This is really only funny if you work with me...

Everyone knows the story; sweet, innocent and caring Sam.I.Am pressures an unnamed man into sampling green eggs and ham. But is it really as simple as that?

No.

Sam.I.Am was no kind verde-food loving kid. Sam.I.Am isn’t even his real name. It was a nickname given to him by Klaas Bruinsma, the famous Dutch drug lord. Green eggs and ham were code for black tar heroine. Sam.I.Am’s real name was Hans-willem Verver.

Hans-willem/Sam worked for Klaas as a mule, bringing drugs into the United States. But Sam was greedy and craved a higher commission. The kind of commission that could only be earned by selling product.

Unfortunately for Sam, the FBI had their eye on him. They’d heard of his connections, and sent an undercover agent to try and turn Sam. If they could get Sam to snitch on what he knew about Klaas they would be able to bring down the whole operation. The FBI sent in their best agent, Gage Preston O’shea.

It was a tough assignment. Agent O’shea had to keep Sam believing that there was a chance that O’shea would make a large purchase, proving that Sam had what it took to be a big-time dealer. But Agent O’shea also had to chip away the loyalty Sam had with Klaas’ operation.

It took almost 18 months, but Sam finally broke. And with Sam’s testimony and O’shea’s reports of what he had seen Klaas was put behind bars. But at a cost.

Klaas’ trial was extremely high profile, and garnered much publicity. O’shea’s face was plastered on newspapers all over the country. His career as an undercover agent was over. But worse, other member’s of Klaas’ cartel began threatening O’shea’s family. After an arson attempt on the O’shea family home, the FBI chose to put the O’shea family into witness protection.

O’shea and his family were relocated, given different names, and even had cosmetic surgery to disguise themselves.

Mr J doesn't understand how epic of a song this really is...

There's a song my mother use to sing me. According to YouTube, which is the most reputable source I know of, it's called Six Little Ducks. I was drunk and trying to explain why this song is about empowerment. And I'll argue with you even while sober that this is so.


It's a song, about this duck. It's bald. It only has ONE little feather on it's back. (The chorus isn't "But the one little duck with many feathers on his back" it's THE feather. "THE" as in, the only one.) And you know what? He overcame his anxiety, insecurities and GOD DAMMIT HE ROSE UP TO BECOME A LEADER! To quote President Obama, YES WE CAN! But this song was written well before Mr. President even ran for office in his Elementary School. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he was inspired by this song as a little boy.... 

I may be putting too much thought into this...

As I'm typing this, Mr J is watching a movie, Lionheart. The plot summary, according to Imdb, "Lyon Gaultier (Jean-Claude Van Damme) is a deserter in the Foreign Legion arriving in the USA entirely hard up. He finds his brother dead and his sister-in-law without the money needed to support herself and her child. To earn the money needed, Gaultier decides to take part in some very dangerous clandestine fights."

Now, I don't mean to find plot-holes in movies, but I have a problem with this basic outline. Mr. Van Damme's character is making money in an underground fight circuit and giving his profits to his brother's widow. This money is all "under the table" so to speak. So how is the widow suppose to claim it when she files her taxes? She's been told that the money is coming from a life-insurance policy. However, when the IRS audits her (and judging by the look on her face upon seeing the check, it's a lot of money, she'll be a prime target for an audit), they'll see that there is no such policy. She'll have to explain where the money came from, and she won't be able to. With no explanation, she'll be sent to prison Wesley Snipes style. Her daughter will be sent through the foster care to be neglected, abused, and molested. Thanks Uncle Van Damme!

Potty Training (Part Two, The Peequeal.)

In my last post, (which I strongly suggest you read before you read this post) I wrote about how I had peed in my bathtub. Not a lot of pee. Just a few drops. (I chose the bathtub because if my pStyle experiment went horribly wrong the clean up would be a lot easier in the tub than my bathroom floor.) A few days after I posted that, I tried again. I had been paying more attention to the act of urinating. I focused on what my body was doing, and discovered that peeing is less about pushing the fluid out of your body and more of an opening sensation. So I tried the pStyle, not with an overly full bladder, but with just a regular need to pee, and had complete success! I didn't get a drop on my hand, and initially none on my legs. But as the flow began to hit the tub floor, I realized just what a horrible idea peeing in the bathtub really was.

