...I Probably Shouldn't Have Said That?

This is going to be short because I have to take a nap write a paper.  I promise a longer entry soon.  With poorly-drawn pictures!

Last night, Ryan and I had a coupon for a Chinese restaurant downtown.  We had to wait a very long time for a table, so naturally we were both getting pretty racist hungry.  When I’m racist hungry, my brain to mouth filter starts to malfunction.  I was already on a role of saying stupid stuff since, one night earlier, Ryan had seen my non-filtered ambien mode. 

Ryan: I made chili, do you want a bite?

Me: I hate chili.

**Takes bowl from Ryan and eats all of the chili**

Me: I hate chili.

**Begins conversation with lamp**


Anyway, we finally got a table at the restaurant, filter mode was off, and Ryan decided to bring up WWII.

Ryan: So what do you feel was accomplished in WWII?

Me: What?

Ryan: You said you enjoyed talking about something serious.  WWII is serious right?

Me: Uh, yeah.  I guess it is.  What did I feel was accomplished in WWII?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me:  Well, we stopped Germany from becoming a world super power, and also it led to the basic plot scenario for Saving Private Ryan. Basically, it is now the plot for about 80% of all movies and video games.  WWII was probably the greatest thing to ever happen to us.

Someday soon I am going to get shot in the face by a veteran a stern talking to.

-Whitney

PS  I'm not racist at all, and I think WWII was awful, so please don't yell at me.

Dear Congress and Aquaman

This might be a lot of reading, but I believe in you!  Much more than I believe in myself.




Oh, you guys are just the best.  There is nothing like taking a break from hours of mind-numbing homework to learn that you were very close to being the cause of unplanned urination.

“I almost peed when I read your latest blog.” -Tabbatha Renea Maria Plomaritas

So once again I will be presenting an award since this is my favorite comment of the week.

I need to clarify that I did not spell “a lot” as “alot.” It is just smashed together.  I also found something new that I am awesome at drawing besides bald eagles and stars: a swirly.

I’m sorry that is has been so long between posts, but school is making it so when people ask me how I am, I just kind of grunt at them teaching me valuable life lessons.  Right now I should be writing a research paper about the BP oil spill.  I’m having to resist the urge to write about how Kevin Costner created a real-life Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that would clean all the oil while all of America sang a rousing rendition of “Toot Sweets,” but I have a feeling that my idea would be stupid brilliant not taken well. I also thought it would be hilarious important write about why Aquaman hasn’t done a blasted thing to save the turtles and also maybe why hippies haven’t sacrificed their bodies by using themselves to plug the leak.  Where are my dedicated hippies!?  Chugging soy milk and selling me water in paper cartons isn’t really helping any of us now, is it?

I’m going to write a letter to Aquaman.  And maybe Congress. Then I will hand in the letters I’ve written instead of my paper to my professor, and once again she will tell me to go sit in the hall, but that I can always come back inside if I calm down.

I just called Ryan.  To tell him that I was writing a letter to Aquaman.

Me: “So I am writing a letter to Aquaman.”
Ryan: “Okay.”
Me: “But I looked him up, and he’s like, really lame.  I don’t know how he could help with the oil spill.”
Ryan: “He could plug it with his butt.”

He doesn’t question me AND he provides an even dumber idea than I had????  I definitely married the right dude.

LETTERS
This is my letter to Congress:

Dear Congressmen (and women.  You all look very nice in your pant-suits today!),

I figured that is it my duty as an ignorant 20-something year old American to tell you what to do about this whole oil spill thingy we got goin’ on.  My very educated suggestions come from the advertising on facebook years of research.  I have come to learn that the spill has essentially been stopped.

However, I drink soy milk.

Whitney=Soy milk
Soy milk=Hippies/Lactose Intolerance/Lactose Intolerant Hippies
Hippies=Overly concerned about nature, but not so much about how they smell

By the transitive property:

Whitney=Overly concerned about nature, but not so much about how I smell.

