The Fake Shall Inherit the Earth (alternate title: Jodi Pliszka is a charlatan and other stories)

 I'm generally pretty selective when it comes to connecting with other people on social media. I have about 400 Facebook friends (and shrinking), 170 or so Instagram followers (and holding), and I don't do Twitter. The exception is LinkedIn. In my own mind, I am a LinkedIn whore. I hate using that term, but this is how my brain has labeled it, and it's an inside joke with myself (and now anyone reading this blog), so as my brain states it, let it be known. I also share the least of myself on LinkedIn. There is a photo and the laundry list of jobs I've had and companies I've worked for, the college I attended (more on that later), and a couple of volunteer positions. In the work world, you're encouraged to be extraverted, to connect, to *network* as far and wide as possible. It's expected. "Get comfortable being uncomfortable," and all that. So, along those lines, the more connections you make, even virtual ones, with people you may never meet in real life, the better. Right? Right.

I have over a thousand connections on LinkedIn (and growing, admittedly at a very slow pace). It's to the point that my profile says "500+ connections" instead of getting specific. Even when I, the account holder, check that list of connections, the description at the top says "About 1,000 results." A thousand-ish. This is not me bragging, but illustrating how decidedly unpicky I am when it comes to connecting on LinkedIn. I don't post there, I mostly lurk, and if you and I have one connection in common, I will most likely accept your request to connect. It's just good business, right? Right.

What surprises me is how unprofessional certain posts are on LinkedIn. I don't want to hear about political opinions, or birthdays, or memes. That's Facebook territory. Holidays are a mixed bag. Veterans Day is a big one. I'm a veteran and many of my connections are as well. It's not something to be taken lightly. I will always value the experiences I gained during my service. It opened my eyes to a life I would not have known in different circumstances. That said, I didn't give all that much. There will always be a ranking among veterans: those who deployed in peacetime, those who served in war, those bearing physical, mental or psychological scars from their service, and among all of us, we personally know those who sacrificed their lives. There is always a feeling that you could have given more, done more - that someone else had done the most. Maybe it is survivor's guilt, or being hard on yourself in the way military life always asks for more of you, to the point that you don't feel you've ever given enough. So when I saw one of my connections post a photo in celebration of Veterans Day, it raised my eyebrows.

Aside from the ridiculousness of this message and its complete irrelevance to veterans, I realized, I don't know this person. I have plenty of LinkedIn connections that fall into that "I don't actually know them" category, but what I felt inside was, I don't know this person and I don't think I want to know this person. She and I had several connections in common and I'm fairly certain she sent me the request to connect. Given my very lax (nonexistent) vetting process, and my lack of having this individual on my radar, I decided to look deeper. 

Ignoring the idiocy of Jodi Pliska, Ph.D's post (from the message that a bad attitude is one's only disability, to using  a dog in its wheelchair as some kind of surrogate veteran (?!), and finally to "double TAPPING an image to show vets some love, which does what, exactly?) I noticed something incredibly fishy in her message. I had to ask myself if it was worth making a comment. Did I really want to be the one pissing in the post with little dogs (with one in a wheelchair, no less!)? Did I really want to be *that* person?

After finding myself unable to just ignore it and keep scrolling, as we are so often advised to do, I decided that, yes, I did want to be that person. I needed to say something.

       

That was it. I left my thoughts there, in as neutral a way as I could muster. No feelings, no insults, no fuss, no muss. Just the facts, and in fact, a very easily Google-able fact at that (yes, I Googled, which is ridiculous, because if by some miracle after 218 years of existence, West Point suddenly did offer a Master's program, I would have known!). 

Inside, upset was brewing, on multiple fronts. 

First, why would someone lie about something so obviously disproven? I went to her profile (okay, stalked) to see how thoroughly she perpetuated this mythical West Point Master's degree.

At the top level, it looked like this:

Given this information, one would have the impression that she attended the United States Military Academy at West Point. It says it right there. I knew that was incorrect, but I also suspected she was bending the truth by being deliberately misleading.

