whitticisms

Pardon My Dust

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Tue, 10 May 2011 15:55:00 +0000

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?

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sun, 08 May 2011 03:34:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Tue, 03 May 2011 13:58:00 +0000

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...

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 17:54:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 15:41:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 04:16:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 16:00:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 16:00:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 03:45:00 +0000

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

Busy Little Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 20:59:00 +0000

I think giving up laziness for Lent is the best choice I've ever made (love you B!).

Not only do I work at my ever-increasingly-fantastic full time job -- that's sarcasm, folks-- I've also been lucky enough to pick up a writing project on the side for the (truly) fantastic site ReferAll.com. If you're a business owner (or lover!), this is the site for YOU. I finally feel like I'm actually putting my talents to use!

THANK GOODNESS!

-whitters

Ass-ets

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 17:10:00 +0000

image source

In my quest to become fatter, I decided to try the Tin Roof Grill. It has a hip, trendy, sports bar feel to it. I know that sounds like an oxy-moron. The inside is a mix of sports bar meets hipster and the food is bar food meets tapas bar. Identity crisis?!? Tin Roof Grill, what are you!? Are you the place where those girls who don't like to eat wings (I don't know any) could go and watch sports with their boyfriends? The plethora of flat screen TV's and fancy appetizers tell me yes. I think.

I ordered croquettes, which are little deep fat fried ham and cheese sandwich balls. Yum. Deep fat fry anything and I will eat it. Even fish. They were pretty good, but they scalded the roof of my mouth! Owwww. I also had a cup of french onion soup. It was good, but the cup was so tiny. How am I supposed to get fat off THAT!?

-whitters

Delicious-ness aka I'm obsessed with The Copper Onion

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 20:20:00 +0000

I love to eat. Did you know that? I know I'm a scrawny little guy, but seriously. Food.

If the sun can manage to shine for more than two hours, I want to try out some new places. It's been a long while since I have tried anything new. My love affair with the carbonara at The Copper Onion has prevented me from trying anything new. That pasta is like heaven on earth. It was the first solid food I ate after having my gum graft. The cook remembers me when I come in (or is really, really good at pretending) and the staff is attentive. I haven't been there in awhile and I think I need to go ba-

No, I need to try some new places.

The Rose Establishment.Salt Lake City. Definitely trying this one out for my early-out Friday's. Tiny coffee house, but it looks really cute. I'm a sucker for cute.

Britton's Sandy. I'm probably going to try this one out today while I wait for Kenzie to be done with harp lessons.

Tin Roof Grill Sandy. I pass this when I drive right by the gym I should be frequenting because I've given up laziness for Lent. Probably going to try this on a Friday too.

Tin Angel Cafe Salt Lake City. Not to be confused with the above. This place apparently sponsors my other love in life, NPR. One Yelper said her friend from Provo described the Tin Angel as "Hippie Nonsense." I'm on board with that! Anything Happy Valley hates, I love. Definitely another early-out Friday pick. Gnocchi! Brie! Mushrooms! Chickpeas! If I wasn't diversifying my assets tomorrow (you think I'm joking, but I'm not), I would stop by here. Maybe I still will...diversify my ass..ets. I wish. Then maybe my pants will stop falling down. Maybe I should give up being scrawny for Lent.

-whitters

Helix

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 01:17:00 +0000

This is my ear:

After much deliberation and research, I went to a piercing parlor, picked out a little gem and waited while several others also had tiny holes stabbed in their body. The girl next to me had a tiny fleck of silver above her lip, the girl across from me had a tiny nose ring. The man doing my piercing had a whole row of rings up and down his ear.

The actual piercing took about five minutes and didn't hurt at all. The first time I went to get anything pierced, I was eight. I sat on a tiny bench at the mall while the gun was prepared. Only, I missed the memo about the part involving a gun. I screamed. Covered my ears. Ran o-u-t. Nothing like that was getting close to my ears. I told this all to my piercer. He looked at me like I was a nut case. This time, he used a needle and I slowly breathed while he stabbed me and put the earring in.

And it didn't even hurt!

Much.

-whitters

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Eight

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 19:35:00 +0000

So, I'm fairly good with words. You must agree if you're reading this. I like words. I like big words. Small words. New words. Nerdy words. One of my favorite books is the Phantom Tollbooth because of the proliferation of puns. (Apparently they are making it into a movie!!!)

JoHanna and I are in charge of writing a handbook for my work. The handbook is about kitchen remodeling. I have never remodeled anything nor do I know anything about it. But, here JoHanna and I are writing a handbook. It looks amazing, by the way, and is really good. I'd use it. After many drafts, we present our book to our boss. He looks at it. Reads it. Practically points out each word with his finger the way a kindergartener does. He stops.

'I don't like this word."

"Which word?"

"Problematic."

"Uh, why?"

"It's a Big Word."

"Problematic? I use it all the time...it's not a hard word..."

"Oh. Sorry. We didn't all go to [Fancy Liberal Arts University in Southern California]."

Blank stare. More blank stare. Really blank stare. This is starting to get problematic.

"Well. I've been speaking since I was six months old. I've been collecting words ever since. So..."

Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.

Apparently, problematic is now a Five Dollar Word.

pedantic, pretentious boor.

Side note: An ex-boyfriend's sister-in-law majored in journalism. At her Thank You All for Coming wedding speech, she said she didn't want to write anything down because it would probably sound pretentious.