So merely stopping the leak is not enough to please me or the cows that now have uncomfortably large udders because of me not drinking their milk.

Congress, I, a very concerned citizen, suggest that you use the bat signal assign your finest biologists the task of finding Aquaman and making him clean to oil spill.  If you’re not willing to find him yourself, I simply need a resurrected Sam Quint, and I also need a boat.  And sequins.

Obviously the best citizen,
Whitney

PS What’s Tina Fey’s address?
PPS I read yesterday that Sarah Palin got to add a word to the dictionary.  “Refudiate?”  I’d like you to refudiate her refudation and have you add my word into the dictionary.  I’d like it to be: “hicktanglo.”  If you have “hicktangloed,” then you have tied up a cowboy with his own lasso.  Thanks.

LETTER
This is my letter to Aquaman:

To whom is may concern (That’s you, Aquaman),

Earlier, I wrote this letter to you on paper, but when I went to mail it to you, via the ocean, the paper disintegrated because, Aquaman, I am an idiot.  I hope you can accept messages etched by my teeth on a slab of rock because this is the best that I can do. Don’t get picky now, Aquaman.

If you weren’t already aware, billions of gallons of oil have been leaking into your ocean over the past seven months or so.  Since you have not responded, I can only assume that you are dead and my two front teeth that are now ground down into tiny stumps from carving this message have been wasted.  Aquaman, please send me two replacement teeth.  Shark teeth are preferable.

My husband suggests that you get off of your butt and then use it to plug the oil leak, but don’t listen to him because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about 1) because the leak has stopped and 2) “butt-plugging” is not one of your listed powers. I, on the other hand, know that you possess the power to sense the primal emotions of aquatic creatures through "The Clear."  Do I have any idea what that means?  No I don’t, Aquaman, because I just Googled you about 30 seconds ago.  However, it sounds as if you know when your fish friends are sad, and let me tell you what, Aquaman, oil makes fish really sad. They are so sad that they are dead.

I would like you to consider this a threat:  I have emailed congress asking them to resurrect Sam Quint, and the two of us are going to team up to catch you by throwing sequins into the water because from your super outfit, I can deduce that you will totally like, come to the super shiny things that will make you look fabulous.  Once you’re caught, Sam Quint, you, and I will get super drunk and compare our scars.  There may also be singing.  But the singing will be in English, Aquaman, not in dolphin.  We will probably sing “All the Singles Ladies” in three-part harmony.  You should have plenty of time to prepare.

Take care (of the oil please),

Whitney

PS I found this picture of you.  Awkward teen years, Aquaman?

Well, I think I just earned an A.

-Whitney

UPDATE:  We now have a fan page on facebook, so look us up if you'd like!

Whitney’s Interaction with Jehovah’s Witnesses **UPDATED**

I was trying to think of something interesting to post, when I realized that all I had done today was 20 minutes of homework before I got distracted and spent about an hour debating with myself whether or not  “cushions” was actually spelled “cutions,” and I then remembered that I own a dictionary. 

I actually managed to start my homework, but then I got sidetracked and wanted to know if my conducting baton could actually stab someone because musical murder is probably the artsy-est type of murder wrong.  So then I poked my dog with my baton to see if it would even hurt him tickle, but he didn’t mind and then he wanted an ice cube.  Then I never practiced conducting because I realized that I probably would never be a conductor, and instead I would use my baton for stabbing tickling or assisting in some sort of up-do hairstyle.

Oh my goodness you guys, I’m going to be famous.  May I introduce you to “The Baton.”  Hip enough for prom, conservative enough for Bible study!

I’m seriously going to email Claire’s.

Here is my email to Claire.  I let you know if she responds:

You have to click on it.

And this is why I most certainly will be failing my midterm tomorrow.

