Pardon My Dust

Switching back and forth between email addresses is a drag.

PM me if you want the new blog address!


xxxx

-whitters

Is this little guy our new best friend?

Emma, who is really a girl :)

When I was little young(er), a family up the street from us wanted to get rid of their dog. Apparently the dog had...issues. Always up for a challenge, my mom decided now was the time to get a dog. Hours later, a small, fat wiener dog arrived at our home. My dad, having not grown up with a dog, was less than thrilled. Not only had he never wanted a dog, he was now stuck with a sausage with...issues. The poor little thing was not very bright, but made up for what it lacked in brains with it's cute little sausage body and stubby little legs that could barely waddle along. It was, in fact, endearing. The little wiener dog, Sunny, was here to stay.

What was not endearing, however, were the certain issues that came with the little thing. Coming home one day, we found that the new dog had peed in the house. Around the Christmas tree. In a circle. About five times. Now, everything I've read says, "If the dog pees in the house, it's your own damn fault." But, clearly everyone (my dad) decided it was the wiener's fault.

We left on vacation to Hawaii and that's when the mischief started. My dad devised a plan. Working in cahoots with my neighbor and OWN GRANDMOTHER, the wiener dog was taken away while we were out of town. Upon our return, my dad put up the garage where the wiener lived and shouted, "It's a SUNNY DAY!" Poor Sunny was no where to be found. She was taken away to a strange man with the name of Beefsteak and never had a chance. I was so upset, I drew a modern art piece depicting a Giant Hand Stealing the Dog in a sea of blue tears and emotion.

Fast forward. Bear and I are looking at the cute and little girl above tomorrow morning.

Maybe she'll be my new island friend!?

  whitters

The Sound of the Ocean Keeps Me Up at Night

View from our window. Taken by our villa's previous owner :)

I haven't actually seen the sun rise from our balcony yet, but after  B's school starts, it's up and at 'em pretty early in the morning. Which shouldn't be too hard since the ocean waves crash pretty loudly on the beach.

After the flight/layover that was hotter than Hades we made it to the island which is....hotter than Hades. We managed to get the bags unpacked pretty quickly considering I might have packed my body weight in clothes. (Seriously) Because I could manage to be cold in the middle of a desert, I'm pretty excited about this humid weather. B says the hot weather hasn't even started yet. It's been a little bit overcast and cloudy so far, but that weather usually happens whenever I'm around. Haven't had too much need for the sunscreen yet, but it's coming, my Lobster Skin sense can feel it.

Time for me to break out the SPF 600 and for B to break out the textbooks.

Good luck! :)

-whitters

I love this woman...

 I know I'm usually a bit snarky, but I swear I do have a soul. And this soul loves Sarah Kay. 


Watch:


-whitters

Like Benjamin Button...in Reverse

I went to the dentist yesterday. Because my mouth is ridiculously messed up, I'm not a huge fan of the dentist. I do like my oral surgeon, but only because he gives me benzos surgery drugs. Unfortunately, I only get to see him when I need horrible old-people things done like molar implants (screws in your jaw anyone?) or gum grafts (let's slice off the roof of your mouth and stitch it to your gums shall we?). He stabs me with giant horse-needles and he doesn't laugh at my jokes, but he's a good surgeon. My perfect new gums are a true testament of his skills.

But, the real story is not a love letter to Dr. K. This story is about my visit to Sweetpea, the Dentist.

The dental hygienist cleaned my teeth, carrying on a conversation with me while she did. She always asks me the same things: Are you the one who does hair? No. How's work? Crap. and Do you floss? Crap. No. When she isn't chatting with me, I get the chance to eavesdrop on the conversations Sweetpea is having with the other patients.

This particular evening, one patient was talking about the love of my life, (sorry, Bear) National Public Radio. She said she liked it because they always broadcast different stories and facts that you couldn't hear anywhere else. I nodded to myself. She then brought up the story she'd recently heard about kidnapped Mexican babies. I started laughing. The hygienist pulled her hands out of my mouth to ask what was funny.

