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.