If you click on the education portion while looking at someone's profile on LinkedIn, you will get another screen with more detailed information (I did not know about this feature until I had the opportunity to use it). This is where you can read the fine print:

Here, things come into focus. Ignoring the other two schools listed, at the bottom of the description, it says "WEST POINT through LIU."

What does that mean, you ask?  "LIU" is Long Island University, which has campuses around New York, and the school does in fact use some of the classroom space at West Point. And, there were uniformed students who attended, because they needed to earn a Master's degree to prepare for the positions they would hold at West Point, and it's very convenient to attend those classes when you are already stationed there. So, you could say you attended classes at West Point because you were physically sitting there, in a classroom, at West Point. Her Veterans Day post could be viewed as being true if you cock your head and close an eye, but it is an extremely stretched out truth. 

The irony is that she's lying about having earned a degree from a place known for placing a high importance on honor. "Honor" is at the center of our school motto. We have an Honor Code, which can result in a perfectly stellar student being removed from the academy for lying, cheating or stealing. A large part of the honor investigations deal with determining whether a cadet conducted him or herself with the intent to deceive, to gain an unfair advantage. Yes, there are people who lie on their resumes, and it's done with the intent to deceive, to gain an unfair advantage over others. This is an expanded way of doing that, but to lie about attending a school that prides itself on producing graduates of high integrity, seems especially egregious. In doing so, she is slapping the face of some of the veterans she's trying to honor in her (admittedly lame) post.

These were not my initial thoughts. I had to stew over it. By the next day I was angry for so many reasons. I am a West Point graduate. I can say that without hesitation, without an asterisk, without anyone clicking through my profile to see that I went to classes there but my degree is actually from an entirely different school. I went there, and it was not easy for me. I went there and struggled, all four years, to earn my Bachelor's degree. I went there, I wore the uniform, and graduated, and then served in the Army, as graduates are expected to do. I went there, and still have the occasional dream that I am at the bottom of the second semester, my senior year, and I have skipped an entire class. It's the dream of those suffering from impostor syndrome. The dream of those who, despite their achievements, and despite what they have to offer the world, feel it still somehow isn't enough. Then you have an actual impostor, staring you right in the face (or, you know, from their profile photo on LinkedIn), boldly staking claim to something they had not done the work to earn. It's stolen valor, academic edition.

That is not to say a Master's degree is not hard work. Or that I'm looking down my nose at anyone who attended Long Island University. I'm saying, claim your school, claim it proudly, and tell the truth. With a few alterations, she could have edited her post to reflect the whole truth. More and more, I think of the Cadet Prayer, which, like so many things, has gained personal significance to me as I've grown older. I don't know the entire prayer by heart, but one line with forever stick with me: "Make us to choose the harder right instead of the easier wrong, and never to be content with a half truth when the whole can be won."

The following day I commiserated with friends (women who had graduated with me from West Point). I peeked under the rock for her post, and noticed that my comment had been deleted. How convenient, I thought. And those were my kid gloves. I posted again. I don't need to look to know that it's gone the way of my first comment. I was a little less gracious and a little more angry (and a lot more verbose).

My disappointment in the world seeps through. It seems that those who are the loudest, or the most proficient at promoting their "brand" are the ones who get ahead. Even if you scrape the most basic layer of this person's claimed credentials, the facade crumbles. But how many are doing that? How many people is she "life coaching" to success when the image she shows people to see is false? Is authenticity and integrity part of this coaching? I sure hope not. 

The claim that she attended West Point was not the only bold faced lie (shocking, I know!). Witnesses, for exhibit B, I'd like you to look at the Ph.D credentials - in the detailed section, she states "PhD minus dissertation." *Insert record scratch here* Isn't completing the dissertation the entire point of the Ph.D? (Answer: yes.) One of the friends I commiserated with is in a Ph.D program now. When she saw this, she added a comment of her own, which most likely was also deleted. 

