Being a Better Adult One Baby Step at a Time

I’ve experienced two wake-up calls recently.

The first was the unavoidable and somewhat shocking realization that I am an adult. You would think at the ripe age of 34, I would have been smacked by this fact a bit sooner, but I wasn’t. Somehow, I was able to sustain a blissful state of youthful ignorance for most of my life. But eventually, that son of a bitch named Reality will come stampeding up behind you and sling his lasso around your throat, yanking you from your proverbial hobby horse. It may be a relatively short fall to earth, but man does it sting.

Campbell County Annual Reality Wrangle, 2014.

Campbell County Annual Reality Wrangle, 2014.

But, as bad as wake-up call number one hurt, the second left an even bigger bruise:

I totally and completely SUCK at being an adult. Really and truly friends, I am not good at this shit AT ALL.

When it came to being a child, I freaking crushed it. Not to brag, but if I were ever going to have a kid, I would want to have myself. I was awesome. I shared my toys, rarely ever pitched any kind of fit; I was friendly and happy. I hit all my milestones ahead of schedule, I was smart and followed the rules. In summary, I was a dang delight. So what the hell happened?

My theory – adulthood snuck into my life like a thief in the night. It did not announce itself and it refused to make its presence known. Pretty jerk move, if you ask me. How am I supposed to win this game when I didn’t even know we started playing? Ironically, adulthood is kind of like that bratty kid we all played hide and seek with at least once in our younger years. The one who tells you to hide while he counts to 100, but only counts to 15 and acts like a damn playground champion when he grabs your shoulder proclaiming, “Got ya!” Big whoop, adulthood. You’re a shitty winner, I’m an equally lousy loser, and you don’t play fair.

“1, 2, 8, 59, 100. Ready or not, I’m coming for you, sucker!"

“1, 2, 8, 59, 100. Ready or not, I’m coming for you, sucker!”

Needless to say, these two startling revelations were the source of some serious lamenting. I talked to Red about my conundrum, and although he reassured me that in his eyes I was perfect, I knew beyond all reasonable doubt I was in dire need of self-improvement. For my age, I’m slightly too irresponsible. I seldom make plans; I don’t set goals as often as I should. I sometimes act without thinking things all the way through, I’m neurotic and I have a host of crappy habits. In short, when it comes to being  an adult, I’m kind of a dimwit.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think it’s wonderful to carry a healthy level of child-like exuberance into your mature years. But there is no dignity in being the sort of grown-up who can’t grasp a basic understanding of a 401K and can’t manage to ever muster the ambition required to fold and hang clean laundry in any sort of organized fashion.

But there are so many changes to tackle that as I continued soul-searching with Red, I became seriously overwhelmed. In my fledgling quest to become a better version of myself, the to-do list was rapidly growing, stretching longer than the coupon laden receipts you get at the grocery store.

receipt

And then the solution for which I was fervently searching illuminated my mind, like a light bulb being switched to the on position directly above my head.

Maybe, in order to be a better adult, one might be best served starting with baby steps.

As ironic as this logic may sound, I felt good about this idea and got started right away. I made a plan to begin chipping away at 5 specific goals. (See? I’m already planning and setting goals! Check two adulty things off my list.) While I won’t share each of these itsy bitsy improvements with you, I will divulge the first and most frivolous one, mainly because I’m kicking ass at it, and it’s quite appropriate for the theme of this post.

babystep1Goal #1 = To finally stop biting my damn nails.

Seriously, it’s about time I got around to breaking this terrible and super-embarrassing habit. In my defense, however, I’m pretty sure I used my teeny tiny nails in place of teething rings, so I’ve been at this a while. Whether you chew tobacco or chew on finger tips, even gross habits are difficult to discontinue when they’ve been a part of your routine for so many years. However, I’ve been off the nail-noshing for 24 days now, and my fingers are already looking less like those of a nasty nine year old and more like those of a lady. Therefore, I am tentatively putting this one in the WIN column.

Screw your maturity. I have you on my sites and I’m toddling my child-like little ass straight towards you at lightning speed. As I mentioned earlier, I kicked booty at reaching milestones in my youth, and this time shall be no different. You may have got a head-start, but I’m a fast learner.

I’m coming for you adulthood, one baby step at a time.

Being a better adult, one baby step at a time.

I’ve experienced two wake-up calls recently.

