The judge in charge of the jury pool comes to the room and we all assemble. He tells us there is good news and bad news. The good news is that eight jurors have been selected for trial. The bad news, the rest of us won’t be able to have that pleasure. I’m like, “What the…? Oh, we’re getting sprung! Yay!” I skedaddle out of there, and after calling my husband with the good news we agree to meet at Faneuil Hall for a couple beers when he gets out of work at 1:30. He also informs me that he heard from his sister who was called by my son’s school. They were sending him home early because he has conjunctivitis for the third time this school year. She was on her way to pick him up.
I walk over and see that there are trucks full of police barriers, and two of the local news stations are setting up trucks in front of the historic building. I ask a cop what’s going on and he looks at me like I’m an idiot. “The State of the City Address,” he says with a tone that tells me he wants to add, “you moron” but knows he’s not allowed to. I, feeling stupid and not knowing what to say, say “Oh… is that done here?” He practically rolls his eyes and says “Yes.” I walk away feeling embarrassed but then start thinking, “Ok, maybe as a resident of Boston I should know such a thing, but he doesn’t know where I live. What if I was a tourist, how would I know then? Huh? What if I arrived on a plane like, an hour ago?” I kick myself for not answering the cop with a “Guten Tag” and a bad German accent. I go inside because their used to be a shop that sold all political-themed stuff. I guess it closed (imagine that) so I look into an all Boston-themed store because I spot some ties featuring things like the Constitution and presidential signatures. (Did I mention my husband’s birthday is coming up?) The lady behind the counter asks, “So where you visiting from?” “Uh… I’m from Boston.” “Well, welcome to our city!” “Okaaaaay… thanks.” Next door to her there’s a sales person standing behind a counter fast asleep. I think they may have a gas leak in that building. Or maybe some 18th century mold hanging around affecting people's brains.
I head over to the Salty Dog, our favorite place in the city, to wait for my hubby to join me. I sit and order a beer. I pull out my phone to text hubby my whereabouts and when he texts back my phone, sitting on the counter rings. And by ring I mean it screams “BLAH BLAH BLAH”, for that is my ringtone. The bartendress jumps and looks at me, then at the phone. She laughs and says, “Oh my God, how old is that phone?” I feel old and pathetic. I make sure to work into the conversation that I have a Facebook page so she thinks I’m cool again. She acts incredulous. I feel old again.