My parents decided to get a second dog this summer. Our family didn’t get its first pet, an adorable cockapoo I named Dawson, until I was a freshman in college. (Yes, this also happened to be around the series finale of Dawson’s Creek, but whatever. I thought Pacey was cuter). I figured my parents were trying to make up for lost pet time. Or my sister and me living on opposite coasts.

I met Zoe, a black Wheaten Terrier, when I went home in July. She immediately tried to eat my face and attack me at every opportunity. I didn’t hold her much because she wouldn’t stay still. I thought she was crazy. My parents said it’s called being a puppy. I won’t fight about semantics. I’d just like to keep my face.

Should Zoe be perching on the coffee table? No. Do my parents care? Not a bit. Does Dawson? Don’t even get him started.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, I was curious what my 10-day visit would be like. My parents would have to work. I would be alone with the dogs. They said she was doing well in puppy school and was learning “tricks.” I wondered if one of the tricks happened to be “don’t eat Jacky’s face and sit still.”

As soon as my parents brought me home from the airport, Zoe tried to attack my face. And my legs. And my head. This girl can jump. I retreated to the corner of the living room as my parents laughed at me. Then got out the video camera.

Zoe stays in her crate when my parents go to work. I left her there in the basement, closing the door to the upstairs, trying to remain as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t realize I was home and start crying. I made sure to pay special attention to Dawson. I thought he was depressed and neglected. As older siblings, he and I really have to stick together.

My dad comes home at lunch to play with Zoe, and eventually I let him leave her out. And then I told my parents to keep her crate-free in the mornings too. I’d still have crazy attacks from her in which she’d pounce on the bed and attempt to eat my ponytail, but now she actually settled down and would curl up right next to me, or down at my feet, a soft furball footwarmer.

By the end of my trip, we’d officially bonded and I was sad to leave her. I didn’t need my dad shoving Zoe’s face in mine for goodbye kisses (uh yeah, on the lips. Ew gross.) but I had managed to find more room in my heart for this happy little crackhead who just wants to be around people.

When I received a jury duty summons, I thought I’d put in a day, two at most, before being dismissed. But in a matter of hours, I was chosen as Juror Number Three for a three-week trial (which I can not talk about, because I’ve been sworn to privacy. Don’t ask me questions!).

The 16-person jury (12 plus four alternates) was compiled from four rounds of group questioning. We were all in the court room together, listening to everyone answer the same questions. We knew eachother’s jobs (or lack thereof), where we lived (for how long; if we rented or owned), if we had any children, if we or anyone close to us had been charged with a crime or been a victim of one. Those lawyers really get to the good stuff.

We actually ran out of potential jurors on the second day day, so a new group had to be called in for the next day. The last five jurors were picked from the new pool while the rest of us waited in another room. It was weird when they joined us. We knew nothing about them. They were louder. One of them took my favorite chair. We were a jury divided.

One woman remarked that we were going to be family for the next three weeks. I didn’t quite like the sound of that. (Were we supposed to hug and share special life details? What did she even mean?!) Our room, which is basically our second home, is a bit pitiful. The magazines are from 2008. There’s a water pitcher, but we don’t know who refills it or how often. We can’t bring lunch, because there’s no fridge, microwave or place to eat in the courthouse. We discussed bringing in a grill and having a nice BBQ, but the court officer told us to not leave any valuables in the room. That’s Jerry, always looking out for us.

Sixteen of us share one bathroom, which makes it impossible for the five-minute bathroom break the judge gives us to actually be completed in five minutes. (But that doesn’t matter so much because the lawyers and judge always take five times longer than they say they will.) We pretend not to hear each other use the bathroom, though that’s impossible. One woman runs the water while she’s in there. I appreciate that, even though others probably find that wasteful.

