Fishy! Sardine Flava'

In Harry Potter: The Sorcerer's Stone, the Xbox game, there is a point where Harry eats many a bean. Sometimes he eats (mmm. curry!) and other times he eats (revolting! vomit flavor!) and now screaming in the background with what amazing voice she has, Genderist is calling (Bogey Flava'!) which is what Harry says when he eats boogers.

But funniest of all the funnies, is when he eats the red one and calls out (Fishy! Sardine Flava') in his worst Wales' accent, which isn't even true to HP, but that is another drunken (or am I) post.

All of that to say this: we are drunken beer right now. Drunken alot of it. We are girls. No boys intended. That means we drink what we like and experiment a little. We experimented with the Rasberry Woodchuck Draft Cider. Do you know what it doesn't taste like? Uh huh. Or Mmm. Hmm. You guessed it. Horse. It tastes like a fucking fish tank. Refer to my 1st post ever about what algae and angry fish tastes and or fucking smells like, because we just choked down sardine flavor in a somewhat expensive pensieve pilsner. We are pissed at fished. It is eeeeew. Stay away, flava'.

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head...

For a few weeks now the dog has come out of the bathroom with drops of water on his head. It's always been in the morning. We take showers before we go to work, much to the chagrin of the dog, who hates waiting outside the door while we soak up all the heated steamy air. After awhile, I started feeling sorry for him, so we decided to let him come in while we shower. He is a good dog. He waits right outside of the shower door. I always get out of the shower first, so I never think about what happens in the few minutes following this ritual.

Then, the dog appears with drops on his head.

For awhile, I just assumed he was standing too close to the shower door and that the drops were from the shower. But why is he never wet when I get out?

At some point, we finally figured out what the problem was. I must prepare you, because it would seem slightly personal. If you are faint of heart, then you should pass up the end to this anecdote. It seems that when my counterpart exits the shower, the dog runs over to kiss and lick his feet and toes. This places him under the drippings of my counterpart's counterparts. Upon reflection, I am just trying to figure out if this is more embarrasing for my husband or for my dog.

This is my prayer...

A little birdie told me today that there's a possibility that there's a riot that's about to happen. I am really confused about what to say. I see now that Stan Tookie Williams is going to be executed tonight at Midnight and that Governor Shwarzenegger denied his clemency. My stomach is sick thinking about this situation. I don't know what to say or what to think. I don't want to take this time to make a statement about what the death penalty does or whether or not it's the right action to take. I just know that my heartbeat quickens when I think about what the state can do. Worse than that, I don't want to think of the possibility that violence is on the verge of a death that is less than 8 hours away. My prayer is that a horrible situation doesn't turn worse, but at the same time I know that something has to give. I think of Paris. I remember Rodney King. I know nothing but how frail this whole system is. I can only hope that if William's death is now imminent, that his death will continue to bring understanding about how important life and redemption can be. I can only hope that the protests stay peaceful. And I dearly pray that some fucking day we will be smart enough not to keep putting ourselves in this situation over and over. I can't stop typing, but I still can't think of anything to say. If you want to share your thoughts, please do so. I am open to your input.

For more information, see: http://www.savetookie.org/

Searching for a Kansan...

For as long as I can remember, we always waited for the day when we would see Santa's Workshop. Each year, my brother, sister, and I would wait until the evening news was done, because a miniature superstar was about to appear in our world. It was Santa and Toy Boy. Every night for 30 minutes, the CBS affiliate-I believe based out of Witcita-would have a thirty minute show with some mall looking Santa Claus and some puppet/jack-in-the-box that would tell you all of the things you would love to have for Christmas. I don't remember the function of this program, it was definetley supposed to be for kids, but it seems like the show also told you where to buy these things, I don't know...I just know that at the end the last thing the program would do before ending, was zoom in on a little calendar that would show us how many days were left until Christmas. All was good with the world, and I could go to sleep because tomorrow I would see Santa and Toy Boy again and again up until the day that I got presents and who the hell needs Santa and Toy Boy when you've got new shit to play with? So I ditched the bastards right after Christmas and I wouldn't think about them until the following December...

I didn't realize how precious this memory was for me until I moved away from Kansas. At some point, I remember mentioning in my new elementary school how I used to see Santa and Toy Boy and over and over again, no one has ever seen the show and more disturbingly, everybody wants to know who the hell Toy Boy is... By the way, don't try to Google it, he wasn't that kind of toy boy.