Now I’m wearing sweatpants which is my most favorite thing besides all food, and I am eating my “lean” chicken alfredo lunch that came in an unopenable (spellcheck says that’s not a real word) box, and it is tasting a lot like someone shredded cardboard and dunked it in non-fat mayonnaise.  I’m realizing now that no one is forcing me to eat this, so I think I’ll stop and tell you about when I had a friendly conversation with got attacked by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

This story may be slightly exaggerated, but it actually stays pretty close to what happened.  If you don’t believe me, then you can take the time to hunt down my sister and ask her about the time that she almost made me leave a football game early because I was making a scene since the lady in front of us had hair that was SO big that I couldn’t see any of the game.  Run-on sentence. Also I think she was hiding cocaine in there.

ACTUAL STORY

I was frantically playing piano the other morning because I am supposed to practice for 10 hours each week which I never, ever do always do because I want to manage a Wendy’s someday be a musicology professor.  I heard someone knock on the door, and I thought it was probably a polite serial killer, so I opened the door.  It was a couple of older-looking ladies.  I assumed that their car had broken down and that, despite knowing nothing about cars, I would be able to fix it, and these women would give me a lifetime supply of free cookies.  Because that’s what old people do.  They. Make. Cookies.

Old ladies: Hi.

Me: Hey.

Old ladies:  We’d like to discuss prayer with you.

My brain: No.
My mouth: Sure, but I pray like all the time, so I think I got it down.

They never actually talked to me about prayer.  Instead, they asked where I went to school and I was all like, “Calvin.”  I think that going to a Christian college to them is like being taught by Satan while being bottled up in hell.  I didn’t want them to think that I had learned anything from Satan so I tacked on an, “It’s cool there” which was totally also a pun about the temperature so that they knew it was cold at Calvin, and whether a Jehovah’s Witness or not, everyone knows that Satan doesn’t like the cold so obviously he isn’t at Calvin.

They asked me what I was studying.

Me: “Music theory.” 

Old Ladies: “Ohhhh! What instruments do you play?”

Me: “The alpenhorn and the oboe.”

Old Ladies: “Ohhh! Lovely!”

They must have no idea what an alpenhorn is because it is not lovely at all.  Here’s a picture of an alpenhorn just in case you haven’t been carefully cataloging your German instruments for the past 5,000 years:

They smiled, but I knew that they were probably judging me.  I automatically assume that all door-to-door religious types agree that all women should do nothing, but cook and stuff so I said, “...but I know I shouldn’t go to college because I’m a woman and I shouldn’t do anything I like, and I should probably go put a steak on my husband’s TV tray because he likes to eat while he watches anime.”

They were all like, *stare.*

So I kept talking which I probably should not have done. “...but I guess it’s okay because now I can serenade him on the alpenhorn while he sits on his fat, but well respected, butt and does his daily Biblical crossword puzzle.”

No, I didn’t say that last part.

*Clarification*
Ryan is not fat at all, and I love him dearly.  In my Jehovah’s Witness fantasy, he is very fat.  And I’ve also never seen him to a crossword puzzle, but he should because it exercises the mind.

Eventually the ladies left, and I got back on twitter continued to practice the piano.

I left the pamphlets for my mother in case she felt like converting to crazy, but when I got home and inquired if she had read them, she was all like “I threw those straight in the garbage.  I’m not even recycling them.”  So you should all be thankful that my mother has kept you from, somewhere in the future, purchasing animal bedding made from our Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets.  Then I thought about how many people probably do recycle those pamphlets and that probably almost all animal bedding is made from Jehovah’s Witness material.

-Whitney

**UPDATE**
I just wanted to make mention of the new blogroll on the right side of the screen.  These are all people I find to be hilarious, or awesome, or inspiring, or hardworking, or absolutely insane.  This is my warning to you... The Bloggess, although she will make you cry and wet yourself because she is so funny, is also very vulgar.  Don't go there if you are easily offended, and there are definitely some posts that you should skip altogether.

ALSO!

If you would like to be added to our blogroll, shoot us an email or leave a comment with your URL, and we will check out your site! 

I have officially gone insane.