When we’re not in court, we’re either waiting in our jury room or waiting in a hallway on another floor to be taken to the jury room. There’s a lot of waiting. But we’re never told why. At first we all kept to ourselves — reading, listening to iPods, napping (maybe that’s just me…), staring at the wall — because the one thing we all have in common is the one thing that we’re not allowed to talk about. But after 45 minutes of waiting turned into a couple hours, and we were all still just sitting there, we warmed up to one another. I suggested someone bring Twister, just so we can see the reaction from Court Officer Jerry upon entering the room to find right hands on red, left feet on green. I also thought it’d be awesome if the jurors performed a skit at the end so the judge, jurors and other court officers could see how they acted. Sometimes we take bets on how long we’ll have to wait. Regardless of the guess, we usually wait at least 15 minutes longer.

After spending so much time with the same people in confined spaces, I started trying to find celebrity counterparts. There’s John Locke (the character from Lost who started out as a self-appointed leader). Julia Stiles (slightly angsty). Ossie Davis (a kind, quiet man from Barbados with gentle eyes who always holds the door open for me). Jim from The Office (who not only looks like him but is equally funny). Kristi Yamaguchi (who has enough clips in her hair to prevent it from moving during a double-axel in a tornado).

Before I knew it though, we did start acting like family. People say hello as they trickle in each morning to the third floor benches. One woman shared her debate over honeymoon locations. We heard all about one mom’s preparations for her daughter’s birthday party (and then, the next Monday, how the girls all stayed up until 3 a.m.). And each night, as we all cram into one elevator together, almost half will say goodbye to everyone at some point during the short four-flight ride. We call it our group hug.

For something that so many people try so hard to get out of, I’m actually learning quite a lot. (I just can’t tell you about it.)

You’ll just have to get on your own trial to see for yourself.

Editor’s note: for the next two weeks we’ll be running the best of our This Ordinary Day pieces. We’ve enjoyed working with so many great writers and wonderful people and felt it was high time to take a look back at some of what they’ve brought us. If you’d like to see more pieces, please take a trip over to our archives page — it’ll be well worth your time.

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It started out as a joke more than anything. I found it on the free table at work — where books, beauty products, chocolate and random promotional items are left for people to fight over or ignore. The postcard is actually ugly: a pea green card with a thick marigold frame. And the words. The worst part. They’re in Times New Roman Italic (I don’t know anyone who celebrates anything in Times New Roman, Italic or otherwise.) This is, like, the most uncreatively designed postcard ever. But I thought the words — I celebrate your life! — were funny, so I took it.

I kept it in my cube and held it up at unexpected times to my co-workers without saying a word.

You think we should leave work a little early because it’s been a long day?

I celebrate your life!

You have the images I’ve been waiting days for?

I celebrate your life!

You’re going to give the intern all the scanning so that I don’t have to do it? Oh yes.

I certainly celebrate your life!

Eventually, the hilarity wore off, so I pinned the card up in my cube among the staff phone list, pictures of friends and barely legible notes to myself.

Months passed before I thought about the phrase again. This time it was for a friend’s birthday. What better time to celebrate a person’s life than on her birthday, right? I sent her a birthday-eve e-mail letting her know that I was celebrating her 25 years of existence (and that my present had not yet been mailed, as I do not celebrate going to the post office).

Less than a week later, my cousin was one of nine students accepted into a highly competitive graduate program. We had agreed that if she got in, we’d splurge on a nice restaurant (the kind we visited when other people picked up the tab). After we’d savored the five-cheese appetizer, I gave my cousin a toast; the gist of it was: Dear cousin, I celebrate your life! Somehow the awkward-yet-genuine phrase was finding its way out of my cubicle.

Once I started genuinely telling people that I celebrated their lives, I couldn’t stop. I’m not sure if people in my life were having more reasons to celebrate or if I was starting to pay better attention.

Shortly after all those celebrations, a friend told me that he was seriously considering quitting his job to start a company with his brother, an idea he’d been toying around with for years but now had the means to pursue. He told me about the preliminary work he’d done and plans for accomplishing everything else. And what did I think of this lofty plan? Dude, I totally celebrate your life. How can you not celebrate the bravery, vision, drive and creativity that it takes to pursue something like that?