The laws of splash back are, I found out, that the the longer the distance the fluid travels before hitting a solid surface, the higher the splash back can bounce. Which translates to pee splattering my legs from the mid-calf down.  I should have bought stock in soap and bathtub cleaner before I started this.

~~~~~

So now I can do the act. What's my next step? Toilet training obviously. But I wasn't going to go into this blindly like I did the first step. I did my research. I googled "potty training tips". I'll admit, I was nervous about what I would find. I was worried that the information I would uncover would make me lose respect for my parents. After all, I'm 25 years old. They really should have trained me to use the toilet by now. But on the first website I found, I read "The pressure is off parents to toilet train early. Don't equate toilet-training with good mothering. The idea that the earlier baby is eating three squares a day, weaned, toilet trained, and independent, the "better" the mother is nonsense." Thank god. I can't wait to console my parents that they were, are and always will be good parents. Free thinking parents, who let their children choose when they're ready to use the "big girl" potty and even let the children teach themselves. Imagine what a wonderful world it would be if all parents took this approach.

Everything I found online listed two main approaches to toilet training. One being a gradual weaning of the use of diapers. The other being an intensive training over a few days. I felt that 25 years was long enough to wait to be trained, I wanted this to be over as quickly as possible. Potty boot camp was about to begin!

I waited until the weekend, so that I could spend as much time at home as possible. Since the weather was  nice and warm, I also chose to wear no pants. There would be no "accidents" just because I couldn't get my overalls unsnapped in time. And every hour or so I would ask myself if I need to go potty. Even if I said "No", I encouraged myself to "just try". After the first day, I was accident free and using the toilet exclusively to poop and pee. To poop, I sat on the seat of the toilet, and had set up a stash of picture books to flip through so that using the toilet would be a positive experience. To pee, I made a game out of aiming. A few cheerios dropped into the toilet bowl became targets! I also rewarded myself with stickers every time I successfully went to the potty. By the second day I was still accident free, and aiming like a champ, no cheerio was left un-peed-on. And as it turns out, splash back is GREATLY reduced when liquids are hitting another liquid.

~~~~~

It's been a week since I toilet trained myself. I have been wearing pants again, and still no accidents. I am so proud of myself! I may never pee on myself again. Unless I'm stung by a jellyfish. Then I'll just have to put cheerios on the sting.

Aim is the least of your worries. (Part One - The Peegining)

I peed in my bathtub.


Let's rewind. A while ago I got this in the mail. It's a pStyle!

To quote the manufacturer's website directly,  "The pStyle is a plastic device that allows you to pee standing up without undressing. It is a simple design that works exceptionally well. The pStyle is easy to position properly and the rounded edges are very comfortable. Because it is made of rigid plastic, the pStyle is easily maneuvered into the clothes you are wearing. The rounded back edge can be used to wipe with so there are no drips! It is easy to clean by shaking vigorously or rinsing."


I've been obsessed with these for a while. and have forever envied the fast moving line heading towards the men's bathroom at public events. No matter how hard I try, I have never been able to write my name in the snow with urine. Sometimes I can get the first letter or two, but after that, my knees hurt from the squatting and crab-walking; by then I've usually run out of juice in my bladder anyway.


Finally. I could experience the sublime joy of peeing, standing up, still wearing my pants, unashamed. If Fergie had had one of these, maybe she wouldn't have had to resort to singing songs about blankets to stay famous. 


So I open the pStyle package, eager to try this thing out. I even mentioned it on Facebook. I knew that this was going to be an epic chapter in my life. And then a note fell out in the packaging.


"Aiming takes a little practice at first, but once you get the hang of it you'll love this. Enjoy!"