Hey, congratulations. Not being pretentious? Didn't happen.

Then, the entire family made fun of her behind her back. Which is malicious, spiteful, or overbearing. See what I did there?

You might be addicted to books if...

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 18:48:00 +0000

thanks picaresque. i like that her url means pen name. :)

You buy your purses based on how many books you can fit inside. {Yes, yes, yes! Although, now that I have a Kindle, I don't need a big bag...}
The Fed Ex and UPS carriers, know you by name. [Well...not because of books. Usually because of the strange things I buy off of Etsy. But, that's a different post.]
Your family refuses to buy you books because they don't want to support your habit. [My family is full of enablers.]
You own multiple versions of the same book. [I do. But, usually because I lose them. Then find them. Then lose them again. Or ruin them with bathtub water or sand.]
You dream about books. (Getting them... meeting the authors that write them.) [Not sure about this one.]
You always have at least one book on you at all times. Even if it's just a quick trip to the dollar store. [Kindlegarten is with me at all times. Everywhere I go. Work, mall, car wash...]
You usually help shoppers at the bookstore, because you are more knowledgeable than the staff. [Noo...I did that once a Sephora though and I thought the girl working there might stab me with a makeup brush. Go Makeup Forever!]
You've been known to skip family functions or outings with friends because you can't stop reading. [Yes. I like books more than you.]
There are books in every room of your house. [Everywhere.]
If you are within five miles of a bookstore, you find yourself drawn to it like a homing device from the mothership. [I work by Barnes and Noble. I have to tell myself to look away.]

Yes, the lawn mower is a power tool

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 05:17:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 05:00:00 +0000

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.

GUMS

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 22:33:00 +0000

Ugh.

Because I have the worst genes in the world (Thanks Gramma), I am the lucky recipient of a....

FREE GINGIVAL GRAFT!

no, it's not free.

no, it's not fun.

don't Google it.

Trust me.

My mouth hurts.

That is all.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 7

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 13:00:00 +0000

As an avid reader, I tried fervently to emulate those writer whom I loved. As any girl who grew up in the 90s was want to do, I loved Ann M. Martin and Paula Danzinger. My friend Ashley and I were determined to write a book based on letters, just like our favorite characters Tara*Starr and Elizabeth. The characters in our own novel were deep and complex. My character’s name was Albany. Like the city in New York. Apparently great literary works tend to have girls with stripper names. We saved our stories on a floppy disk and passed it back and forth to each other. Ashely irritated my creative genius by balking at a chapter I wrote in which Albany fell from a fourth story window and was miraculously unharmed. Slipping in the floppy disk, I noticed she commented, “um. This isn’t realistic.” Forget realistic! Did this girl want a story or not!? Would the great Ann M. Martin let such a pesky thing as realism hold her back? No! Her characters were always doing ridiculous things like getting stranded on islands after competing in sailboat races. Stories needed drama. They needed excitement. “Fine. Maybe it was a second story window,” I conceded. We never did finish the story, but with a name like that, I’m sure Albany goes on to fall out sixth story windows, is hooked on drugs and rides a Harley. In her stripper heels. I learned to add creative flair, but not to be ridiculous. I mean, what kind of name is Albany?

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 6

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 13:00:00 +0000

By eleven, I was no longer hiding in the corner. I moved onto the glamorous world of broadcast journalism. Up in our tree house, I penned the talk of the town. Car crashes happened, babies were born, tornadoes zoomed through the city and ball games were won. Then, behind the official news desk of our trundle bed, my brother and I were live, my dad filming and our six year old sister forecasting the weather. She was at least as accurate as our local weatherman. I later related this tale to a boy in my Psych. class at BYU.

“And that,” I explained, “is why I want to be a journalist.”

He looked at me like I was, well, a girl who just told him her college education was based on a hide-a-bed, bad weather reports and fast-breaking news. We all can dream right? You’d think I would remember the Turkey Incident, but I didn’t. Sometimes people just don’t get it. Now, I tell myself, it’s important to tell the truth as a writer, but maybe not all of it at once.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 5

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 04:46:00 +0000

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: #3 and 4

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 15:22:00 +0000

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3. and 4.
As a girl of eight, I continued my lifelong quest to capture words. Their crisp type looked like ants marching across the page. Neat little rows. I wrote a Christmas story that began with, "'Hark!' The Herald Angles sang, as I watched them sing Christmas carols. I don't remember the rest of the story, but I remember being impressed with my ingenuity. I couldn't have been more proud than if I had actually penned the carol myself. My second grade teacher patiently read through each masterpiece and declared, "Please be more descriptive." The young writer was crushed and more than a little bit upset. But, I learned two lessons about writing: It's important to believe in yourself and it's also important to be willing to take criticism, to grow as a writer, an artists and mouse brown second grader with crooked teeth and a side ponytail.

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

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 23:26:00 +0000

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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.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 23:13:00 +0000

One:

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I've always considered myself a kind of dilettante. You know, Jack-of-All-Trades-Master-of-None. From collecting random facts, to playing the piano, drawing and eating copious amounts of bacon and chocolate, I do a lot of things moderately well. However, on particular trait stands out as a constant reminder that you don't choose your fate, fate chooses you. I've always been a writer.

Insieme

noreply@blogger.com (Whit) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 05:55:00 +0000

In about...

48 hours...

I will see:

This handsome boy.

Merry Christmas B.

Sure do love you.