I have a tendency to talk to inanimate objects. That's not that unusual, right? Everyone, including me, curses their work computer (you'll notice I specify "work" computer. My home computer and I have a very good relationship, and I only speak lovingly to him…..it.), or coaxes the senile toaster into doing its job…right?? 

But I think in my case, it's maybe gotten a bit out of hand.

For example, today I had a conversation with Vladimir.

Vladimir is my car. We haven't known each other that long, but we are becoming quite close. I named him Vladimir after the jolly mustached man in the movie Anastasia.

(guy on the left)

I have always liked that movie, and I likewise named my Macbook after another character in said movie, Bartok the bat. 

I also have been reading way too much Tolstoy and have grown to like Russian names. Hence, Vladimir seemed to fit. 

Anyways, today as I was searching for Vladimir in the very large parking lot of my place of employment so that I could warm him up before my mom and I left for the day, I began monologuing, and it went something like this…

Vladimir, where the cuss are you?!?! Oh! There you are Vladimir. Did you miss me? See, you needn't have worried, I was just at work, and I am back now. Now, I know you want to go home, but we have to wait for momma, ok? She'll be here in just a minute…….

We (I) said some more stuff after that, but I don't really remember it all and I'd rather not disclose it. I think I was pondering aloud how Vladimir would look with a beard, but decided he should stick with the clean cut look.

And then I realized that maybe I need to find some friends.

-Rachel

Coffee Cup Sizes and Dr. House

Before I begin hating on coffee cups, I want to share with you the two most beautifully encouraging comments that I received this week.  We’ve been up and running for only one week, and we have gotten TONS of positive feedback about making you guys laugh which happens to be our goal.

“Whitney Bradley, The writings of you and Rachel Dupont HAVE made me laugh like a FOOL! Keep it going :)” -Hannah Nobel

“Hi Whitney, you don't know me. I'm Rachel's brother's girlfriend's eldest brother. Your blog is amazing. It looks great. I can read it easily. The white text on black background is the way to go. Also, everything both of you write is pure gold. Keep it up or you may have a revolt of at least 8 people. No pressure.” -Adam Plomaritas

So I made you guys an award for being my favorite people:

Those things at the top that look like butts are actually very intricately drawn bald eagles, you just can’t tell because your mind isn’t used to art of this magnitude.

REAL STORY

The other night, I was driving my two-hour drive back to Jackson when it suddenly hit me...if I didn’t get some coffee in the next two minutes, I would be sad was going to die. Probably from a brain aneurysm because my head felt a little funny. 

Oh, shout out to whoever finds me after I have this aneurysm (my head still feels funny): I would like you to get me Dr. House.  Don’t tell me he’s made-up.  I would like him to be my doctor, and I would like you to ask him to please skip his two wrong diagnoses and get right to his third correct one.  Also if you could tell him to not discover something extra, like that I am a man or that I’m pregnant with eight children who are being absorbed by my small intestine, that would be great.  The show “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant” has taught me that whether your a guy or a girl, fat or skinny, there is about an 85% chance that a baby is going to fall out of you at any second and that stuff freaks me out.  So I really need to spend most of my time continuing to worry about that and not something else.

So I stopped to get some coffee.

I can’t remember the name of the obscure no-name coffee shop, but it probably had the word “java” or “mocha” in it.  Then the owner probably tried to make it something cute, so maybe they called the coffee shop “Polk-a-Mocha” which is supposed to sound like “polk-a-dot” but it sounds nothing like “polk-a-dot” because they are idiots.  Then you sit on the bench outside Polk-a-Mocha in the dark, amongst the serial killers, wondering if the name of the shop is instead somehow related to James K. Polk since no one could be so stupid that they think “mocha” is a proper substitute for the word “dot.”  Forty minutes later, you realize that who the heck cares why some no-talent Indie musician names his coffee shop Polk-a-Mocha and now you don’t even want your latte.  I have no idea what the name of the coffee shop was, it wasn’t Polk-a-Mocha, I just hate cute coffee shop names.