Is this the world we want? If you give the illusion of being the thing, is that every bit as valid as doing the work it takes to become the thing? If you don't like when someone calls you out, you can tidy away their response like it never happened (and hope that not too many people saw). What the Cadet Prayer misses, is that the wrong that initially appeared to be the easier option, becomes hard. "Wrong is hard, too" a friend of mine told me, and it stuck.  When that person who hired you decides to verify your claims and discovers you are not who you say you are, when you have to jog your memory for which version of the story you told someone, when you have to look at yourself and know that what you are showing the world does not match what is happening inside of you, the lie becomes exponentially harder than the truth. 

No, the truth is not always shiny, or cool, or easy, but it is always right.

Is this thing on? (AKA InfoDump 2013)

I haven’t been blogging because I don’t know where to start.  I’m going to start, but I may not know where to end.  Here goes.

Running.  If you would have told me I would be running at 38 when I was a young, fit 23 year old, I would have laughed in your face.  But I am.  I know it's an "in" thing to do.  It's so simple.  You get to wear cool clothes if you want.  Technology is so advanced, you can wear your music on your arm and headphones with no wires.  The best part--I am not being subjected to a timed test, or forced to run in a formation, or being told I'm "slow" (Hi, Army!)  I have been doing this since late December 2012 and honestly, it's the lazy person's exercise.  I can run for an hour and burn 800 calories.

I went to my 20 year high school reunion.  I felt a bit like I did after last year’s college reunion.  I wish I had done more, gotten out more, but then again, maybe I need to stop doing this to myself.  This is how I am.  I have a small circle of friends.  I don’t kiss up, or put on a happy act.  One person told me he “admired” me for getting in to West Point and joining the military.  I never would have guessed that.  Sometimes I still can’t believe I survived four years as a cadet until graduation.  I look at my college classmates and feel like a dud.  So many have advanced degrees.  We have doctors and lawyers, people who continued their education through Ivy League schools.  We have lieutenant colonels and private business owners.  I feel like I have been left behind, when really, they are just far ahead, and the ones plodding along just like I am, are not outspoken about their averageness.  In the bigger picture, I am doing alright.  I just have trouble some days figuring out what I really want to do, and deciding how to get there, which brings us to…

Writing.  I feel like I have fallen off the map and lost my motivation.  I have 1.5 books revised, and now what?  I have decided to go the self/Indie publishing route, which I used to scoff at.  The tide has changed.  I still want an objective edit (possibly $$$$) and a beautiful cover (more $$$) design and formatting (you can do this yourself, but I read the instructions and my brain locks up, possibly more $).  I have to do the legwork and I’m starting off tired.  Why, yes, I would like some cheese to go with this whine.  Right now, I can’t quit my day…

Job.  Without elaborating any further, I will just say it’s time to move on.  You know that point when you’re ready to leave your current job (hello pay cut, hello, watching coworkers get laid off, hello, threat of office disappearing pretty soon?) but have not landed the new gig yet?  I’m there.  And conversely, I am shopping online like it’s my job.  I think this is a combination of compensating for sucky job (because things = happiness) and the pre-Christmas shopping selfishness that goes on every year.

Kids: I love them and they are exhausting.  We took our two on vacation in July.  The 7 year old had a blast.  The toddler, not so much.  She had a horrible fever the first couple of days.  We took her to the nurse, who took her temperature and gave us a cup of Tylenol (kids HAAAAAATE this stuff).  The fever went down, but went back up again. We took the toddler back to the nurse, who made me sign a waiver when I decided not to see the doctor.  Who’s the bad parent now?  She was okay, but I don’t think she enjoyed the trip.  Now the following week with her grandparents?  Guess who was smiling in every photo?  Guess who was bored?

Husband: We are carpooling.  Some days are great.  Some are opt out events.  This morning, at the last minute, I pulled back and opted for the commuter train + metro + walking over commuting with my beloved.  It was a series of annoyances that built up into “I can’t do this today.”  Yet, I am halfway expecting him to call and see if I want to ride home.  And I would respond, “Only if you don’t mind riding in the cold, cold shade I’m throwing, darling.”  I kid (kind of).  Most of the time that is our quality time together.  We have been very fortunate to be able to keep up some version of carpooling for the past 4 years.  We are coming up on 14 years of marriage and 16 years as a couple.  It has been mostly fun and very fortunate. Can you tell I’m not good with writing about these things?  I have a great husband.  Not perfect, but most of the time he is fantastic.

