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:



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


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.



Girls behaving badly and DimWhit’s Friday Fold-Up

As you all know, I use my Friday Fold-Up segment to catch y’all up with what you may have missed throughout the week. Additionally, it allows me the opportunity to reflect. Upon my self-examination this week, it occurred to me I haven’t been the best.

Example 1

I started my Monday off with a long, impassioned rant where I basically skewered the creators of a kid’s toy. I’m trying to give myself a pass on this one, since everyone has the right to be a little grumpy on Mondays, and since that “Good morning, red bird” singing asshat named Nabi had it coming. (In my opinion, of course)

Example 2

In my post about being a She-Hulk, I essentially confessed my crippling lack of motivation, in particular when applied to all things domestic. Case and point: I wrote that post on Tuesday. I told you that Tuesday was laundry day. I’m writing this post on Friday and I am STILL DOING LAUNDRY. What a bad, bad DimWhit.

Example 3

I deflected my blogger responsibility to bestow my husband a nickname for use on this site. Instead of saddling that horse all by myself, I forced you guys to pony up some options. Although that wasn’t very nice of me, you all came through and offered up a ton of great suggestions! THANK YOU!

Example 4

However, since this is apparently my week to be a total douchebag, I have opted to ignore all of your amazing feedback and eventually decided to refer to my hubby with a nickname of my own creation. I’M SORRY. Before you feel completely disregarded, I was only able to think of it thanks to the back and forth discussions we had in the comment section of that post, so technically you are my muses and the source of my creativity. Feel better now?

(By the way, extra props to my new friend, Aussa Lorens, who I credit for getting me onto a new train of thought. Not surprising she’s motivational though, when you consider she is a self-proclaimed HACKER. NINJA. HOOKER. SPY. You rock, lady!)

Example 5

My final example of why I’m a total jerk this week is the fact that I’m using this last example as a means to torture my Mom a little. This is clearly not something a nice person would do. Though, if you haven’t seen this yet, it is definitely worth the watch.

So, there you have it friends. This week, I sucked. Tune in next week when I try to be a better human being.

Oh, and I almost forgot. My husband will no longer suffer the blogging nickname “hubby”. Henceforth, he shall be referred to as “Red”.

The short explanation: Red conjures up thoughts of romance. Red alludes to his fiery spirit. Red is a nod to his beautiful ginger mane. And finally, because he kind of reminds me of this guy from “That 70’s Show”.

Red Foreman, we love you.

Until next time,

One of my favorite childhood memories is that one time I beat my best score on Tetris…

…said no one ever.

Which is why, for the life of me, I can’t understand why I seem to be the only one disturbed by this:

Relax. I am not a judgmental prude and I am not gearing up to lecture parents on how televisions make terrible babysitters or the theory that video games and computers are systematically rotting our children. Look, I grew up in the 80’s. Also, I was an only child. Lord knows I had hours of fun with this guy:

Looking back, Teddy has a total creep factor.

And this fellow taught me a ton:

Loved it.

But when the creators of Nabi found it perfectly natural to use the tagline, “It’s not just a tablet. It’s a friend.”, I believe a very clear line was crossed. Because it isn’t natural. And the fact they they haven’t been called to task for it, at least not that I’ve seen and certainly not on mainstream media, is absolutely what bothers me the most. And before you fire up the hate mail, I’m not trashing the actual product. I looked it over and think it’s incredible. My beef is with the vomit-inducing slogan and the fact that I feel utterly alone in my dry-heaving.

Maybe, I’d feel more support if they would go ahead and release this model:

She’s not just a tablet, she’s your Mom!

Or possibly this version would do the trick:

He’s not just a tablet, he’s your Dad!

Wait, this one will usher the masses my direction:

Nabi Delux:
Now including the “My First Crush” app, free for download.

You may believe I’m over-reacting. And as a self-labeled occasional DimWhit, I quite possibly am. But for the love of all things flesh and blood, in an impressive “but-wait-there’s-more” moment, Nabi advertises this:

Grows with us? Maybe my friend Nabi will call in sick for work for me one day!