If Polk-a-Mocha is a real place, I made a new banner for you:

I got in line behind a sixty-something man who was telling the guy in front of him that “they should really put this stuff in an IV” as if he was the first person to tell the coffee IV joke.  I wanted to tell Old Guy that I was there, twenty years ago when that joke was told for the first time, and I crawled out of my crib and punched the person who said it with my baby fists.  Also if you injected coffee straight into your veins, you would probably die, and death isn’t funny and also it’s just a bad joke. I held myself back, but I did make him this award since I was making one anyway and I found a yellow marker that I hadn’t used yet:

He gets a star because it’s the only thing I can draw besides the bald eagles.

When I was about eleven, my cousin taught me the art of ordering at Starbucks.  After pronouncing “grande” as “grand” for a couple months, I got the hang of it.  However, I’m still intimidated every time I go into Starbucks because all of their employees like, genuinely want to know how I am doing.  Their kindness confuses me so my mind overcompensates and I end up yelling “I want a mocha. CALM DOWN.”  Then there was the other time that they asked me how I was, and I started crying because of the Holocaust. They gave me free coupons because Starbucks cares about my feeling, you guys.

Anyways, I have learned that Starbucks must not have managed to obtain sole ownership of the words “tall,” grande,” and “venti,” but they somehow managed to have rights over the ordering them “tall,” “grande,” “venti.”  That means every other coffee shop on the planet also has a “tall,” “grande,” and “venti,” but they are all jumbled up in a random order so that you never really know what size you’re going to get.  Sometimes  when you order a “tall” it’s like, “here’s your magnifying glass so you can find your coffee. sucks to be you.” And other times they practically have to hire a helicopter to airlift your drink from some sort of military base.  I was at (not) Polk-a-Mocha, and I wanted a “Starbuck’s tall.”  I ordered and was waiting for my coffee when I realized that the barista practically needed a semi-truck to haul my drink to the counter.  It turns out that she just had impressive semi-truck-like upper-body strength.  This is also when it started to make sense why I just paid about $26 for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t question them Polk-a-Mocha because I have an anxiety disorder I’m super rich.

 
I kinda looked down at the coffee cup, well, I guess I looked up at the coffee cup since it was practically equally proportional to the Washington Monument (that might be an exaggeration).  Then I told the barista in my best valley girl accent that this cup like, totally would not be fitting into my cup-holder.  She really didn’t care, but she should have because now there is officially material about her on the interwebs.  Then I asked, “ummm, could you maybe put this into two smaller cups?”  She though this was a really stupid idea.  She said that if she gave me two cups, she would also have to give me two lids and two sleeves which would cost the company like forty whole cents.  I told her I only really needed one hand to drive, so I could skip one of the sleeves and get 3rd degree burn which would only cost her about twenty-eight cents and also a hospital bill.  I added, “IT’S FOR MY CAR SAFETY.”  She still didn’t care, so I asked her if I could borrow a red wagon (the color matters) and some bungee cords to get my coffee to the car and properly secure it to my roof.  I might not have said that last part, but I thought it, and is was a good thought.

This is getting too long so here’s a quick summary of everything else that happened once I got my coffee to the car:  I balanced by cup in the passenger’s seat, hit the rumble strip every 15 seconds as I tried to get a drink, did the “mom arm” to keep the coffee from spilling when I had to brake for stoplights, and also I was up until 5am because I was so hyped up on twenty gallons of coffee.

-Whitney

PS  France may or may not have emailed me today and they may or may not have included this picture.  Apparently I’m a big deal over there seeing as I watch all over all of parliament.  Basically I run the French government.

Sort of fun day at work...

I am a typist, which means I sit in a cubicle typing lots of technical words and numbers that all sort of look the same after eight hours straight. (*side note: "cubicle" is a fancy word for "large box". They only call it a cubicle because it is not socially acceptable to keep people in boxes, but if you call it something different then it sounds more humane so there are fewer risks of getting sued for human rights violations.) 

