“You know why I’m gonna get picked? Because I have kind eyes.” This, I tell the wife, making jokes in order to steer my brain from the mountain of dread that is quickly forming. After more than twenty years without a letter, in my hands is a first-ever juror summons.

“Just don’t talk” she counseled. “I know it isn’t in your nature to be quiet, but that is your best shot at an early dismissal.” 

She had a reason to chime in. If I was plucked, my wife would have to juggle her demanding job with all the other stuff her stay-at-home husband was supposed to be covering. It was not fun blocking off that initial week, thinking “it could be this much, only half a day, or we could end up going full OJ.” 

I’ll go ahead and tell you what specific day and time works for everyone. None of them. None of the times work.

It comes as no surprise that our neighborhood association board, a volunteer group of parents who have enough going on already, struggles to meet in person. 

Because someone has to do it, we make landscaping, communication, and social decisions largely by proxy and on the backs of whoever has the time slash motivation. Maintaining the status quo has historically been good enough. Nobody is asking for another expense or commitment. 

“Is he always like that?”

The contractor turns to my wife inquisitively, with a slight betrayal of annoyance. We are in our kickoff meeting and he’s getting a sense of the kind of person that he’ll be dealing with for the next five months, that’s if all goes to plan.

In one continuous motion, I had scooped an item from our counter, placed it in the trash, noticed the trash was full, lifted the bag out, and exited the house with it over my shoulder. Meanwhile, the two other adults were still carrying on. 

“Yes. He is always like that,” sighed the wife…