Say what? Moral compass: there’s an app for that?!? I understand fully that it is just a wholesome feature. I think it’s great that when parents are trying to instill values like responsibility, their child’s electronic gadget supports those lessons. I really do. But, isn’t it our job as their collective caretakers to teach our youth the difference between right and wrong? Doesn’t just a little part of you cringe at this tactic of marketing? If one were to buy into all the Nabi camp were trying to sell, you’d be forced to surmise that this one product will not only educate your kids, provide them hours of fun via gaming, entertainment via videos, but also aid in teaching them how to be a good person. That’s right folks, life lessons are included!

Oh, and Nabi will also be their friend.

(Mom and Dad, you’re so two-thousand-and-late. )

If you’ve read my about page, I have fully disclosed that I am not a parent and that this is not a Mommy blog. However, as a former child and member of the human race, I still feel aptly qualified to speak to this.

Now, you may be saying,

Hey DimWhit! You’re an 80’s baby. What about My Buddy and Kid Sister..and that Teddy Ruxpin creep you mentioned earlier? It’s the same thing, so maybe you should calm down.

I have since, unfriended him

But here’s what I’m saying. I didn’t sit staring at Buddy in the face for hours on end. I had to use my imagination to interact with him. And the people at Hasbro weren’t making claims to my Mom that the plastic faced boy would teach me life lessons or be an all-in-one replacement for my gal pal Rachel who lived down the street.

And that’s the metaphorical line I feel the marketing gurus behind Nabi crossed. And I kinda think they’re jerks for it. And no, they’re not the first or only to do this, but maybe it would okay if they were the last.

Kids, Nabi is not really your friend, and he really is just a tablet. Trust me on this one. It may be an awesome toy, filled with fun games and educational learning experiences, but it is no substitute for that snot-nosed comrade that sits next to you on the bus. Nabi will not bury you neck deep in the sandbox. It will not chase you relentlessly around the playground. And, Nabi will not help you build a fort out of sofa cushions and blankets. (Please tell me kids still do this)


Also, when you’re my age, though you may look back on your childhood and have fond recollections of the toys you loved way back when, that time you made it to the next level on the Dora the Explorer game won’t even make your top ten list of memories.

I invested several kid hours into He-Man and She-Ra. I tenderly cared for my baby dolls, and I got better at spelling thanks to a few video games. And although I look back at all of it with blissful nostalgia, none of it holds a candle to that time I scraped my toe on a sprinkler while my friend Danny and I were leaping through it on a hot summer day.

Because Mario was a game, he was not my friend. And because one of my favorite childhood memories was not that one time I beat my best score on Tetris.

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.

What’s trending in the news today? Kim and Kanye can suck it and America is awesome.

My faith in mankind may have just been restored, you guys!

We have a pretty patriotic household, and we’re proud of it. My husband’s service in the US Army means that, like many of you, we feel a certain amount of reverence on holidays like Memorial Day. We are acutely aware of it’s true meaning, and although we’ll enjoy a few too many adult beverages and fire up the grill like most people will, we’re also sure to be humbled by the profound respect we feel towards those who sacrificed everything. It’s a pretty big deal.

But today as the hubs and I sat watching our normal morning news programs, I started getting just a little irritated when I began noticing a slight deficiency in quality Memorial Day segments, and a longer-than-it-should-have-been story on Kim and Kanye’s landmark nuptials.

Photo courtesy People Magazine. Shitty comment bubbles courtesy dimwhit.

No, I’m not bitter.

Yes, I love celebrating love.

No, I don’t think every news story today HAS to be patriotic in nature.

But, yes…I do get a tad nauseated by what the media sometimes chooses to emphasize, and when it comes to repeated eye rolling at the sight of most reality “stars”,  I stand guilty as charged.

My annoyance prompted a quick look to see exactly what was trending for today’s searches. I mean, our morning programs seemed to believe more people were interested in Kimye (gag me already with the cute couple names) than they were in our veterans. Could it be true?!? I held my breath as I hit return on my keyboard. But to my relief, THIS is what I saw:

Thank you America. Thank you. The West/Kardashian brood didn’t even make the top 5! And while they may be in complete panic mode, my faith has been momentarily restored.

Kim and Kanye, congratulations…and suck it. xoxo

Have a great Memorial Day everyone!

