It's A Good Thing These Posts Are Months Apart

Because when I post... oh, do I ever post.

I am thinking that next semester will be much more conducive to blogging.

But until then, did you know you can cook a salmon in the dishwasher?!?!?!??

Click here. You know you want to.

Happy Sunday!

Well, That Wasn't The Plan

I swung the full garbage bag in the air, only a little nervous that the macaroni & cheese box would poke a hole in it and dirty Kleenexes, apple cores, empty beer cans, and eggshells would rain down on my head.

With an expertly executed wrist-flick, I let go of the handles and watched the overstuffed cloud of a trash bag sail through the sky.

A perfect arc: big white poof, skinny fluttering yellow handles, tiny silver glint sparkling in the morning sunlight.

Tiny silver glint?

My keys.

"Goodbye, goodbye!" they jingled and giggled as they sailed into the dumpster.

Update: A Trip To The Dentist

I may have mentioned my love/hate relationship with oral hygiene (as in: I love brushing my teeth/my dentist hates me).

I had to go back to the dentist on Wednesday to get a cavity filled. Despite being a total masochist, my dentist actually does a pretty good job of numbing your mouth before he starts drilling around in there. A really good job, actually. As in, "this should wear off in about two to eight hours" (eight?!).

The point is, I left the dentist's office at about 5:00 with a totally numb left side of the face. Mouth, teeth, lips, cheek-- numb. Left nostril? Definitely not responsive. Left eye? Yup. A little droopy.

That means it was time to play my favorite post-dentist game. It's called "Look In The Mirror And Try To Smile Even Though Your Face Is Really Droopy On One Side!"

It's hiiiilarious!

Because you try to smile, but you only can with half of your face, which is hysterical, so then you laugh, but you're only laughing with half of your face, which is even more hysterical, and then you laugh even harder, because you look like a total freakazoid, and the cycle goes on and on until the toilet flushes and some lady comes out of the stall in the public restroom and, refusing to make eye contact, washes her hands and darts outta there at lightning speed.

Smooth, Part II

Scene: On the dance floor at Caravan Cattle Company. A middle-aged Jordanian MAN with an... um... exotic scent is two-stepping with WHITNEY.

WHITNEY: So, what's your name?

SAMAL: I go by Sam, but my name in my country is Samal.

WHITNEY: Samal?

SAMAL: Don't say that!

WHITNEY: [terrified she has said something profane in his language] Oh no, why?!

SAMAL: Because you will break my heart.

Fact

Adventures in Dog-Sitting: A Haiku

why, standard poodle,

are you the size of a horse?
so terrifying!

On a related note, if you say poodle a lot it is really funny.

Poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle poodle

hahahahahhahaha

I am glad I have a blog. Aren't you?

Oh, Wally: Musings on a Greyhound Bus

The Greyhound bus was really my only way to get to Kansas City one fateful Thursday afternoon. My mom was horrified, but I was up for an adventure. After all, I had survived a night-train journey on one of the Top Six Best Places To Lose Your Valuables. Surely a five-hour trip through the Bible Belt would be okay.

(While relating this story to someone at work, she told me a terrifically terrifying story of having to stop on the shoulder of the highway during a 20-hour Greyhound trip. Why? To wait for an ambulance to come pick up a drunk bus-riding bum. The bum had recently collected $50 from a group of drunk bus-riding college students. They paid him to swallow a plastic spoon. Which he did.)

Anyway, I hopped aboard and made a few new friends. Among the most notable were the aspiring rapper (we talked about his new album and about Chicago) and the baby (we talked about trucks and what color they were).

I also met Wally.

Wally wandered up and down the bus like Forrest Gump on the first day of school. But a five-hour trip to a different state is rather unlike a five-mile trip down the dirt road, and we all averted our eyes in hopes that Wally would choose another seat so we could stretch out in peace.

Turns out, I am the Jen-nay to this particular wandering Forrest Gump. He walked by the seat, lingered... and then went for it. "Can I sit here?" he said, sitting down. Um, okay.

Wally, it turns out, is "well-versed" in many interesting topics: music, sociology, art, literature, politics.

Wally is, however, not-so-well-versed in self-editing, taking breaths in between sentences, taking turns while talking, or SHUTTING UP.