So here I am. Twenty-four. And when I think of it, I try to find people that remember this show. So far, since I have moved, I have yet to meet someone who knows or remembers this program. I am searching for a Kansan who might have seen this program that aired sometime in the 80s who remembers...

Having searched high and low, I found this website that actually has the first of what I think might be the first of this series in the show. If this description is accurate, and I believe it is, then there should be more than just Kansans that remember Santa and Toy Boy. If you know who these people are, please let me know. It would be nice to know that I am not the only one who remembers Santa and Toy Boy.


(For more information on Toy Boy, please refer to The Real Toy Boy.)

From the Vault Explained...

Okay. I've had a really bad couple of days.

If I wanted to get myself real worked up, I would sit here and bitch about it, but I've been trying to quit smoking for three months now and I find that bitching just makes me want to smoke again…

I've have wanted to do this for some time, so here goes. Being the wrestling fan that I am, I always love watching t.v. during Wrestlemania season because they are always going to show clips from the vault, which happen to be these really old clips of awesome previous Wrestlemanias. I have decided to borrow this phrase for the nights when I don't want to talk about my crappy situation at present and instead will share a story from my past. Largely random, and hopefully entertaining or maybe depressing, these are the stories from times long long ago but not really that far away...If you are curious, continue reading below.

Ticket to Hell #1

A ticket to Hell is a special little fellow. He is never bought and only ever earned. A dear friend told me once that I could always choose not to use my tickets, but I'm not sure they'll work that way.

The first one comes from when I was the ripe old age of 17.

I have always had the habit of speaking my mind. Worse than that, I have had the worse habit of speaking outlandish or brash things that I think will amuse my cohorts. We were in St. Louis, at some restaurant I don't remember, and we are already slightly irritated at the fact that we couldn't get a table. Of course we are complaining now, and we are ready to get some service. I don't remember what comments were made; all I remember is that everyone was griping. It was my turn.

Our hostess comes and takes us to our table, which happens to be outside. Shit. It's the middle of the summer, who wants to be outside? I start in. Who the hell know what's said...The hostess walks away and here I go: What woman would be stupid enough to walk around in those heels? As if that dress isn't hideous enough, we could be spared seeing all nine months of her pregnancy fat. Someone get her a tailor...and so on and so forth.

Everyone laughs, and just like a bad Spongebob Squarepants episode, I think it's funny that other people are laughing with me. Now the waiter walks up. Excuse me, sir, but someone needs to tell that girl that we weren't really curious about how soon she was going to give birth. Maybe she wants to tuck some of that shit away and wear clothes that make her look like less of a stripper...laughs, giggles. He smiles. Then he says, that hostess over there is my wife and I think she looks beautiful. Gulp. Please don't spit in my food.

Ticket to Hell #1: Is a reminder that humor is only funny when what you are saying NEVER gets back to the person you are talking about. When in public places and speaking of people you never know, always assume they can hear you.

Ticket to Hell #2

As if I hadn't learned my lesson...there's a second ticket to Hell. Actually, there's way more than two, and some of them aren't near as harmless as these, but here's a start:

Now I happen to be 19 and still pretty damn stupid because here we are again, I am on another debate trip, which I don't think I mentioned last time that I was on a debate trip, but I was, so there. We are now in Springfield, MO. We go into a Chili's. I think 1 1/2 years of college have now given me infinite knowledge and consequently, infinite wit. I'm cool. I'm college.

We are seated in a booth and some stupid son of a bitch has his Oakley's on in the restaurant. Stupid. And here he is with his Zack (or is it Zach or Zac?) Morris, Saved by the Bell, haircut. And it's always bastards like this that think they are as cute as Hollywood actors and that they get some kind of free pass to do what the hell they damn well please. Come to think of it, what the hell gives actors the right to shield themselves indoors? Clearly those $200.00 sunglasses do wonders to maintain your privacy...I think I should say something, this is bullshit... (Everyone turns around to look at the man I am speaking of) What pains me is that it has to be the Oakley’s...Jana...I mean I don't give a shit about his $200.00 sunglasses, if he put them on top of his head I would still get the point and see that he's...Jana...rich enough to have glasses...Jana! What? That guy is blind. (Blink, Blink)

I get it now. I see the dog at his feet. I see him struggling to put his fingers on his plate to find his hamburger. I get it now. Damn. Twice now in a restaurant. Twice with the laughter and the wit and the just talking to get attention. Damn.