Where were you the day of the chicken parmesan and spaghetti noodle crisis?

On a typical day, I am cool as a cucumber. I swear.

I am the quintessential social diplomat. I avoid confrontation. I’m calm and level-headed. Most things tend to tickle my funny bone long before they ruffle my feathers. That’s just how I am. Most of the time it’s good to have a long fuse, and sometimes maybe not. But that’s my personality. I let things roll off my back and I simply don’t get pissed off very often.

What could go wrong in Gatlinburg?

But, on rare occasion, my inner wolf claws and writhes, struggling with a sudden and surprising rage to break free and howl at the proverbial blue moon. I never know what is going to coax that damn beast to come forth from its cage, but when she gets a whiff of her prey, it’s already too late. She cannot be tamed. She cannot be reasoned with. And last Friday, to my utter bewilderment, while at dinner with family on vacation in lovely Gatlinburg, TN, my wolf broke loose without warning. What was the prey this savage beast got a whiff of, you may wonder?

Chicken parmesan with a side of spaghetti. And no, I don’t yet totally understand it either.

The day started off innocently enough. After a few hours of running around town doing vacationy things, the 6 of us were gathered in our mountain-top cabin discussing dinner plans. A couple people suggested an Italian restaurant in downtown Gatlinburg that supposedly had some of the best cuisine of its kind. They said things like:

You won’t believe the rolls! Their sauce is amazing! People rave about their pizzas, too! Oh, and they serve beer!

Pump the brakes. They are in possession of cold beer?!? (This is when I should admit that by the time they finished that last sentence, I was already in the car waiting. And possibly honking the horn. And possibly missing any other details about the restaurant they may have been sharing.) So what? I like beer. I’m sure I’ll cover this issue in more detail in later posts, but suffice it to say right now, at that particular point of our vacation I had not yet been afforded the opportunity to imbibe, and I was ready. I mean, it’s VACATION, y’all. ‘Nuff said.

So, we round up the caravan and began making our way down the mountain, en route to the beer Italian restaurant. We got lucky with a close parking spot (score!) and our relatively large group was sat right away. No waiting! In almost record time, we had our dinners ordered, garlic rolls on the table and I had a beer in front of me. The salads were served promptly and our jovial group was talking and laughing and discussing tomorrow’s plans as we noshed with content. By dining standards, this was shaping up to be a most magical evening. But for one diner (me), the evening would take a sudden turn. My jovial self was about to turn into a juggernaut of confusing, senseless anger – set in motion by this simple phrase:

Who ordered the chicken parmesan?

At the moment I hoisted my hand to identify myself, everything was still peachy-keen. But then it happened. The totally-innocent-of-any-wrong-doing waitress set my order in front of me. And I looked at it. That’s when it all went bad, folks. The wolf had tore itself from my body and was now tromping recklessly across the table. What ignited her fury? What was so damn terrible to provoke such madness? The answer is simple albeit baffling. The source of my instantaneous resentment – portion size.

I kinda looked like this…

You heard me right. This entirely too dramatic episode that sent a pacifist into a tailspin was centered around my fervent belief that the restaurant brought me WAY TOO MUCH FOOD! The audacity!!!

I regret not taking a picture of it to offer as evidence here, but my mental state at that instant wouldn’t allow for anything to interrupt the moment I was having. But in my defense, let me attempt to explain.

IT kinda looked like this.

The dish was approximately 12×9 inches. (Isn’t that the size a fucking serving platter should be???) My meal, which was the standard chicken served over a bed of spaghetti covered in sauce, was heaped to such an obscene extent that it was literally spilling over the edges of the platter plate. This made cutting into my chicken a nearly impossible task, as it would ultimately just lead to even more of my meal gushing onto the table. I tried alleviating some of the pressure my inadequate dish was feeling by swirling up some spaghetti noodles to eat, but with each twist of my fork, the irritation churned louder within my body. This was freaking ridiculous.

Naively, I thought I was masking my disgust with a commendable level of success. After all, the whole group was served their meal at the same time I was, and they were surely distracted by their own eating rituals. But not two minutes in, the question finally came:

Hey Whit, is something wrong with your food?