Depeche Mode: Saw them in concert AGAIN.  Still love them!  It always wigs me out to think I am roughly the age (or a bit older) than they were when I watched them for the Violator tour.

A time of peace

I attended West Point a time of peace. While I was there, the thought of classmates dying at war was theoretical.  We were more concerned about  making it to graduation and seeing what waited for us in the "real" Army.  Sometimes we couldn't even see graduation, the focus was on surviving the month, the week, the day.  I knew I would be entering "the profession of arms," but I never realistically considered the full meaning and possible consequences of that profession.

The class of 1997 has lost too many classmates in war -- it's not a big number until you consider there were less than 900 of us.  Not a big number until you attach faces, names, spouses, children, siblings, friends and classmates to those we have lost.  Not every death has been from war, but most of my classmates that have died were in Iraq or Afghanistan.

I am hoping Jaimie Leonard was the last.  Her funeral was on Thursday, at West Point.  From the pictures, it was a good send off, but the world would have been better with her still in it.

Life is unfair, but it doesn't mean it hurts any less when we experience the unfairness.

See you Monday (or will I?)

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a promotion of two co-workers. They are in the Army and both of them took the long route toward earning their new rank. The ceremony was a mess, but it was nice to meet the families and take a break from our desks. During the ceremony, we could hear an ambulance siren in the background. Later, we learned for whom the siren tolled. 

“Did you hear? Dr. Rhymes-with-Parker died while waiting to brief Important Dude. Important Dude (ID) was notoriously picky with briefings. He liked clips, not staples, and the documents had to be in a certain format. There was an email with directions of briefing ID, which included forcing yourself to behave unnaturally. If you were there to brief ID, then you look only at ID, even if you are addressing a question from someone else in the room. Answer that guy but KEEP YOUR EYES ON ID. DO NOT LOOK AWAY FROM ID.

So, I thought, “Maybe Dr. Rhymes with Parker” looked away from ID."

I know. Mean.  Eeeee-Vil.

 Back in our office, we talked about it.

 “I just saw him the other day,” said co-worker #1, clearly freaked out. “I LOOKED AT him.”

 “Oooohh—don’t let #1 look at you!” we said for the rest of the day. 

“I looked at him, too.” Said co-worker #2. “And I said to myself, that’s an accident waiting to happen.”

Clearly co-worker #2 is not the sentimental or rose-colored glasses type. He was also correct. Dr. Rhymes-with-Parker was not the picture of health. He probably should have retired and taken care of himself instead of making that last trek to ID’s office. It saddens me that someone died at work on a Friday afternoon, the time you are looking forward to the weekend and the plans you have for the time that belongs to you. The thought of dying at work is a nightmare, but dying on a Friday is an extra twist of the knife.

 “Maybe ID will have new standards for those coming in to brief him,” we guessed.

 “A blood pressure check before you enter his office.”

 “A cholesterol count."

"A BMI of no more than 25.”

 It was so awful we had to joke. It’s like the jokes that came out after the Challenger explosion. It's so horrifying you compelled to distract yourself with something funny.

 “They’re cleaning his desk out now,” said the boss.

 We all shook our heads. This reaffirmed the things we already knew: Life is short, take care of yourself, and if you can help it, don't die at work.

My two cents

--I graduated two years after Paula Broadwell. No, I do not remember her. I knew about the book just from being in the same circles, but that’s it. On Facebook, the class of ’95 started multiple discussions. Of course there are plenty of people in glass houses there. One idiot said her actions do not speak for their class, and therefore... (wait for it) ...the class should issue a statement saying just that. So you want to distance yourself from this situation by inserting your entire class into the media spotlight. Luckily someone had the spine to call this out as a stupid idea (basically saying, I don't want the loudest mouths speaking for me. You all don't represent me.). No one is looking at the West Point class of ’95. No one is saying , “Oh, we knew that entire class was a bad egg.” C'mon, son. The class president also added that the class of ’74 (Petraeus’s grad year) was not issuing a statement so they wouldn’t be, either.