Wally talked. the. whole. way. to. Kansas. City.

He really did. Every once in a while, he would throw in a "Geez wow I sure talk a lot gosh you probably don't want to hear this oh my haha" followed by another 20-minute diatribe on how religion is different than spirituality (and how pot-smoking ties into all of this) or on how he hates sociology because-- direct quote-- "you can't scientifically measure passion."

Oh, Wally.

I chatted in response for a while when I could squeeze in a thought or two, but finally I just sat there with glazed eyes and an open mouth. At one point, I even fell asleep-- and when I woke up, there was Wally. Informing me that I drooled a little bit.

PLEASE DO NOT WATCH ME WHILE I SLEEP, WALLY.

Anyway, Wally continued to talk and talk and make hand motions and jerk his head around and talk and talk and talk, and the five hours passed in an overstimulating and totally bizarre daze. I finally made it to Kansas City and said goodbye to Wally, wishing him luck on all life's endeavors (which included trying to get from Independence, KS to Lawrence, KS. Why he chose a 24-hour route via Tulsa and Kansas City, I will never know).

It would be the last time I ever saw Wally.

That is, until HE FACEBOOK FRIENDED ME YESTERDAY AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I do not know how Wally found my facebook. I do not know how Wally discovered my last name. I do not want Wally to write on my wall, look at my pictures, or tell me what he thinks about Kurt Vonnegut. (I also do not want Wally to find my blog, but that's why I've used the name "Wally." He'll never catch on.)

Smooth.

Scene: Senor Tequila's, 7:00 p.m. A young lady, WHITNEY, looks around for her dinner partner, SCOTT. A waiter, JOSE, approaches her.

JOSE: Can I help you?

WHITNEY: Oh, I'm just supposed to meet someone here. Have you seen a lonely-looking boy?

JOSE: Yes.

He leads her to a small reflecting pool around the corner and gazes into it.

JOSE: Here I am.

Whiney Whitney Discusses Oral Hygiene

Now if a title like that doesn't pull in the subscribers, I don't know what will. But, to be honest, here is the real reason I re-started my long lost blog:

I LIKE SAYING STUFF! SPECIFICALLY, COMPLAINING!

With that in mind, bear with me just a sec while I tell you about my trip to the dentist today:

Laying in the dentist's chair with my paper bib and my hand-held sucker thingy, I smiled the kind of smile that only belongs to someone who flosses twice and brushes thrice every single day, even during vacations (really! I love oral hygiene!).

"Looks good," the dentist says. "Have you been flossing?" Seeing as his hands are rather inconveniently inside of my mouth, I simply nod vigorously. I try to make my eyes sparkle, so as to say "Twice a day! For real!"

And that's where it all goes downhill. "We'll see about that," he says, narrowing his eyes and picking up a large, terribly sharp metal poker. It glints threateningly in the light of the lamp positioned over my mouth.

A maniacal and sadistic grin creeps across his face as he aims...

...and bears down with tremendous force, repeatedly stabbing my healthy pink gums. HACK HACK HACK. POKE POKE POKE. My once-sparkling eyes now fill with tears as he saws away.

He jabs and jabs and jabs until I am sure I have lost a quart of blood. Then, with a disapproving cluck and a sad shake of the head, Captain Obvious reports: "Your gums are bleeding."

Really, now. Well, seeing as you just repeatedly impaled them with your ADA-approved ice pick, I CAN'T SAY I AM SURPRISED, EVIL MAN.

The hygienist pops her head in the door. "You've got to come see this, Wanda," the dentist gestures to her. "Take a look at that bleeding!"

"Shooo-weeee!" she drawls. "That's a gusher! You should be flossin' every day, sweetheart."

I narrow my eyes menacingly.

"That's right," says my dentist. "Daily flossing is very important to prevent gingivitis." I point the handheld sucker thingy in his direction and flick the switch on and off threateningly. My mouth still full of tools, I assure him: "Ah DOOOOO flosh ebry day!"

But alas, no one believes me. I am doomed to a life of all of the excellent oral hygiene practices and none of the recognition.

Good thing I have a blog so I can get all these feelings out. Thanks for listening, kids.