Anyways, the other day there was not much typing work to do so I was asked to help out in other areas, doing monkey work. "Monkey work" is what I call the work that a toilet trained monkey could handle, but they assign it to me because the Michigan climate is not good for monkeys, and, more importantly, I probably cost less.

First, I was told to tear down a bunch of cardboard boxes. This was fun, in a vindictive sort of way. 

Next, I was asked to go back to my computer and type/cut out some labels to put onto the doors of the supply cupboards. I spent the next hour painstakingly determining an adequate font size, adjusting the outer dimensions, and cutting them out with the edges as straight and smooth as I possibly could. My efforts were partially due to a bit of perfectionism/OCD, but mostly, I just figured that the more time I spent on monkey work, the less time in the afternoon I would have left for my regular boring typing duties. Let's face it, cutting and measuring and pasting is way more fun than documenting.

Before I could put the labels onto the cupboard doors, however, I had to remove the old labels from the doors. The woman I was working for asked me if I was ok with working with chemicals, to better remove the adhesive.

Of course I am ok with chemicals. Chemicals are fun!! You can use chemicals to explode things!!! And chemicals are the chief source of super powers and mutation. The more you work with chemicals, the more likely it is that you will get to be a super hero!!

Instead of saying this, however, I calmly and professionally replied that I had no objection to using chemicals. Had I explained why, she probably would've sent me down to HR for counseling, and then I wouldn't get to play with chemicals at all, now would I? ….I mean, "work." Work with chemicals, yes.

So, armed with a bottle of paint thinner (to dissolve the adhesive), some paper towels (to apply the paint thinner) and a scraper (to scrape the gunky gunk off), I donned a pair of latex gloves and got to it.

Latex gloves are exciting to me. I always feel so sophisticated and doctor-ish when I wear them, and I couldn't help but pretend I was in one of those hospital tv shows like Grey's Anatomy.

So I scraped away at those labels as if a man's life (and major organs) were in my hands.

So finally I finished with surgery, and I wiped the sweat from my forehead and ripped those gloves off my hands the way that surgeons do, turning them inside out in one quick snap so all the blood and guts and paint thinner stays on the inside. 

Then it was time to apply my new labels where the old labels had been. I had spent over an hour on these things, using extensive trial and error and throwing away many before I got it just right. Then I laminated them, because everything looks better when it's behind shiny plastic, and trimmed the edges nicely. As I did this, I had been wondering if anyone would notice my work, if they would look critically and admiringly at those cabinet doors and talk amongst themselves about how much nicer they were than their predecessors. I imagined it something like this... 

Just when I had decided that most likely no one would even notice that the labels had been changed but she who had told me to do it in the first place, someone else happened to walk by, glance at the labels I had made, and say in all seriousness, "WOW, those are NICE!!!"

That's good enough for me.

Hey, it beats sitting in that darn box. There you go, monkeys. You could be filthy rich for your species and severely over worked, but because of me, you are still in the jungle munching on green bananas while I perform intense label surgery. You're welcome.

PS Hey, cubicle! Remember your cousins? That's right--you're next!!! 

-Rachel

The Time that Brushing My Teeth was Nearly a Momentous Occasion ...and One Thing I was Thinking About

I know this is a lot of reading, but I love you, so you can’t give up on me!


Things I was thinking about

Stripper Poles
I was discussing stripper poles with Ryan.  I’m not sure how we got to this topic, but lately I have been trying to avoid serious conversations to the point that if I hear you say, “Whitney...I have this problem...” I will say “awww,” but I will be thinking about karate chopping you in your Adam’s apple.  Anyway, stripper poles are relatively non-threatening topic.  I think I said that I didn’t understand the appeal of stripper poles.  Whenever I see one (on TV of course) I have never thought, “wow, it would be wicked fun to dance all sexy on that.”  On the contrary, I tend to want to put on a fireman’s hat, cut a hole in the roof, and slide down while making European siren noises.  You know, “eeee ooo eee ooo” not the American “weeeooowwwwweeeeooowwww.”  Then Ryan was all like, “what if we combined the uses of metal poles and our firemen slid down the poles in lingerie as they went to put out fires?”  And then I smiled at him and told him that I married him for brilliant ideas like these.  Now, when my house is on fire someday, I very much hope that the firemen show up at my house in red panties and a push-up bra.  I would probably still say “hey, why the panties bro?”  And he would be like, “who are you to question MY fireman wardrobe choice and also please move out of my way because your house is on fire.”