--Also included in discussion(s): She was not the #1 physically fit person in her class, there were many people with that title, as the ranking changed from semester to semester (I am possibly the #1 worst ranked in physical fitness, so that was something I did not know). And there was some petty sniping about her using Facebook to promote her book (because, no other author uses social media to self-promote, apparently).

--I can no longer spy on their class board anymore via my husband’s account, since someone has done an audit and removed those not in the class.

--Despite what many people think, West Point and its graduates represent all segments of society, despite being touted as the best and the brightest and having to follow the Honor Code. Maybe the percentages are different, but I assure you, every “type” is represented there.

--Another day, another groundbreaking revalation, and another person is dragged into this. I am genuinely curious when this will die down.

--If something seems like it came straight from a "Bad Idea" Jeans ad, do not proceed.

--Husband commented (on the drive home, on Friday, when this was breaking news)—"He’s not the cheating type." I said, “what -- you mean he has no swagger?” He said, “I don’t mean swagger, just that he’s not like a Clinton.” I said (again) “So…no swagger.”

--How do people find the time for these shenanigans? Head of the CIA? Married mother of two young kids? I can barely handle a 9-5 and a crappy DC-area commute with two kids. And I have zero swagger.

West Point Blues

I went to my 15 year reunion last weekend. Weekends have been work lately. We went from trolling for a new home every weekend to settling on one, buying it, and moving in. It was a short move. Five miles from the old home and in the same town (different zip code!) We looked at countless houses and wound up going back to one of the very first ones we walked through. I don’t want to think about how many hours and gallons of gas we wasted only to end up 5 miles away. On the up side, we saved a lot on moving costs by shuttling everything but the furniture in our cars and not buying a truckload of boxes.

I made the hotel reservation way ahead of time. The last thing you want is to not have a hotel. This is a return to college, yes, but not the college days of getting in the car and hoping someone will let you sleep on the floor/couch/hideaway bed/cot/backseat/bathtub/lobby when you get there. I missed the registration deadline. Yes, I caught it on the right date, however nothing anywhere stated that the registration site closed at 4 pm and not midnight of the last day. The 2004 grad who answered the phone was very polite and helpful in getting things done.

I was supposed to lose weight by the time the reunion came. Do I even need to explain how that went? I don’t think I look bad and I am healthy otherwise, just not entirely pleased with the spare tire I have going on. I know, we are hardest on ourselves. Suck it in or stuff it into some Spanx (or Spanx knock off) and keep it moving (I sucked it in)

I told our older daughter a week ahead of time. That gave her fair warning that we would not be around, but it also meant a week’s worth of guilt trips. I had to remind her that this was a Mommy and Daddy weekend and the next weekend, birthday weekend, was hers. Who falls for the guilt trip? Hint: Not me. My husband promised we would watch a movie and have pizza for dinner before heading out. He also promised that we would stop by the storage and get my “not as sloppy looking as the classic short” black Ugg Roslynn boots. Yes, I know, they are still not a fashion statement but the high for Saturday was supposed to be in the mid-50’s.

I had to hurry up because we had 10 minutes to get to the storage place. You know me and driving and not driving the car I’m used to drive and a time crunch and night time are not a good mix, right? I don’t even know why I was at the wheel.

We got to the gate on time. There was someone coming out of the storage units, which meant the gate automatically opened up and husband did not have to hop out and punch in the access code. I cleared the still opening gate and then curbed the front passenger side wheel. Followed by the rear passenger side wheel. And upon later inspection, removed a chunk of rubber from the rear tire. I tried consoling my husband by telling him the wheels on my own car were more messed up. It didn’t help.

We reached the storage building, my husband punched in his access code. He checked his (analog) watch and said, “Bullshit!” I went to the car and checked my (digital) phone. We were three minutes late.

We went back home (to get the sloppier looking, but bright purple classic short Uggs).

