I don't know if you know this, but that's your name. We named you after you ran into our house the first time we opened the front door on that hot summer night a year ago today. We decided you would be our kitty and you would have to be secret since there are no pets allowed in our place.

Then we lost all romantic ideas of adopting you, Secret Kitty, when we realized that not only did you actually have some place to live other than our front room, but that I'm allergic to cats, and the idea of a litter box in the same place that I live makes me gag.

Despite these facts, we loved anyway. You're a spunky kid. You look as if you've lived under dripping oil pans and in dusty crawl spaces.

You are a scrapper.

I'm writing this, kissing your little ass, in hopes that you're not the one who peed in my running shoes that I left out on the porch.

I left them in that small space between the front door and that mini wall that separates our porch from the neighbors. I know that either you, or one of your rebel street thug buddies that roam the streets at 5:30 PM when you're let out of the house, peed in that space before.

Our phone books that called that corner home for a couple of weeks after they were delivered got a heavy shot of your toxin. Thankfully we rely on the internet like normal people and had no use for old fashioned book things.

So yes, I now realize that I left my shoes in the place that you kids like to claim as your own, but that was a seriously shitty thing to do. Could you not mark a place that really matters? Like on top of the old garage where you guys like to bird watch? Or under the camellia where you like to poop?

And why WHY has your pee stench not evolved to not melt and destroy every thing it touches? You and your five little buddies live in houses with kids and teenagers and stoners and hippies and accountants. I'm sure there are things to mark in and around your own house to show everyone who's boss. You are! I get it!

Just answer me this: Why my pretty orange running shoes?

I must go soak them for a second time in Super Duper Smelly Oxi Lilac Detergent, but I will leave you with this: If'n I find out it was you, I will be peeing in your little snuggly bed in your hippy owner's house. Watch your back, Secret Kitty.

Regretfully,

Orange Running Shoe Lady

I'm starting to think that the four-ish years I wrote reality television has now affected my own writing.

Okay, I tried to justify the above statement in my head as it is easy to blame everything bad in the world on reality television (although I think I can speak for everyone when I say that Janice Dickinson--train wreck or not--is enthralling), but really, I wrote more when I was working on the show than when I was unemployed and my waking hours revolved around running and that firecracker Judge Judy's schedule.

From what I can tell-what my well researched data is showing me-is that I haven't written regularly since Russ and I decided to quit Los Angeles and find out what we really wanted to do for the rest of our lives in another part of the country. No pressure.

Russ may have quit his job, but I kept mine knowing the end would be near if I moved 900 miles away from it. It's like having a boyfriend in Canada during college and then moving away from him. You know you're just saying what sounds good so you don't sound like an asshole or a quitter. But really there is no future. He puts "u"s after his "o"s and drinks Molsen.

So here I am, broken up with my Canadian boyfriend of a career and until recently at a standstill job wise and with only three months until forty, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. I think I'm doing it.

Life hurts my brain.

Tomorrow morning my dad finds out if he has an easy surgery, a not so easy surgery, or a pain in the ass surgery. All this will happen after the surgeons take a biopsy of the lump in his right lung. They know it's there and they know it's cancer and it comes down to a chunk of the lump taken out through his trachea to find out which sort of surgery dad gets.

And actually, when I think about it, he'll be asleep for the whole thing and won't know what sort of invasive procedure he's having until after it's done. I'm 1000 miles away and I'll know before he does.

The cancer was found from the body scan they gave him after his stroke in December. Everyone says it, and it's true, but without the stroke they wouldn't have found the cancer until maybe it did a bit more damage. I still don't know what I think about that line of thought. I mean, maybe he's had this little old lump for a very long time. Maybe he could have lived a long and happy life with that little lump.

I suppose I'm just worried. I'm assuming he's going to have the simple solution--lump out through tiny tube--but worried that it will be the worst: take a lobe of his lung out and chemotherapy. How much can a body handle a mere 4 months after having half of that same body shut down?

When he first told me about the lump he said, "Well, I did smoke for a long time."

I reminded him that he quit 40 years ago.

