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.

Go on girls. Be a little delusional.

Mirror, mirror, full of lies.

Why didn’t you tell me about my thighs?

I’m pretty sure I have an eating disorder. Although, I don’t think there’s a name for it. In an attempt to share this with my husband a few days ago, the best way I could describe it was like anorexia – in reverse. I’m unsure if anyone will be able to relate to this, but I’ll try to explain.

At this point in my life, I’m overweight, and more so now than I’ve ever been. I know it, I confess it and I’m taking steps to fix it. I think we’ve all been there, and we know that it takes weeks, months, sometimes years before we wake up and smell the coffee. We live with ourselves every day, so sometimes it’s three bigger pant-sizes later before we realize we’ve let ourselves slip just a tad. It’s completely normal.

However, it occurred to me a while ago that my long journey to BigBootyVille might be a little less than completely normal.

When every gal out there finishes primping, she checks herself in the mirror before venturing out. We all do it. And, as I admitted before, I am totally aware of all those extra pounds I’ve packed on in recent years. But when I give myself the obligatory final check every day, for the life of me I can’t find that fat-ass anywhere. I look and look, but all I see is a thin little hotty peering back at me. Logic tells me I’m obese. My mirror tells me there must be something wrong with my scale, and that those jeans make my butt look super tiny.

My morning routine.

It’s anorexia in reverse. Those suffering from that terrible disease find it impossible to see a thin body reflecting back towards them. I find it impossible to see a fat one. Either way you slice it, it’s delusional and it’s denial in its truest form.

I eat what I want, although I shouldn’t. I drink what I want, although I shouldn’t. I have an unhealthy, counterproductive lifestyle, and all because that lying bitch in the mirror this morning told me what a sexy beast I am. Her deception is a major contributor to my current state.

But, she is also a major contributor to my self-esteem. She’s a comfort and a friend and the reason I can face the world with my sass and confidence in tact. However, she’s not perfect. My super-hero of self-confidence most certainly has her kryptonite, and it comes in the form of a camera.

All it takes is one innocent picture of myself posted on a friend’s Facebook wall for that beautiful bubble to burst. In the flash of a camera bulb, I am snapped right back into reality. That heavy girl I was searching for in the mirror earlier that day finally reveals herself, and I’m left feeling confused and terribly betrayed. Where did that voluptuous vixon go? And who the hell replaced her with that heffer?

Turns out, ignorance really can be bliss.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe that a person’s size has anything to do with their actual beauty. I’m not superficial. I’m not lost to total vanity. But it is disconcerting when you truly do not recognize yourself in pictures. It’s also frustrating.

So, in a battle for my self-esteem, who wins? Is it the irrefutable photographic proof or the less-than-accurate delusional reflection? On one hand, it’s great to love the body you see when staring into the mirror. On the other hand, it’s not entirely healthy to possess a level of denial that can eventually be detrimental to your health. I’ve thought about this a long time, and I’ve come to a conclusion.

By unanimous decision, the mirror freaking wins.

That’s right folks, I voted in favor of delusion. The choice was easy. I figure if I’m rational enough to know that I need to get healthier and I’m aware logically that I need to shed some weight, then I’m emotionally savvy enough to handle the somewhat skewed reflection in my mirror. Just because I’m battling my inner donut-devourer doesn’t mean I have to hate myself in the process.

Believing that would would be believing the ultimate lie.

Maybe I have a form of eating disorder, maybe I don’t. But if I do, there are far worse kinds to have. And to be honest, I kind of wish my variety was contagious. I hope that other girls, other women can relate to how I feel. My desire is for all of you to have the type of mirror that tells you everyday that you’re the fairest of them all. And I pray that girls everywhere develop my particular strain of delusional disease.

I love myself like a fat kid loves cake, and I’m okay with that.

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 Can Dance If You Want To

This is less of a post and more of a treat for you guys – my amazing blog followers!

Since weekends are made for letting loose and having a good time, I thought the video below would help put everyone in ideal Saturday spirit. Enjoy!