This is why it’s so hard to get anywhere. We forget things. We go back. We underestimate the time needed to wash clothes, pack bags, plan outfits. We left ( again) and in the next town, husband realized he forgot his antibiotics for the cough-sorethroat-cold symptoms he has.  "Keep going," I said.  "Otherwise we'll never get there.  We arrived at the hotel at nearly 2 in the morning.

I woke up around 6 and checked online for the registration info. There was a breakfast from 5:30-6:30 am (as if?). The parade started at 9 but you had to be there almost an hour earlier. Dork that I am, I wanted to go. I went to the bathroom and stared at myself. My eyes were excessively puffy. Like hours of crying and a night of horrible sleep puffy. Like two pissholes in the snow. Not cute atall. Vanity trumps dorkiness and I decided to go for my beauty rest.  I did go to the lobby to get my registration packet. I nearly missed the woman, but asked if she could help me out. “Oh, I’m packing, but if you stop by the Mess Hall after the parade.” I was good with that. But then she said “Wait a minute. What class are you? 2007?” I wanted to hug her. Here I am looking like Mr. Magoo with bedhead and she thinks I’m ten years younger. And when I corrected her, she apologized!

I got my packet and took my arse back to bed.

We had a late breakfast at what might have been the least efficient Dunkin’ Donuts in the history of man run inside of the most poorly thought out rest stop in the history of highway transportation (it had a one way parking garage that required every car exiting to cross the crosswalk for every pedestrian entering and exiting the building). We went to the homecoming game where no one checked our tickets and we were in the nosebleed seats. I texted my former roommate and they had much better seats with much more space. This was another thing. My husband criticized me for not making plans with anyone before the reunion. I know. But in my defense, no one contacted me, either. It happens.

We lost. The good thing is, I can go to a game and not pay any attention to what is happening on the field. I know the basics of football, but not the details. My poor husband played when it was a winning team, and I know it kills him to sit there and watch the new team, with way better turf, practice facilities and a life that includes cell phones and a lot more freedom than we have, lose the game. I mean, games. I mean, seasons. Okay, you get the point.

When my roommate said temperatures were in the 30’s for the parade (yes, I’m a big dork, and I honestly wanted to be there for it), I didn’t feel so bad.

She looked great. Most of the women in my class look great. Someone commented on the bright purple Uggs. The men—ehhhh. And as a cadet, guess which sex got dogged (hint: not the men). Living well is the best revenge.

The hard part was the social thing. If I didn’t talk to you or vice versa when we had four whole years together, it’s really awkward for me to catch up. Yes, there is Facebook and LinkedIn. I am on both of those. I just have a very difficult time small talking my way through sooooo, what have you done in the past 15 years. Or talking about my job like it is any kind of representation of me or my personality. This makes me look stuck up and rude, but I don’t mean to be either of those. I just tend to run out of words past, “Hey, great to see you!” and, "Where are you living these days?"

It was great to see some people, but generally I am in touch with them already. And it’s easier to talk in smaller groups vs. "Hey, look, here is a whole room of people and….GO!" On the last day, I ran into one classmate who posted on Facebook that anyone who voted for Obama should be “ashamed.” I hugged her and acted happy to see her. I don’t wish anything bad on anyone, I just will not forget being scolded via Facebook because I didn’t vote the same way she did. I also didn’t engage on Facebook, because that is another way to raise blood pressure and drive yourself nuts while obsessively checking back for the latest volley -- a lesson learned by yours truly from another extremely conservative classmate who shall not be named, but was subsequently unfriended out of pure annoyance. Subject? The now not-so-relevant-and-the-sky-didn't-fall-when-it-was-repealed, Don't Ask Don't Tell policy. 
This is a total tangent. I’m glad I went. Sorry I was not more social. I say the same thing about my time as a cadet. Some things don’t change.

Civic duty done

While on maternity leave, I received a questionnaire from the county hinting that I was under consideration for jury duty. I filled it out, sent it back and about a month ago I received my summons. You get assigned a number and a date to report for duty. You're supposed to check the number on the website or by dialing in to see if you're needed. I was #29.