"Well, maybe it was the asbestos I worked with. Or the uranium. Or plutonium."

Yah, I would say that it could have been any of those.

Or it could just be any of the environments he's lived in over the past 71 years of his life. The neighborhood that I was raised in was on an old apple orchard. At least four of my neighbors developed lupus, with one dying from it. I mean, any house, any foundation, any city is going to have something that does not do a body good.

Or it could be that he's 71 years old.

For tonight, I'll just assume that dad will have the biopsy, have the easy surgery, and I'll be able to visit him at home where he'll continue to be learning how to balance again, to walk up and down stairs, just as he's been doing for the past four months.

This is what I'll assume.

That's ridiculous.

And even though Tom, the 65 year old pharmacist who tutored me on how to be an adult when I was shit head 18 year old, trained me to throw out my jury summons ("It's not like they can prove you actually received the summons!"), I got the invitation this month, 20 years later, and I RVSP'd like a responsible member of the American community.

I expected it to be horribly inconvenient and horribly boring. I brought snacks, plenty of books and magazines. It would have been a perfect opportunity to learn Sudoko. I wish I'd thought of that earlier.

I don't know why I was so surprised to see that the city has this jury duty program down. The summons have explicit instructions on where to park, and signs are posted downtown to make sure you park in the correct lot. The summons tell you how to walk the four blocks to the courthouse including whether or not you go south or turn left,  and they tell you what to expect once you arrive and where to wait. Once you're settled in the jury waiting room, you're told exactly what will take place through out the day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

I had no questions. None. They answered everything before I could ask. I prepared my cozy cushioned seat in the back (Habit from my school days. Always the back so I could talk.) with the view of Dodger Stadium, nesting, with my big coat and bag of distractions.

Interestingly enough, others did have questions. Now I don't know if they just felt that since, well, someone asked if they had any questions, why not take advantage of this unusual situation. Or if these were actually real concerns for the questioners.

"What if you're sick?" a very tall and very thick gentleman asked from the side of the room.

It was explained to him that if he were to fall ill after he had been put on a jury, there would be a number for him to call in.

"But what if say, I hurt my back tomorrow, like throw it out...."

It was like a 4 year old was preparing his parents for an future lie he was going to tell them, "So mommy, say a cookie went missing from the cookie jar..."

From the front of the room an older woman who I can only assume was a retired grade school English teacher-they have a certain look-said she brought her lunch and wanted to know if that was okay. And also, "Where can I eat it?"

In denial that these were people that I walked among daily, and that they may be thinking the same thing of me, I fell asleep sitting up for an hour or so, fading in and out as I listened to phone conversations going on in every direction. Personal phone conversations that made me feel like I was sitting in these people's houses eavesdropping when I should really be leaving the room, mouthing, "I'll leave you alone!"

"When did you ever see me take someone off the street and use their food stamps?" And within 30 seconds during the same conversation, "You take onions and dice them. Simmer them at a low heat..." 

When I wasn't sleeping I sat in awe of people. At work, I'm in a room with one other person. To be surrounded by this amount of people from every sort of neighborhood within a 20 mile radius was overwhelming and amazing.

Including the guy asking his friend on the other end of his iPhone whether he had any "bud" and could meet him for lunch, or the two woman, strangers, who look at each other and smiled knowing smiles while watching highlights of the Democratic debate on the rabbit eared television in the back of the room. The college girl who's dad paid $5 an hour for her to online shop for 6 hours on one of the 5 computers in the room,  and the lady who actually got a huge smile on her face and was hi-fived by another woman after she found out she was going down to the ninth floor where the high security cases are heard. 

Me, I kept my nose in the book, looking over the top of the pages to watch the scenes going on around me, and had my ear buds firmly in my ears, avoiding any and all conversations. I saw some people on the verge of making contact but I averted my eyes just in time and was able to put up my invisible but obvious barrier against unwanted small talk.

At 3:58, 7 jury panels had been called leaving just a handful of us left in the cavernous room. At 3:58, some man with a microphone behind a closed door called out our names one by one and told us we were clear from jury duty for the next year.

And that was it.

I hope they catch me again.