, you might ask, is a "trendy pimp sandwich"? If anyone knows, please tell us. The name and purpose of this blog is one of the many brain children a group of 20-something year old girls, by the name of Garkay, Crystal, and Malee, have dreamt up one night while musing our very own existences. No, it was not in that horrible, nostalgic way that dwell too long on the past. Nor was it some deep, provoking philosophical debate on how or why we are put on this earth. It was more of a, Man, the life skills we've gained through college (which ironically lie outside the academic realm) are ACE. Did you delete that embarrassing photo of me?

This only brings to light the activities we've engaged in, which do include a whole lot of dancing, eating, singing, merry drinking, and the occasional--okay, routine awkward encounters with strangers. Well, come to think of it, eating and dancing can evoke some awkward moments such as a) an upset stomach b) choking on food and inevitably c) dying. I'm talking about the latter half. The merry drinking. At the clubs.

According to the top entry at Urban Dictionary, clubbing is:

Okay, most of it is true but I refuse to believe that cows are moronic. Now sheep, sheep are stupid. Yes, I tried to Google for evidence, so to each his/her own. So, clubbing? What does one do at a club? One should drink (for the girls and their heels), one should definitely dance, and one should always have a hand signal--a gesture recognizable by your group of friends in case of a creeper situation. Some people might surmise and interject, If you're drinking and dancing at some shady club, aren't you asking for it? What is it, actually? I hope this is not it. Nor is it this. Due to the setting and scantily dressed crowds that usually frequent these nighttime events, it is not surprising the connotation that comes with "clubbing". 

What other sage advice and description does Urban Dictionary provide? Another definition states that it is a form of activity that is done to seals--to "club" a seal on the head. Also, tags associated with clubbing include, vodka, crunk, hot, slut, bitch, money, fashion, etc. However, people tend to overlook the most important reason to go clubbing as illustrated in the red highlighted portion of this screencap:

 

We just want our sandwiches damn it. As with life, have fun, don't take it too seriously, and enjoy the awkward stories we have to tell you. 

<3 M