The first was the unavoidable and somewhat shocking realization that I am an adult. You would think at the ripe age of 34, I would have been smacked by this fact a bit sooner, but I wasn’t. Somehow, I was able to sustain a blissful state of youthful ignorance for most of my life. But eventually that son of a bitch named Reality will come stampeding up behind you and sling his lasso around your throat, yanking you from your proverbial hobby horse. It may be a relatively short fall to earth, but man does it sting.

Campbell County Annual Reality Wrangle, 2014.

But, as bad as wake-up call number one hurt, the second left an even bigger bruise:

I totally and completely SUCK at being an adult. Really and truly friends, I am not good at this shit AT ALL.

When it came to being a child, I freaking crushed it. Not to brag, but if I were ever going to have a kid, I would want to have myself. I was awesome. I shared my toys, rarely ever pitched any kind of fit; I was friendly and happy. I hit all my milestones ahead of schedule, I was smart and followed the rules. In summary, I was a dang delight. So what the hell happened?

My theory – adulthood snuck into my life like a thief in the night. It did not announce itself and it refused to make its presence known. Pretty jerk move, if you ask me. How am I supposed to win this game when I didn’t even know we started playing? Ironically, adulthood is kind of like that bratty kid we all played hide and seek with at least once in our younger years. The one who tells you to hide while he counts to 100, but only counts to 15 and acts like a damn playground champion when he grabs your shoulder proclaiming, “Got ya!” Big whoop, adulthood. You’re a shitty winner, I’m an equally lousy loser, and you don’t play fair.

“1, 2, 8, 59, 100. Ready or not, I’m coming for you, sucker!”

Needless to say, these two startling revelations were the source of some serious lamenting. I talked to Red about my conundrum, and although he reassured me that in his eyes I was perfect, I knew beyond all reasonable doubt I was in dire need of self-improvement. For my age, I’m slightly too irresponsible. I seldom make plans; I don’t set goals as often as I should. I sometimes act without thinking things all the way through, I’m neurotic and I have a host of crappy habits. In short, when it comes to being  an adult, I’m kind of a dimwit.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think it’s wonderful to carry a healthy level of child-like exuberance into your mature years. But there is no dignity in being the sort of grown-up who can’t grasp a basic understanding of a 401K and can’t manage to ever muster the ambition required to fold and hang clean laundry in any sort of organized fashion.

But there are so many changes to tackle that as I continued soul-searching with Red, I became seriously overwhelmed. In my fledgling quest to become a better version of myself, the to-do list was rapidly growing, stretching longer than the coupon laden receipts you get at the grocery store.

And then the solution for which I was fervently searching illuminated my mind, like a light bulb being switched to the on position directly above my head.

Maybe, in order to be a better adult, one might be best served starting with baby steps.

As ironic as this logic may sound, I felt good about this idea and got started right away. I made a plan to begin chipping away at 5 specific goals. (See? I’m already planning and setting goals! Check two adulty things off my list.) While I won’t share each of these itsy bitsy improvements with you, I will divulge the first and most frivolous one, mainly because I’m kicking ass at it, and it’s quite appropriate for the theme of this post.

Seriously, it’s about time I got around to breaking this terrible and super-embarrasing habit. In my defense however, I’m pretty sure I used my teeny tiny nails in place of teething rings, so I’ve been at this a while. Whether you chew tobacco or chew on finger tips, even gross habits are difficult to discontinue when they’ve been a part of your routine for so many years. However, I’ve been off the nail-noshing for 24 days now, and my fingers are already looking less like those of a nasty nine year old and more like those of a lady. Therefore, I am tentatively putting this one in the WIN column.

Screw you maturity. I have you in my sites and I’m toddling my child-like little ass straight towards you at lightning speed. As I mentioned earlier, I kicked booty at reaching milestones in my youth, and this time shall be no different. You may have got a head-start, but I’m a fast learner.

I’m coming for you adulthood, one baby step at a time.

What’s in a name? Sometimes a racial slur.

What is wrong with people?

I came across an old picture the other day, and since I’ve yet to master the appropriate way to celebrate Throw-Back-Thursday, I thought I’d share it with you. But before I reveal the photo, I owe you a quick explanation.

In a prior job, one of my daily tasks was to interview people who were applying to college. I would schedule appointments with prospective students, and upon their arrival to the school lobby, they were asked to sign-in on the visitor’s sheet. It was the standard sign-in sheet, asking for their name, the current time and the name of the person they were here to see. It’s pretty customary shit, people.