I think someone else chimed in with the comment, “Yeah, you don’t look too happy.” It was then I noticed my lips had been tightly pressed into a grimace and I could feel the tension of my furrowed brows. I took a deep breath, relaxed my faced and in a surrendering tone uttered,

This is just way too damn much!

And that’s when I hobbled grumpily onto my soapbox and started muttering phrases like:

  • What were they thinking?!?
  • Who could possibly ever eat this much?
  • Think about how much food they must throw out!
  • Every time I take a bite, two more regenerate in its place! It’s multiplying, I swear!
  • This is what’s wrong with American Society today!
  • Someone call Michelle Obama – SHE’LL UNDERSTAND ME!!

I felt a mix of both passionate and pathetic. I felt threatened. I was being crushed under the weight of too much food as the images of every single bloated belly starving child flashed in my vision. I felt like no one understood why this was such a deplorable situation, least of all me. I was looking for answers and possibly an apology from the universe. My family must have seen the crazed look in my eyes, because they quickly took to comforting me, using arguments such as:

  • It’s okay. Just eat what you want and leave the rest.
  • Think of all the tasty leftovers you’ll have!
  • I’d much rather get too much for my money than too little.
  • At least you won’t leave hungry!
  • Would you like a refill on your beer?

What it kinda looked like from my perspective…

And just like that, the storm had passed. The waitress plopped down a second frosty mug of golden goodness as I gently coerced my wolf back into her cage. I was still frustrated. I remained steadfast in my beliefs. And that plate of pasta was still sitting in front of me, mocking and intimidating. But the worst was over. I could feel it. My family had rescued me from the pits of despair just in the nick of time; just before I could shake my fists at restaurant staff or stand on a chair to rally the other patrons to my side with an epic speech. Crisis kinda averted. I mean, that’s what family is for, right? They look out for you, and they know better than most how to comfort you during times of distress. Don’t get me wrong; I hated their comments. Their rebuttals had zero substance. But they offered me beer, and that’s proof enough they really get me. It’s proof of love.

Family knows how to pull you from your bad place.

In hindsight, I still don’t quite grasp the real reason for the meltdown. But I was there, and it was real. Some silly spaghetti noodles tried wholeheartedly to take me down. Where were you the Friday of May 16th, 2014, the day of the “Chicken Parmesan and Spaghetti Noodle Crisis”? Hopefully, you were somewhere safe. Somewhere the protein on your plate was the size of your fist, as it should be. Hopefully not at the table next to us. Hopefully.

Keep calm and eat on.


Turn on the lights…

…and I’ll glow.

To the extreme, I rock a blog like a vandal. Light up the web and wax a chump like a candle.

So, before you roll your jaded eyes at me and proceed to search for another site in which to waste your time, there are a few things you should know.

  1. I made a goal today to write my first ever blog post. Mission fucking accomplished.
  2. Attempting to write a first ever blog post is daunting. For reals, guys. It can make the most confident of confident people second, third and fourth guess themselves and cause the most accomplished of authors to experience instantaneous writer’s paralysis.  And though I cannot be categorized as either type of person, I stand steadfast behind those assumptions.
  3. First ever blog posts are overrated. We all know this. Once a blog picks up steam, has 10’s of followers and has been thoroughly saturated with content, what type of person goes back to read the first blog entry anyways? Well, since you’re reading this, you must be that type of person, and you deserve to be underwhelmed. You basically asked for it.
  4. I was kinda obviously born in the 80’s. Proof: The shitty Vanilla Ice reference contained in lines one and two of my first ever blog post.
  5. I used the dreaded F word in bullet point #1. This implies my hope that my Mom never stumbles upon my blog. In regards to my bad habits, such as invoking the persona of a sailor who just stubbed his toe, I like to keep her slightly in the dark where all things ignorant are bliss. Now is also a good time to mention that in spite of my occasionally colorful language, AND in spite of my blog title, one should not be fooled. I am indeed a fucking genius.
  6. Sorry Mom. Again.

So with that knowledge, let us move past the disappointment you may or not be experiencing with my first ever blog post and get this show on the road. Flip that switch to the ON position, we’re open for business, baby!