Then I get to thinking. Is aiming really that hard? I hear, from time to time, from men that it actually can be! Especially when the bladder is full and the flow is heavy. (But not like menstrual flow heavy, because that usually has chunks of uterine lining, and if your pee has chunks in it - aim is the least of your problems.) I have also heard women complaining of having to clean up after poor aimers (small children, lazy/drunk/stupid adults). Suddenly I recall a friend who worked as a maid, telling me how much she hated cleaning toilets and the "splash-back" that collects on the porcelain. 


Maybe sitting down to pee isn't such a curse.


But I'm brave. I can do this! 


However I don't want to this is a public bathroom. After all, it'll be my first time. Like all virgins, I'm nervous. What if I do it wrong? What if I'm bad at it? No, I'll stick to my home bathroom, just in case I accidentally pee on the floor or myself.


On the other hand, like all girl virgins, I do want it to be special. This is turning point in my life. I'm taking the next step in becoming the person I'm meant to be. It's an important event. How can I memorialize it?


In an astounding EUREKA moment, I realize that I can solve all of my concerns at the same time. To make any possible cleanups easier, I'll pee in the bathtub. And since the acoustics are amazing, I'll record the sound of my first pee and turn it into a ringtone; available for all of my loved ones (and complete strangers)  to use. 


So I pick a day (Sunday), drink a lot of diet dr pepper (so much more nutritious than sucky water), and at the first sign of needing to go, I position the pee funnel according to the directions it came with, stand in my bathtub and..... nothing. Nothing comes out. I can feel my bladder getting fuller and fuller by the second, yet not a drop is leaving my body. I can't remember how to pee. Am I suppose to relax? Tense up? A combination? I've never had this problem before.


I try to think about the steps I normally take to pee. But all I can think of is this.
Step 1: Sit Down
Step 2: PEE!


The rest is cleanup, and won't help my current predicament. I'm left with no option but to zip up my pants, and try again later. So I drink more, and switch to wine. I wait until my bladder is painfully full. It wasn't until I feared peeing my pants on my couch, that I raced again to my bathtub. I flung off my pants, there was no time to worry about zippers, grab the urine flow director, and let it go. 


Or at least that was what I had hoped would happen. Again, nothing came out. At this point I was getting frustrated. Why is this so difficult? I tried sitting down, to start the flow. Nothing. Bending my knees. Nada.
I tried pressing down on my bladder with my free hand. This resulted in two drops onto the bathtub.

It was getting late, and I had to get up early in the morning. So I decide that maybe baby-steps are what I need. First I'll use the tool while sitting on the toilet. To get use to the feeling of the plastic being there. 


That's where I peed on myself. I had waited too long to pee. I sat down, positioned the pStyle exactly as I had been, but once the flow started, there was no directing the stream. It completely missed the plastic trough, and aimed directly for the palm of my hand. If I was kinkier that could have been the highlight of my week. But I gave up for the night. Washed my hands, the bathtub, the pStyle, and vowed to practice more next weekend.


To be continued...

This is going to get confusing.

A lot of people have started following me on twitter this past week. Which I found interesting since I haven't tweeted since December, and even then it was rare. At first I thought this was sight that the world only likes me when I'm silent. (Hurtful world. Not cool.) But then I thought I'd check further into this.

Turns out there is now another @SuicidalJane on twitter. One with an additional character in her screen name. that actually tweets. This all not to be confused with a German metal band that also enjoys the name SuicidalJane.

Does this mean I'm famous?

Things I talk about in therapy

While watching reruns of South Park, Mr J asked me what a trapper keeper was. I guess he's just too old to understand the social pressure it was to get the coolest trapper keeper in elementary school. Picking out the one would last you the entire school year was very stressful for a 2nd-5th grader. What if you picked one with a cartoon character, and the show got cancelled a month later? What if you picked the wrong ninja turtle? (Never pick Donatello, he was lame "smart one". It was only acceptable to like Donatello if you were a girl, because he had a purple mask. Duh!) Should you coordinate the trapper keeper with your lunch box? Or what that too "matchy-matchy" dorky? And what if your parents were cheap asses and refused to buy you the name brand trapper keeper? (Even though it only meant saving them three dollars.) Those of you that remember that kind of panic attack inducing stress, will join me in the guffaw mixed with shock and mocking, when Mr J asks, "It's just a notebook, right?"

