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

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.

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

Eyebrows are hard

My middle sister is a cosmetologist. She's good with hair. She always has been. Well, with the exception of one event:

Maddie was in fifth grade. Brocky Blue-Head and I cornered her.

"Hey, Maddie."

She was suspicious. As she should have been.

"Your eyebrows are looking a little hairy."

She stared at us.

"Yeah, they definitely are!" I piped up. "I think you might have a...uni-brow."

"Yeah, definitely!" Brock agreed.

"What's a uni-brow?" she asked.

"It's when your eyebrows grow over your nose and you have one. long. eyebrow."

After this brief torture, Brock and I laughed to ourselves and parted ways. There was no reason for our torture. We frequently came up with unique ways to inflict pain on our siblings, be it swirlys or holding the door open just long enough for the person walking through to be smashed like a small, stupid bug. Suckers.

The next day at the breakfast table, Maddie wandered in wearing a red and white stripped ski hat. The brim was pulled down low over her eyes. So low she could barely see her food. My mom became suspicious.

"Why are you wearing that hat?" she asked. Maddie, not one to be easily tricked (she thought!), replied that she just. really. liked. her. hat. My mom, also not easily tricked, pulled off the hat to reveal:

Maddie's half-shaved eyebrows.

Hearing that she had a horrible uni-brow, she ran into the bathroom and proceeded to shave her eyebrows. Holding the razor horizontally (that's hamburger-ly...), she manged to not only shave off her unsightly uni-brow, but also most of her (now missing) eyebrows. Instead of meeting in the middle like a giant roller coaster of hair, they now sadly attempted to gain momentum over the arch of her eyes...and failed. Crashed.

And burned.

The best-saddest part of all this:

It was school picture day.


-whitters

Brocky Blue Head

I am the oldest child. For awhile, I was an only child. Then this kid came along:

Notice the big, bald head.

This is my brother Brock.

I was not impressed.

For a year and a half, I had been the darling one. The adorable one. The one who screamed whenever I was put down. The one who talked at six months and yelled, "He's looking at me!!!" every time her dad glanced her way. The one who wouldn't eat unless she had something to distract her.

What was this thing?  This monster?

I did not like it. It cried, especially when I tried to put it in a headlock. Or bite it, which I frequently did. Gnawing on its little fingers, I quickly dropped them when my parents looked my way.

The face of an angel?

Plus, it was bald. I mean, really, really bald. Its little head wobbled all around, gleaming at me. It had hair once. When it was born, it had a full head of black hair. Then it all fell out.

I, ever the problem solver, decided that it may be ugly, it may cry and hog the attention, but it didn't need to be bald and frightening on top of everything else. Ugly as a baby bird at birth, I myself had only the thinnest of hair.

I had a plan.

My parents left me unsupervised. HaHA! Perfect. I sneaked into where it lay -- unsuspecting. Its little head bald as an egg. I took out my blue colored marker.

I approached, quietly. Sneakily. I uncapped the marker.

And colored all over its little head.

My parents suspected something. The jig was up.

Preemptively I screamed,

"LOOK! IT'S BROCKY-BLUE HEAD!!!!!" 

My parents were not amused. 

They took away my markers. 

And I my hair stopped growing until the age of four. 

Behold my bowl cut.

  -whitters

Yes, the lawn mower is a power tool

It snowed last week.  It's Utah, so you know, it does that a lot here.  But, my parents were out of town in Hawaii (lucky) and I was house-sitting.  By house-siting, I really mean babysitting.  But, when the charges are taller than you, bigger than you and meaner than you...it's a sad thing to admit.  I am the runt of the family.  This is important because it figures into the story later.  Remember, me=runt.

So.  It snowed.  It snowed a lot because Utah weather is a pain in the a and dumps the most snow between January and March.  Right when you're getting sick of crappy weather and snow and ice and freezing cold.  And boots and scarfs and mittens.  It's only cute in December.

The snow came down!  Maddie went out to shovel the driveway and I thought, "well, let's just use the snow blower.  It's like a lawn mower.  How hard can that be?"

Last time I used the lawn mower, I fell down the hill.  I'm not allowed to use the lawn mower.  I'm bad with power tools.  I decide to soldier on. I'm smart. I'm capable.  I can run the snow blower. As soon as I find it. I found it (Maddie found it) and figured out how to start it. Genius! Then I tried to make it go. Uphill. It did not want to go uphill. At all. It didn't want to go left and didn't want to go right. It didn't want to move. My feet, however, did. And so did my grey, thigh high boots. I am a classy lady.

This is how I snow blow.

Maddie tried to join me. We pushed. And slipped. And fell down the drive way. I yelled, 'This is why I'm going to live in a condo!!!!!!"

And my neighbor across the street came out on her porch, laughed at us, took a picture and went inside.

I hate this state.
Snow blowers can suck it, too.

I did not die

Don't worry everyone. I did not die.

My surgery went well.

I have amazing talents while totally high.

For example:

My dad apparently thinks I can function normally in my appointed position as Human Dictionary.

He took me to the doctor's office and started to type out an email. He asked me a grammar question right after I had taken oral sedatives.

I stared at him.

He then said, "Oh right. Why am I asking you?"

HOWEVER, my amazing mental capacity was proven later last week.

I couldn't remember my follow up appointment. So I called the doctor's office. They let me know the time and date.

I went to put it in my Blackberry.

Lo and behold: IT WAS ALREADY THERE.

The address, which I can't even remember sober, was there correctly along with the date, time and doctor's name. I typed it in while totally off my rocker.

Moral of the story:

DO MORE DRUGS. I function better that way.



I am joking. Obviously.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 5

Next, I immersed myself into the world of a writer further still as I grew accustom to brooding in isolation.  While other fourth graders gathered with their friends to play kickball, four square and wall ball, I hunkered against the hot asphalt and cool orange-red bricks.  I fancied myself Harriet the Spy or Amelia as I scribbled furiously in my Amelia notebook my mom bought for me at the Bookfair.  The playground duty thought there was something oddly wrong with me.  Repeatedly, she tried to engage in conversation with me.  Asked what I was writing or reading.  After a few curt answers as I glowered at her through my bangs and hair-bow, she stopped trying.  Of course, there wasn’t anything wrong me!  Well, at least not because I was a skinny, scowling, quiet ten year old. Sitting contentedly in 15 minute intervals carving out, “I HATE WHEN MADDIE writes SCRIBBLES IN MY NOTEBOOK!  SHE THINKS SHE CAN WRITE AND IT’S SO ANNOYING!” I learned another lesson of writing: It’s important to be comfortable alone with your thoughts.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: # 2 Observations

image source

It started as a young girl of six months, little more than a baby really.  Like our earlier ancestors, I perfected storytelling, babbling to anyone who would listen and, much to my parents' dismay, even to those who would have rather not listened. 

 I mastered the art of simile at four when I exclaimed to my usually petite, pregnant aunt, 

"Aunt Sharla!  You look like a Big Fat Turkey!"

Charming. An astute observer, like any good writer, and I only spoke the truth.