Before I get to the actual story, I need to introduce you to two of my favorite people.

This is my mother.

This is my mother in the 90s when she had a “bouf.”

This is her killing me when she finds out I have posted hideous pictures of her after she specifically said, “don’t you dare post hideous pictures of me on your (stupid) blog.”

I love my mother dearly.  Together, she and my father have blessed me with copious amounts of hair, the ability to bottle my emotions with minimal explosions, untamable anxiety, the need to drink least two lattes each day to function, and the desire to be involved in insane shenaniganary.  Most importantly, my mother has bestowed upon me her feistiness. I can’t think of a less gay word to describe my mother, so I’m going to go ahead and dub her as “fierce.”

This is my sister, Kelsey, “Seestor.”  Apply a Russian accent as you feel appropriate when reading “Seestor.”

No words could possibly encompass the vastness of Seestor’s madness.  I think I’ll sum it up with this: Once she fake died for 40 minutes.  You think I’m kidding you because no one possibly has the stamina to do such a thing, but she did.  And I am proud.  She didn’t even take a break.  I was in the basement when I heard her screaming and shrieking so I emerged from the basement to watch.  I watched for awhile as she fell/flopped on the floor/whatever furniture she found herself around as she dramatically threw herself about the living room.  I was secretly hoping that she would knock herself out by flopping onto the corner of the coffee table or something, but that failed.  Eventually I got bored and left, but she continued her death scene for another half an hour.

All this to say, Kelsey is, without a doubt, the most hard core person I know.

Actual Story!

When I lived at home and Kelsey was still in high school, “bedtime” was my favorite part of the day.  We shared a bathroom (the room with sinks is connected to a separate shower room) and it takes Kelsey about 3 1/2 hours to take a “quick shower,” so we almost always ran into each other.  She is usually yelling at me, “why can’t you flush before you open the door!?” then I would verbally insult her which leads her to randomly grab one of my body parts with angst.  One glorious evening, as Kelsey and I were brushing our teeth and taking turns making faces at each other in the mirror using only our eyebrows, the door burst open and in came my mother holding up the “stop in the name of love/stop it’s Hammer time” hand as she scream “SSSSTTTTTOOOOPPPPPPPPP!”

“Holy expletive,” I thought.  “She has either replaced our toothpaste with cyanide to kill us off, or she has added some kind of acid to melt our teeth and make us all gummy like some ninety year old woman named Ruth. Either way, she is now rushing in here, currently regretting her decision.  But it is too late; I am going to die/be gummy.”  This is a warning to my mother: If you ever do try to disintegrate my teeth with an acid or some type of weaponized Mountain Dew concentrate so that all I have left is gums, I will gnaw on your leg when you least expect it.  This will be uncomfortable for both of us, but mostly for you.  Beware, woman.

Then she made some crazy eyes at us and said:

And so I witnessed the largest overreaction. Ever.


My mother began to calm herself down, and as she did,  I stared at my mom, slightly curious about why she feels that our gums didn’t deserve to be cleaned by a medium-grade bristled toothbrush, which I gotta be honest, I had no idea existed.  If I knew that there were different levels of toothbrush, I long ago would have purchased myself the “you will bleed profusely, but your friends will think you’re cool” level and watched my mouth bleed as I flexed in the mirror.  Then the dentist would call me things like “dedicated” and not “irresponsible for only flossing your teeth the morning before you come to visit me, the dentist.”

This is basically the end of my story, I just really wanted you to see how my mom looks with crazy eyes.

-Whitney