One year, I had this one, I RULED that 4th grade class room.

All my friends had this one, or this next one.

What a bunch of losers, right?

And in nine months I'll be born again.

So, you may or may not know that I'm currently on vacation. A group of friends and I have rented a condo in Durango, Colorado. They are spending their days skiing, I am spending my days pampering myself. Yesterday I told you all of my newest love, the bathtub. Today, I had a spa treatment. Things were scrubbed, rubbed, oiled, massaged, and I was promised that once it was all done, I would feel 10 years younger.

They lied.

I feel 26 years younger. Forget having baby soft skin, I have the skin of a fetus! This is the new standard of beauty. I'm extremely sensitive to light, air, contact and my fingernails have fallen off... but I've never looked younger.

I'm going for a world record!

Everyone with writer's block knows how easy it is to claim that you're too busy to write. Work is taking up all of your time. You're training for a marathon. You're focusing all of your energy on constructing an exact replica of Seth Green's character's apartment from the television show "Greg the Bunny". Life happens, and it's easier to make excuses, rather than write. Lazy is comfortable, yet uncomfortable.

So what's my excuse?

I have fallen in love with a bathtub. It's big enough for two people (not that I'm willing to share), and as soon as I can figure out how to stretch my vaginal walls enough, I'm going to make love to it. All of it. 

Saving it for later?

I am slightly obsessed with bathrooms. I have spent a large portion of my life in them. Washing myself in them, washing them, having panic attacks in them, recovering from the crash after a manic episode in them, never poo-ing in them (as I, of course, don't do that), they are very versatile rooms; bathrooms.

And when visiting people's homes you should always check out the bathroom. A bathroom can say a lot about a person/group of people. How clean is it? What did they leave out for guests to see/use? I theorize that this what the bathroom owner perceives as "normal". What did they shove under the sink, hoping no one would look? What prescriptions are they on? How many pills could I steal without anyone noticing?

The most interesting thing I ever found in a bathroom was in a bathroom I shared with a former roommate.

He and I had just moved in, all the boxes were piled in what would be the living room, nothing was unpacked, and we were hungry. Lugging those heavy boxes up a flight of stairs was exhausting! (Almost as exhausting as watching him carry them. Which is what I did, instead of helping.) We needed to refuel before unpacking. So we called for Chinese.* The food was delivered, along with 6 sets of disposable chopsticks.** And after finishing his food, my roommate took one chopstick (not a set, just one stick) into the bathroom, placed it on the tank lid of the toilet and walked back into the living room.

I never found out why. I even asked, "Dude, what's up with the lone chopstick on the toilet?" His only response was to stare, blankly, at me. Like I was the mentally handicapped one. And I think a part of me knew that I didn't really want to know.

*When you move to a new neighborhood, one of the first things you do is find the best Chinese restaurant in the area. Taste is not nearly as important as afford-ability and delivery. This makes you seem much more cultured than your loser friends who just order pizza when they're too drunk/high-on-stolen-prescription-drugs-they-found-in-your-bathroom to drive for food.


**Was this a passive-aggressive gesture, implying that we were ordering enough for that many people, or just free utensils for new customers? 

Oh.

Mr J recently sent me flowers. It's not our anniversary. It's not my birthday. He's not in trouble, and no one died. He did it JUST BECAUSE.

Just read the note...

He means so much to him. How sweet.

You must be 18+ years of age to look at this post.

This is my new purse, that I bought at a silent auction at work.

Here is a close up of my purse's nipples. I must work for a really liberal company.

Should I cover them with band-aids? Electric tape? Pasties? Does my purse need a training bra?