My name is Whitney. Although that’s not a terribly difficult name to spell, I fully understand that it’s not a beginner level name like Jan or Sue. I’ve learned over the years to expect misspells. I’ve seen Witney, Whittney, Wendy and even Brittany a million times over, and I’m completely okay with that. I don’t even flinch.

But on August 4th, 2011, I did flinch. Twice.

Flinch #1:

That’s right. At 9am, I strolled out to the lobby only to realize the student I was greeting had renamed me “Wintey” while I wasn’t looking. As in, rhymes with “minty”. Although I found the spelling a bit odd, I shook the student’s hand and walked my spearminty ass down the hall towards my office like nothing ever happened. I’m a professional, dammit!

But then, 4pm rolled around, and with it came Flinch #2:

Tango.

Foxtrot.

I did a double-take. I lifted the sheet closer to my face, squinting my eyes in disbelief of what I was reading.

WETNECK!?!

How in the holy hell did anyone mistake the name Whitney for WETNECK? God rest her soul, I thought Whitney Houston was a household name, which should render a mistake of this magnitude impossible! And even if they thought I introduced myself as “Wetneck” during our phone conversation, why wouldn’t they have questioned it???

And what exactly is a Wetneck anyway? I was curious, and therefore posted the photo that evening to my Facebook page, where my friend Paula enlightened me.

hanks, Paula. Maybe the kid wasn’t a moron, but instead just using my name to test out a newly invented racial slur. Great.

Have people botched your name before? Share your entries to the idiot name-game below.

Sincerely,

Wetneck

You’re right fellas – women aren’t funny: Exhibit A

We all know women aren’t funny.

How many times do we have to tell you?

And if you didn’t know that, just ask your nearest dude. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Lest I forget how unfunny us women-folk are, I was recently reminded of this simple fact a few weeks ago. The hubs and I had two of our dearest friends over, a married couple whom we love like family, to enjoy our deck, the sunshine and a few margaritas. Things were going swimmingly, as per usual, until the topic turned to comedians and our male friend very matter-of-factly stated:

Women just aren’t that funny.

And…he elaborated:

There’s not one female comic I would pay money to see. I mean, they just aren’t that good.

And there it was. The comment I have heard so many times before, lesser minds would think there were truth to it. But there isn’t, friends. Which is why, after I managed to hoist my chin from the table and blink myself back into consciousness, I immediately began forming my well-rehearsed rebuttal to spew in his direction.

Let’s do this!

I locked my eyes on him. I was ready, was he? He better be, considering I had heard this shitty statement so many times that my list of hilarious-ladies-you-can’t-deny had grown longer and was well practiced. But before I could begin my argument which usually started with, “For the love of Christ, what about Carol Burnett?”, I stopped myself.

What did you say?

Why? Because I was exhausted. Attempting to turn a Doubting Thomas into a believer one person at a time is hard work. Nope, this time I would just agree with him. Aggressively agree with him.

You’re exactly right! I said.

Silly women, thinking they’re so funny! I agreed.

Screw those mediocre, mammary gland sporting lady jokesters. Posers! I proclaimed.

Since I assumed his funny bone had been fractured at a young age in some terrible accident, I felt confident the sarcasm soaked comments might escape him. And they did. And I felt better. And I giggled a little on the inside. But only a little, because chicks aren’t that funny!

7 out of 10 Doctors state that an increase in testosterone positively impacts a female’s humor glands. Source: American Journal Of Shit That’s Not True.

So to commemorate this oh so factual statement that us ladies are lacking in the humor department, this will be the first in a regular series on my blog entitled: You’re right fellas – women aren’t funny. For each entry, I’ll submit some support for this argument, by offering up a lady or ladies that possess the audacity to consider themselves funny, as proof that you dudes are right!

And since I’m new to blogging and therefore blogging is on my mind pretty much constantly, Exhibit A will center around some of the most anti-hilarious, skirt-wearing, beholders of boobies in the post publishing world.

I submit to you as evidence:

1. Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half. This Brosh bitch isn’t funny at all. Don’t read anything she’s written. Least of all this.

2. Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess. I’ve read all her stuff. Couldn’t crack a smile. See? Cholera is no laughing matter!

3. Abby Heugel of Abby Has Issues. She’s so funny I forgot to laugh. Plus, she’s glamorous, which is annoying.

See what I mean? Not funny at all! [eyeroll, eyeroll, eyeroll] And definitely don’t let their flashy book deals and sizable fan-bases fool you. Those gals obviously have no game.

Have any other female bloggers you’d like to toss under the funny bus? Please feel free to out similar impostors below. Promise not to laugh.