And then I started to realize that it shouldn’t be such an exception to take notice and let our friends know that we’re thinking about them. When it comes down to it, we should be celebrating our friends’ lives — and our own — more often. And not just for the standard hoopla of birthdays, school and jobs.

You cooked a new recipe?

I celebrate your life!

After weeks of braving the DMV, you finally got a new license?

I celebrate your life!

I found an error in a hospital bill and was pro-active about contacting the companies so I didn’t have to pay extra for my E.R. visit?

I celebrate my life!

Taking the time to recognize the important or the little or the out-of-the-ordinary doesn’t have to be time consuming or well planned or eloquently stated. It doesn’t have to be on pretty stationery, typo-free with impeccable handwriting. But it does require you to go beyond thinking nice things to actually sharing them. So often I intend to let people know that I’m thinking about them but get sidetracked and forget. If it takes leaving the postcard in my purse and making a copy to tack up in my room, maybe that’s what I need to do to remind myself to celebrate all the wonderful things happening in our lives.

(I just hope I haven’t offended anyone by reusing the same line. If so, it looks like I need to find a new inspirational postcard.)

I’m in Portland right now, the first stop on my five-week adventure. I came here for the first time a year ago and was able to see just about everything I wanted. This trip has been more about wandering around, figuring out if I really would want to live here some day.

I walked around so much my first day here that my feet hurt, especially my stress fracture. I decided to take it easy on Thursday and buy a day-long public transit pass instead of walking everywhere. Because my body is still on East Coast time, I’m out the door by 8 a.m., when not much is open.

For my morning entertainment, I hopped on the nearest light-rail and took it until I felt like getting off. Then I took it back into Portland and got off at a park overlooking the water. Once I made it back to the city, I switched to a bus, picking a route that would go past a massive forest. I’d visited the other side of the forest when I came last year, and this ride would offer a different perspective.

I told myself that for this trip, I would have no guilt about what I didn’t get around to doing. That I would be happy with whatever happened. But I couldn’t help but question if I could fend off guilt as I rode on the bus back into Portland — it was almost lunchtime and nothing noteworthy had happened.

The only thing mildly worth remembering was that this bus driver was religious about announcing the bus was moving and we needed to hold on, which we pretty much caught on to without his warning. One time he yelled to the bus as a passenger stepped on, when we were not even moving and the passenger hadn’t even had time to show his bus pass. You never realize how many stops a bus makes until the driver announces every time the bus is moving again. And at one point, he mumbled something and got off the bus, while it was still running. Then he came back a little later. We were in the middle of an industrial nowhere at this point, so I’m not sure what that was all about. It wouldn’t take much exaggeration to turn the situation into a “Saturday Night Live” skit.

I glanced around the bus at the other passengers — because who doesn’t like people watching — and that’s when I noticed the grandma across the aisle had a pant leg rolled up and was dabbing a bloody knee with a Kleenax. When I looked back again, her pant leg was down but then I saw bloody knuckles too. I’m not sure if my imagination got the better of me, but I started to wonder if the reason the bus driver was obsessively reminding everyone to hold on was because this woman had fallen on the bus.

I wondered if I should ask her if she was OK, even though there was nothing I could do. She looked like she was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. But after she kept glancing down at her hands and knee, I rummaged through my purse and pulled out half my band-aids. In packing for a month, I included everything I might possibly need. Neosporin, anti-itch cream, medicine, deep conditioner for my hair and two bottles of sunscreen. When I made the long trek on public transportation from my apartment to JFK airport, I cursed myself for packing so much. But as I reached across aisle on the bus and asked the woman if she’d would like some band-aids, I realized that overpacking can come in handy, and uneventful days can serve their own purpose too. I’m hoping I won’t need to pass out any more band-aids to strangers on my journey, but I’m prepared for it just the same.

Exactly three weeks ago — on my dad’s birthday  — I was laid off. I cried a lot that day. Once I got past the kind of crying where you gasp for air (I started freaking out about health insurance), I packed up my cubicle. Coworkers came by, so I distributed glowsticks and crap I had accumulated as door prizes. I offered autographed copies of layouts I had designed, but no one took up my offer. I was able to pawn off an embroidered fleece scarf and a cruise ship that made noises.

