What I'm Packin'.....

Or that’s what I might call this if I didn’t envision all of my many five readers rolling their eyes at yet another cheesy pun title. It has to be said though, I cannot help it. If I’m sitting on some word play-- awesome, cheesy, terrible or ingenious, it will make its way out. God help me if I’m ever in court and the urge to be witty ever strikes. Fortunately, it’s doubtful that will happen because I’m usually somewhere between boredom and nail biting please-don’t-let-me-say-anything-stupid terror, and that’s not really fertile ground for my flavor of humor. It’s not restless leg syndrome. It’s more like restless jaw syndrome. Quitlaughingatyourownjokes-itis.


I digress. My internship is at 201 Poplar. For those not from or familiar with Memphis, that’s the address and common name of the city jail and criminal courts. It’s only called the Criminal Justice Center when the perky news girl stands in front of it on the news to question the justice system and whether or not all lawyers should be hung and quartered. Fortunately, she still has that inquisitive look, so I’m guessing she hasn’t come to a conclusion yet. Fingers crossed for lawyers. Part of the quaint charm of 201, as the defendants call it, is that you have go through a metal detector. If you’re ever down for a real treat of a tale, ask me about the day the fire alarm went off and we all had to file back into the building one-by-one through security. I have never felt closer to death safer.

My life of crime began and ended on the same day when I accidently stole a pair of slippers from Wal-Mart as a kid. I was carrying them while we were checking out and my mom made me take them back once she realized what happened. I’ve never been much of a trouble maker, apart from my inability to tuck in my shirt, per the dress code in high school. Because of this, I’m not accustomed to being singled out at security or looked at with any suspicion. For pete’s sake, I’m 5’2’’ and look just a touch like a cabbage patch doll. A few weeks ago I went through security, though, and they made me stop while they went through my bag. With breath shortening, palms beginning to sweat, and flashes of a life spent without lip gloss in jail, I waited. I was sure that someone had planted several grams of something unlawful in my bag,when all of the sudden they pulled it out. My pencil sharpener. Wah wah wah. Not only was it a pencil sharpener, it was the one I’ve had since fifth grade with my ten year old cursive “Laura Britt” written across the side. You could see where I had misjudged the room to write so it was more like “LAURA BRitt” with the final “t” wrapping around the side. It really could only have been less cool if they pulled out my old retainer or some Immodium tablets or something.

Since then, I’ve been a little bit more careful about what I carry in my work bag. One thing I haven’t tackled yet, though, is the purses that I rotate through. I usually move to the next one once the one I’m carrying gets too cluttered. I’m terrible about cleaning them out. They end up looking like a miniature version of a crazy cat lady’s house.  I seem to collect shiny little objects like a bird does.  I randomly grabbed three bags out of the closet to demonstrate. 

Here we have some long forgotten hand lotion, some fossilized tissues, and a case for a camera that had 2 megapixels if that clues you in on how long ago it was used.

It appears as though an ibuprofen bottle was half emptied in this one.  This one also has a stack of pink post-its.  I'm kinda Hansel and Gretel-esque with my post-its.  There's usually a trail of them where ever I go.

Lastly, and I swear this was not altered to appear more insane, we have a bubble gum wrapper, some tape, a bobby pin, super glue, and a spool of ribbon.  Perhaps I could fashion another tiny purse to clutter out of these items.