Happy belated birthday, Donald Sterling!

I was in a bit of a panic this morning when I realized that on April 26th, I had been negligent in celebrating the 80th birthday of good ole’ boy, Donald Sterling. I mean, in my defense, I was probably busy that day doing things like being-a-better-freaking-person-than-him or having non-racist conversations with my other crazy non-racist friends, (you know – mind-boggling stuff).

You must understand – your average, evolved human being has a lot less damn time on their hands! Seriously people! Exhibit A: my DVR. When you have love and respect for other humans regardless of race, gender or sexual orientation, do you have any idea how many more television shows and movies that opens a person up to?!? Denzel Washington alone has made approximately 842 amazing movies! And The Ellen Show is on EVERY FREAKING DAY!!! It’s nearly impossible to keep up.

Pro-tip: Watching them both together saves TIME.

But I digress, that’s my cross to bear and is certainly no excuse for missing such a notable figure’s birthday. Since my greetings were to be belated, a card alone would not do. Nope, I had to find a gift. But what do you get the degenerate tycoon in your life that has everything? Just as panic began creeping back in, my internet search led me to the mecca of one-stop shopping; the store that has anything and everything and the very place that has saved my ass for three Christmases and counting. That’s right, Amazon.com had my back! Just before I was about to throw in the towel, Amazon presented me with this lil’ nugget:

The product rating is decent and it’s IN STOCK. Do you think he’ll like it??? Fingers crossed, y’all!

These people certainly had some encouraging things to say.

Winner, winner – chicken and watermelon dinner, I think we found it folks. Donald is sure to be impressed. With the help of Amazon, I have very fortunately stumbled across the perfect present for the ginormous, racist asshole in your life. You are welcome.

And as a side note, I would love to quickly point your attention to the “Customers Who Viewed This Also Viewed” section for this item.

I have tried and tried, I promise, to ascertain the correlation between these products. Thus far, I’ve come up empty. Maybe just maybe, one of you can shed some light on this for me. For now, all I can hope is it has something to do with the inarguable fact that anyone who would purchase a black face bottle opener is a real dick.

Happy belated birthday, douchebag Donald!

           Love – dee dubya

PS: Yes. That’s a real product, you guys. I can’t make this shit up.

PPS: No, I don’t understand it either.

PPPS: Hell in a hand basket. Totally where this world is going. At record speed.

dimwhit tells the future…

From time to time, I enjoy dusting off my crystal ball and sharing a few bold predictions with my readers. And though I’m not a professional clairvoyant, I’d like to hope that my occasional dip in the tea-leaves is accurate more than 10% of the time.

And let me tell you folks – I’m feeling pretty confident about my first foray as an oracle. So basically, mark this shit down. It’s gonna happen.

Light a candle and open your minds. My first dimwhit prediction is:

____________[insert drumroll]______________

2014 marks the first year of Bobwa Favwa.

Go long, Whoopi!

What’s exactly is that, you ask? Simple. Barbara Walters, affectionately dubbed in some circles as Bobwa Wawa, will morph into the network television rendition of professional football’s legendary Brett Favre.

I understand, girl.

I mean, it’s already begun. For years people have speculated her retirement, and for years she’s shrugged such speculation telling us with reverence that she’d bow out when she was ready, and she just yet wasn’t. Until that day, I think it was about 2.75 years ago (at least that’s what it feels like), when she finally announced the time had come. The nation heaved an audible collective gasp and I think we all know where we were that day. Say it isn’t so Barbara!

But then, she comforted us by promising to do what any legend should – she was going to milk that damn retirement for all its worth. That’s right, Barbara is far too iconic for a two week notice. Instead, the female broadcasting pioneer turned legend was breaking it to us gently with a 12 month heads-up, giving all of us ample opportunity to kiss her ass pay tribute to her accomplishments and show our affection. And to further sooth us, she keeps threatening reassuring us that she’s not leaving entirely. As she insinuates, she’ll pop in from time to time to say hello and steal cover the interviews and stories that compel her. Thank heavens!

So, there you have it, friends. While we all know Babs should probably enjoy her long, long, long, long, long deserved retirement and perhaps take a little time to enjoy the view,  2014 is the year of this:

You know I’m right on this one…

unTrue Hollywood Story – Beavis Edition

If you’re a product of the 80’s or a fan of crass, simpleton humor paired with mediocre animation, then like me you catch yourself at times pondering the fate of former MTV star – Beavis. His stint as a title character in the popular 90’s sitcom, “Beavis and Butt-Head”, brought him into the homes of American families for 4 entertaining and thought-provoking seasons. But, since his days in the limelight as a child actor, little is known about the thespian we grew to love. Until now.