Ticket to Hell #2: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...

Hi, My Name Is...

Not slim shady. But I've been thinking this week. At the risk of sounding too mushy, I will just say that there are a few of you out there that I can't wait to read what you've written every day or every few days. P.S. If you want to know who those few people are, look at the sidebar. But anyways, I am fortunate enough to know you or to at least be able to associate your posts with a name. And for some reason, that brings me this strange sort of comfort. Like I know who you are. I'm not real big on revealing a whole lot about myself, mostly because I have tons of students who can outsmart me any day in the IT department, and I would like for the longest amount of time possible to keep this website away from their prying eyes.

All that being said, we were talking today in class and I learned that over half of my students don't even know what my first name is. This cracks me up, because its not like it's hidden from them, but it was my little ego check that reminded me that those bastards really aren't trying to hunt me down or pry into my life. I just thought I would take the time, for those of you who check up on this website, to introduce myself.

Hi, My Name is Jana. It's nice to meet you. And Angry Dissenter, I will be in L.A. over Christmas. I'll be chasing down Mickey on Christmas day. If I could fit Genderist and The Hater in my suitcase I would. For those of you who are new, a hello to you too. And my name is still Jana. It's German. If you want to say it in German, it's pronounced like yana. In English, it sounds like Anna with a J. As an interesting side note to any policy debaters out there, my name has 1N and 2A's, just like my speaker positions used to be... Now I am going to go do some serious social drinking because while one long week is done, another is on the horizon...

Trapped

I am writing now, because for the first time in a few nights, I finally have time to sit down and write. Not to speak again of the holiday, but it is always hard when family is in town because you have to merge your normal habits and routines with other people's routines. I appreciated the visit with my family, but I was ready to be back to my life. Strangely enough, I haven't hit that point yet. I keep waiting for my week to return to normal, and my routines keep getting changed.

This week happens to be a really busy one. Not only that, but I am pretty sure that I hate my job. I have been complaining about my job for a few months now, but I never thought it was anything serious. I came back after the break and instead of being irritated about the usual things, it's like I lost my will to care about it anymore. We have our fall show in three days. I have been practically living at the school. I'm not really stressed out about it. At this point last year, I would be going crazy out of my mind with last minute with changes and necessary items that need to be fixed and this year I am just bored and tired. I have a few million battles that I could fight to make my job better, but instead, I just hate it. And I'm even too tired to complain about it anymore. More than anything, I just want to go home, spend the normal 2 hours messing around on the computer, fix dinner, catch up with my counterpart and then whatever else until bed. Instead, it's been something different every night. I'm barely getting dinner in before I pass out from exhaustion. I'm done with the half-assed whining. That's not why I wanted to write this.

The reason why I am posting this is because with the rare exception of today, I doubt I will be around for the next four days. I have found out how to read everyone's blogs that I like to read over my lunch at work, but unfortunately because of the network, I can't post anything to your sites or to my own. Trust me, I have been reading, I am just rendered speechless. I really do feel like someone has stolen for this week the small piece of my life that isn't stressful. I am here. I am reading. I just doubt I will be posting. Or responding to your posts. Hopefully the next thing I write will be less dull. Hopefully. There was a quote from the book that I was reading the other day where a mother says to her daughter that the only way to get over the hard parts of life is to go right through them. This week and next will be my attempt to get through a couple hard parts. I'll be talking to you later.

A "Secret" Post For Genderist

Okay,

I know this is strange, but I think it is interesting because you were telling me about a dilemma last week and something happened this morning that made me think about it.

I got an e-mail from my bridesmaid-you know the one I have spent way too much of my time bitching about? The one that caused me to have orange angst and paranoia when it comes to friendships. Now I have complexities and trust issues. Ugh.

But still. I got the e-mail. It was all about us hanging out just like old times. Old times? I think just the statements that I have just made above make things pretty fucking clear about how fond I am of the old times. I responded by saying that there's alot I thought we should discuss before we do a whole lot together-I was eluding to me, the husband, and the loss. She responded by elaborating another two paragraphs about how her life was pretty rough lately because she had been sick for three weeks. Always her. Always her problems. I'd had enough. I remember telling you one time that it was okay to be angry. And while you didn't help me out by telling me that "Walk the Line" sucked, I am really hoping you'll tell me that I still get to be angry. Or hurt. At least tell me I can still be hurt.