Warning: Video contains men wearing pumps and may cause some viewers to experience violent dance outbursts and diva-like symptoms. Call your doctor in the event of a dance party lasting more than 4 hours.

Girrrrrl, you better work Beyonce! Those boys have your number and are infinitely less annoying to watch. Naturally, since I was home alone, I tried to recreate the video. Unfortunately, my version looked a little more like this:

I’ll see you electric sliders on Monday, but until then, keep on dancing like nobody is watching!

I didn’t die but I almost did and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

I haven’t posted in a few days, and I’m not apologizing. Why? Partially because I was on vacation with family for Father’s Day weekend. Also partially, I’m pretty sure I almost died.

The vacation part was fun, or at least it started out that way. Red and I hopped in the car and drove from our home in Kentucky up to see family in the land of beer and cheese, Wisconsin. If you’ve never been,  Madison is a great town with beautiful lakes and tons to do. We had a great time catching up with our loved ones, goofing around, eating and drinking far too much beer. The weather was awesome and the company was even better.

We were due to drive out of town early Monday morning, making Sunday our last full day of fun and fellowship. The plan was to enjoy a cookout, with additional family members coming over to join in the Father’s Day festivities. Then that evening, the adults were to head out for a night on the town to a trendy bar for cocktails and cuisine.  That was the plan. Sounds perfect, right? The only slightly crappy part would be the inevitable saying of goodbyes at the end of the night, because as we all know, goodbyes really bite.

But you know what else bites? Spiders…

Since nothing can ever be easy with me, that morning as Red and I were getting gussied up at our hotel in preparation of Sunday-Funday, a freaking ninja-spider decided to hack and slash his way through my thick tresses and make a meal out of the back of my head. (By the way, if that made you squirm, I don’t feel sorry for you. I lived it.) I wasn’t aware when it happened, and for that at least, I’m thankful. My first clue something was afoot was while en route to our family gathering, when I suddenly began itching uncontrollably. And since I’ve never before experienced an allergic reaction, it took my dimwitted ass a while to realize there were hives forming all over my body. Red made a pit stop so we could buy some Benedryl, where while standing in the checkout line, I felt the back of my head and discovered a swell the size of a tennis ball.

Awesome.

By the time we arrived at our destination, I was more than a little panicked. I popped a Benedryl and went to the bathroom where family members slathered diaper rash cream over my hives in an attempt to squelch the relentless itching. A mere 30 minutes prior, I had strutted out of our hotel room feeling pretty cute. Now, I was hobbling out of the family bathroom covered in red bumps, white goo and with my gunky hair knotted into a bun.

Also awesome.

Although my family successfully rescued me from certain peril, for which I am grateful, I spent the rest of Sunday-Funday lumbering around feeling a little less than human and praying that at the very least, the vicious bite would result in the development of super-powers. Unfortunately, I had no spidey-senses, couldn’t shoot webs from my wrists, and try as I might, was not able to climb up the side of buildings.

Not awesome.

The next day as we set out on the road back towards the bluegrass state, I was unfortunately still feeling pretty shitty. I presumed it was the lingering effects of my death-spider head massage, but if you remember, nothing is ever simple with me. As it turns out, I was feeling increasingly terrible thanks to the beginning stages of an abscessed tooth.

That, my friends, is the mother of all awesome.

There are a few humorous-at-my-own-expense stories I could tell you in relation to this ailment, but I’m not going to. It would take too long and I simply can’t relive the trauma. Suffice it to say, I have never felt pain quite that intense before and although it didn’t kill me, there were times I was wishing for the sweet release of death. One tear-filled trip to the doctor and several drugs later, I am on the mend and finally feeling close to my former self. While I may still be chewing with only the right side of my mouth, I feel blessed to still be walking the earth.

On a happy note, I didn’t come away empty handed. During my vacation of near death experiences, Red purchased me this t-shirt!

And that, my friends, truly is awesome.