Our research team got to work on uncovering the details of the actor’s life, both personal and professional, and began piecing together his sorted biography. After 97 minutes of intense, grueling internet searches, and absolutely zero fact-checking or witness interviews, the crew hit pay dirt. Beavis was alive and well…and working. But the road to his Hollywood redemption would not be without potholes. Instead, we found his path to reclaiming stardom littered with struggle and one very shocking twist.

His story picks up where many of us last saw him, working alongside childhood friend, Butt-Head, on what would be one of television’s first unscripted dramas. Discovered by Mike Judge, the two were pitched by tv execs to be filmed in their home by cameramen, having their lives documented for the entire world to see.

Blinded by potential fame and dollar signs, the two agreed to the terms and filming began in March of 1993. Initially, it was an ideal underdog story. Two teenage boys, destined to flunk high school and with no realistic plans to support themselves long-term, suddenly becoming household names with disposable income. But, as many of us know, a sudden transition from rags to riches can takes its toll, and Beavis and Butt-Head were no exception to this cliche.

By the time the show reached its fourth season, tension on set was rising and a noticeable rift was forming between the boys. Citing creative differences, Beavis opted not to renegotiate his contract for a fifth season and “Beavis and Butt-Head” was off the air.

Behind the scenes footage, January 1997. Photo courtesy TMZ.

Butt-Head has referenced the split in later interviews, hinting that he believed Beavis was experiencing some sort of psychotic break, most probably triggered by the temptations associated with fame and the pressures of constant media scrutiny. “He kept demanding more money. A ridiculous amount. He said it was so he could buy more TP for his bunghole. But we all knew that wasn’t where the money was going.” It was also rumored that Beavis’s obsession for fire and his insistence on creating more screen time for his alter-ego, Cornholio, led to several heated off-camera arguments and an eventual melt-down.

After leaving the series, Beavis auditioned for a variety of television shows and movies, to no avail. Each rejection chipped away at the actor’s pride. But with serious debt looming, he finally succumb to a break from the industry, taking on a series of odd jobs. Unfortunately, due to a lack of high school education, self-discipline or any type of truly marketable skills, each job ended abruptly.

In October of 2011, Judge made a proposal to bring back the show, to which a desperate Beavis agreed. However, it was clear old demons still haunted the former celebrity, and filming was terminated after only three months. With no money and no real prospects, things were looking grim for Beavis. But his impending demise would ultimately prove to be the catalyst for his dramatic redemption.

This just isn’t working.

It was at this point he realized, if people were no longer interested in seeing Beavis, then maybe he would have to become someone else. After all, he had created an alter-ego before. Did his experiment with the character Cornholio teach him nothing? He knew the answer. To find his way back into the business, he must reinvent himself. And reinvent himself he did. The actor changed his name, changed his wardrobe and began taking acting classes. With his freshly created identity and renewed focus, he set out once again on auditions. Only this time, he would eventually land the role of a lifetime.

By the end of 2011, Beavis, now known as Jere Burns, (note the reference to fire in his new moniker), had been cast in a recurring role as Wynn Duffy on acclaimed FX original series, Justified.

Wynning!

Though we may still see traces of the Beavis we once loved through his blonde locks and signature eyebrows, it is clear the actor has adapted an entirely new style. He’s on the top of his acting game and managed to bring to life a character so many of us love to hate every week. It’s a Hollywood transformation so many have attempted, but so few have achieved.

What’s next for Beavis, aka: Jere Burns? I suppose we’ll have to wait and find out. But what we do know is, the sky is truly the limit. With his ability to recreate his persona and keep us guessing, there’s most likely nothing this man can’t do. As for now, it appears as though he’ll continue to bring us weekly thrills as Wynn Duffy, while spending his off-seasons vacationing in Lake Titicaca. Once that gig comes to an end, we can only hope he finds his way back to our screens in yet another visionary role.

Vacationing in Lake Titicaca, summer of 2012.

As for a future reunion with Butt-Head, things aren’t looking optimistic. Although, we do have an insider who has reported seeing him on the set of Justified with Beavis/Burns, trying out a variety of parts. Maybe there’s still hope, but only time will tell.

Huh-heh-he-he-uh. Like the new hair, Butt-Head.