After I’d boxed up and labeled two and half years of care packages, letters and free table acquisitions, my coworkers took me out for drinks. At first I refused, insisting that I couldn’t miss my water running class (”I already paid $20 for it! No make up sessions!”). I realized that when I looked back on this day, I would not remember my water running class (even though it happens to be in a church), but the amazing people I’d worked with. I sporadically cried at the bar too, especially when i had to say goodnight to my cubemates. It may sound weird, but despite all the tears (and the cause for them), I had a wonderful night. I could not have felt more loved and supported, even by people I didn’t expect it from.

But as someone deeply rooted in routines and stability, my world didn’t seem like it was mine anymore. A job that had once seemed secure was now nonexistent. I went to barbecues and parties a few days later but didn’t know how to express my situation without a tinge of pain. My career was in limbo, and as a result, my identity was in limbo. I told myself that I would take this situation as an opportunity. One in which I’d really reflect on what I wanted to do in life and what I wanted out of it. I knew this would be a turning point, I just didn’t know where.

While I was reflecting (and watching the entire True Blood series), JetBlue announced a promotion for a month-long travel pass. A pass that already had my name on it since I didn’t have to worry about vacation days or deadlines anymore. A pass that would let me visit some of my favorite cities and discover new ones. I don’t know if the timing of this promotion was a matter of coincidence or me unconsciously willing something magical my way, but a few days later — the night before my birthday — I bought the ticket. I had a twinge of OMG what did I just do, but then I realized I hadn’t felt so happy or at peace since…well, I couldn’t even remember. I knew I did the right thing. I knew it was what I needed.

Two weeks from now I’ll be in Portland. Then I’m off to Puerto Rico where I’ll visit a rain forest. Followed by San Diego to see my sister and San Francisco to see an old room mate. I don’t know much about the Dominican Republic, but I’ll be in Santo Domingo for three nights (ole!). For my two-month mark, I’ll be in Houston to see Sam. Followed by a night in Orlando to catch a flight to meet an old friend in Costa Rica.

Though I’ve always found comfort in the sense of security, right now I’m finding strength in possibility. In the unknown. In realizing that I should do something, even if I don’t know where it will lead me. Being laid off has given me the ability to embrace that uncertainty. And while it’s not the life I’d planned, it’s one I’m now content to live.

My room is generally a mess — half my bed is usually covered in books, marginally clean clothes, notes and mail; my dresser is cluttered with vitamins, thumbtacks, pens (some missing lids) and hair clips; my bookshelf moonlights not only as a filing cabinet, but a scrapbook too. I have a small chest of drawers from Ikea on my dresser, which I gave up trying to assemble according to the instructions. The drawers are now, miraculously, held together solely by rubber bands. I got tired of hammering. It’s an eye sore, but it holds stuff.

At best, my room looks like a grad student has yet to finish decorating. And I’ve lived here two years. The one thing I am vigilant about cleaning is my floor, which I vacuum daily, because I shed so much hair.

For the most part, I am fine living like this. I can still find what I need. I don’t have much space to begin with. I’m not trying to impress anyone. It doesn’t bother me.

But any time I’ve got a lot of my mind, I have an irrepressible urge to clean. Like, move everything out of my room and evaluate whether my possessions are worth keeping kind of cleaning. It’s as if organizing the external things in my life subconsciously organizes the internal ones too. I don’t know how it works, but it does. Doing something as mindless as cleaning keeps me from overanalyzing, which somehow results in feeling peaceful about whatever was bothering me.

Once all the dust bunnies are gone and the random papers are trashed and my bed is cleared, I tell myself that I’ll keep it up — every day — so it won’t turn into an exhausting weekend of trash bags, Clorox wipes and Windex. But without fail, I always let things slide. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing though. I never know when I’ll get the urge to clean, but I might as well have a room in need of it .