If you were number 1-164, you were supposed to report for duty, do not pass go, do not collect $200...oh, wait.

Woo hoo, I was in!

Soooo....following a very poorly drawn out strip map on the back side of my summons paperwork, I made a bunch of right turns until I found the poorly marked parking lot. I showed the police officer guarding the lot my summons (I guess people try to park for free) and found a spot. Then I took the poorly drawn strip map and walked up to the "Judicial Center."

I had to go through metal detectors. Then I had to go up to the jury lounge (but only after asking information because there were no signs). The "lounge" was a huge room where everyone who had been summoned waited. I was #29 out of 164. I checked in (no one checked ID, but I saw my age and sex marked on their paperwork), got my juror packet and this lovely sticker:

I found an empty seat and waited. I also asked where I could pump and the lady in charge said there was a room in the library on the third floor. Unlike work some places, the "judicial center" accommodates nursing mothers without making an issue out of it.

Well the way my fine county does it is first, they see if there are any trials because some of the scheduled trials settle out of court. There were only 3 criminal trials taking place (and yes, I got excited--no boring civil cases!), and each one requires 12 jurors. When selecting jurors, they called our numbers in order, so I was 29 and each group of prospective jurors is about 35-40 people. They call numbers in order, so I got called up in the first group. We had to go up to the court room to be selected. So then in the courtroom we all sit and the judge asks questions, like whether you are a cop or you know police officers or law enforcement people, whether you have family members that are lawyers, whether you have sat in a criminal case before, etc. Basically trying to weed out people that may be biased. One person wanted to get out. She claimed her job was important and she could not afford to be there longer than one day. The judge was unsympathetic. "There are no other psychiatrists in the entire District of Columbia? What if you get hit by a bus?" And so on.

So the next thing they do is go into further questioning with certain members who answered a certain way. Some of those people got booted (people who knew cops or lawyers, people who were cops or lawyers, etc). Then they start filling the seats on the jury. So the lawyers on both sides can say they don’t want someone as a juror. From what it looked like, they wanted women, but they did not want older Asian women or any men. "They" claim to not look at race or sex or age, but "they" are hoodwinking. "They"(the lawyers) are looking for advantages.

There were 11 women on the jury and one man, and one male alternate.

The case was about two neighbors who had once been friends. One filed a “peace order” which is a restraining order, against the other. They lived in adjacent townhouses. The case was about whether the one lady violated the order. The one who filed had three daughters. Well, the mom was at work and the oldest was watching the other two. They heard a bang on their back door but did not see what caused that. Then the oldest one opened the sliding glass door and said the neighbor was looking at her and “using profanity.” The kid called her mom, who was driving home from work and the mom said to call the cops.

After the selection and opening arguments (fun seeing a very pregnant state attorney and the hired defense attorney trying to dramatize what looked to be pretty simple turn of events. Not fun knowing my taxes probably funded part of this process. Here's where my taxes didn't go: the building itself. It looked like it had not been updated or redecorated since the '80s).

They were trying to prove that the neighbor was trespassing by reaching over the privacy fence and banging on their door, and that the neighbor was “attempting to contact” by yelling at the kids.

Most of the discussion hinged on the height of the fence and whether the neighbor reached over and knocked on their door. We don’t know it happened because no one saw it, they just heard a bang. There were no photos of the fence or anyone reaching over to the neighbor’s door. It just was witnesses saying how tall they thought the fence was (anywhere from 5 ½ to 7 feet) and speculating whether the neighbor could reach across and bang on the door.

The judge had closing arguments and released the alternate. The 11 angry women and one man went to a back room to deliberate.

"I wanna believe those kids" one person said.

Another one: "I'll bet those kids could talk some shit too."

We sympathized with the defendant. The woman was in and out of her townhouse and had to face a neighbor who filed a "peace order." When you live in that kind of set up, giving someone the wrong look could be enough for them to nail you. It was not enough for us to say she was “guilty beyond reasonable doubt” so we all agreed she was not guilty and we came back after an hour and said that.

What was that about boring civil cases? I said that not knowing "criminal" cases could be boring too.