"Oh, my family makes fun of me because I like NPR. They call me 90-Years-Old. I heard the story she's talking about driving over here. It was interesting."

"Well," the hygienist said. "She's only about 60 if that makes you feel better."

"Not really."

"Maybe that can be your goal, Whitney. You should try to act younger."

Now, on top of giving up laziness and scrawniness, I should give up my NPR?

Maybe I am a 90 year old woman?







I might be alright with that. My almost 90 year old California gramma kicks ass.

Get up offa that thang

One time, I decided I wanted to exercise. I was going to run. No, I'm not joking. I really got it into my head (somehow) that running and I were going to be Best Friends. I'd be all Oh hey, let's hang out. and Running would say, Okay, sure. and I'd say, I really want to go buy a new book and read it while I eat a whole bunch of Peaches and Cream Oatmeal with vanilla ice cream on top and then maybe shopping for shoes and Running would glare at me and say, Fat chance sucker. Put on your pink tennis shoes.

Wait, what?! Okay, maybe I just needed more friends.

Anyways, because I hadn't run since the Ninth Grade Mile I was forced to run every Friday, I did what any novice runner would do: I Googled. Up came From Couch to 5K. I was so up for anything involving a couch, though Bed would have been a better choice, I clicked. I printed. I put on my damn pink tennis shoes. But, first I needed to make an Ipod play list. And hunt down some water bottles. And socks. And I probably ate some oatmeal with ice cream on top just for, you know, energy or whatever.

I took off down the street. Couch to 5K told me I should start out walking for five minutes then alternate jogging for 60 seconds with walking for 90 seconds for week one. Please. I eat a carton of ice cream faster than that. I skipped week one. I also skipped weeks two, three, four and five.

Jog for five minutes. Oh, heck yes. Five minutes is cake. That's like the time it takes me to shower. I took off jogging.

60 seconds. No problem. Haha! Obviously skipping week one was a good choice. Week one was for SUCKERS! 

Two minutes. This is tough. 

Two minutes and five seconds. Why is this happening to me?! Running, we're supposed to be friends. Why are you gossiping about me to all the cool girls? Why are you laughing at me??? Why do I feel like I WANT TO DIE!?!?!? THIS RELATIONSHIP IS OVER! !@)*(#*)$#&*!)*


And that's when I decided to do yoga.


-whitters

Attempted Murder 3: In Which the Baby is Safe

Because my siblings and I tried to kill each other in various ways on a daily basis, I now have a duty to record our attempted murders.

A few summers after my dad graduated from The Best Graduate School Ever, my parents remodeled the house my mom grew up in.  This house was a looker. Asbestos laden "popcorn" adorned the ceilings, waiting to kill some unsuspecting sucker. A large, life-sized painted Charlie Chaplin mournfully gazed down upon us from the walls of our playroom -- probably also waiting to kill some unsuspecting sucker. Brown painted panels, most definitely covered in lead, lurked about for my baby sister Maddie to gnaw on should they come loose from the wall and fall on her head as she crawled around the dinning room. It was truly a lovely home.

During this remodel, my mom needed to run a few errands (probably more black and white curtains) and packed up my brother and Maddie into our mini-van. Who knows where I was. Probably playing with my imaginary friends.

Now, this was no high-tech Honda  all the hip soccer moms are driving these days. No automatically starting engines and TVs and nonsense. No fancy keys or cool sunroof. This was a gold and white Mercury Villager. The greatest. We named it The Van.

Yeah, I know this isn't gold and white.

Forgetting something inside, my mom instructed Brock to Stay in the Van with the Baby. Got it? Stay in the Van with the baby.

The most reliable of babysitters.

 She was in the house a few minutes when Brock came running back inside. My mom was a little surprised to see him since she had instructed him to Stay in the Var with the Baby. She asked, "Brock! What are you doing!?"

Brock reassured her, "Don't worry Mom. I locked all the doors. The Baby is safe!"

Yes, Maddie was locked in. She, for one, would Stay in the Van. Looks like she had no other choice.

At least she was safe!











*For the record, my mom called the cops and they got the Baby out.
-whitters