Until next time…

Top 5 Reasons Blogging Makes You A Better Person

Okay, okay. I confess blogging might not exactly transform a convict into a Care Bear. However, I would like to present you the argument that blogging on a regular basis not only forces a stimulation of one’s creativity, but also has the ability to enhance some pretty kickass virtues.

If you are the author of a blog, you’re completely aware that regularly coaxing brand new content out of your Gluteus Maximus is a challenge in itself. Obviously, it’s a task that requires a certain amount of ambition and the relentless flexing of your brain muscle. What may be less obvious, however, are the loads of other personality traits your site is subconsciously, positively reinforcing.

Let’s take a look!

What many people don’t tell you is that all Wordpress accounts include a free, freshly-baked humble pie, which is served directly to your inbox upon registration. It’s piping hot and just like Momma used to make. Most people start a blog because they have information or insights they want to share…with the world. They spend an enormous amount of time fixating on the exact right way to convey their intended message, waiting until completely satisfied before hitting “publish”. And then they wait. (Trust me, they do.)

And if they’re anything like me, they spend just a little too much time throughout the day self-stalking, waiting and watching for that moment the general population recognizes the genius of their most recent post and begins vigorously sharing it across the vast interwebs.

You worked so hard! You found the perfect GIF to get your audience giggling AND you tweeted the damn thing. What could go wrong?

But then, the sobering truth sets in the next morning when your only comment came from your cousin and some stupid quiz on BuzzFeed that helps you determine “What Your Poop Really Says About You” got more shares than your much labored masterpiece.

And that, my friends, is humility.

This leads us seamlessly into everyone’s most challenging virtue: patience. Life comes up with a million little infuriating ways to force us to practice patience. Like the time last week when I was held up 15 minutes in a grocery check-out line while 4 grown-ass men discussed the difference between sirloin and porterhouse steaks. Every time you stop for a red light and every time you have to wait for the coffee to brew, pop quizzes of patience can spring up anywhere and at anytime.

And your blog is no exception to this rule.

You may have mounds of meaningful content and a gorgeous site design, but the truth is that finding your audience and building their loyalty takes time and effort. Hang in there, kid. Keep on publishing, keep on perfecting your craft and stay involved. One day, your patience will be rewarded.

Red and I are on vacation right now, and this morning I saw a sign at our hotel that read, “Warning: Fireplace May Be Hot.”

No shit, Sherlock.

Before I began blogging, I would have cracked a couple of jokes about that sign and moved on with my day. However, once you become a blogger,  more and more of your observations start being mentally subjected to a “Is-It-Post-Worthy” test. Looking through the critical lens of a content curator is not a bad thing, though. It encourages a person to linger a bit longer on a passing idea. You slow down a tad and become more contemplative. You take more time to appreciate the little things and consider stuff from other angles.

You stop and smell the roses! (And take a picture of them for social media purposes, of course.)

Regardless of whether your blog is a fun hobby or a budding business, it’s a commitment. Coming up with original material and then crafting a post to bring that thought to life not only requires creativity, it requires your time. Maintaining a blog is a bit like getting married: it’s based on love and passion, it brings you joy, it challenges you, you have to make sacrifices in order for it to thrive and it needs your attention. No long-standing, consistent blogger can viably be labeled as commitment-phobic.

When it comes to blogging, if you like it then you gotta put a ring on it.

There is a level of self-confidence required when you make the decision to publish your thoughts on the internet. Some may argue that it’s cocky to believe your opinions or ideas merit publicity. Meh, whatever.

When writers construct a post, they have no way of knowing whether it will eventually be seen by a million people or by nobody at all. But they write anyway, because at least in that moment, they have confidence in their message. There is a certain amount of beauty and bravery in that act.

And even though accolades are not inherently necessary, a blogger will always derive a little extra boost to their self-esteem with every like, share, follower and kind comment acquired along the way.

So you see, friends? Blogging isn’t a waste of time; it’s character building.

If you blog or know someone who does, I urge you to read and share this list. Why? Because whether you’re a newcomer or a seasoned vet of the blogging world, we all need encouragement and we all occasionally need to be rescued from the pits of posting purgatory.

AND because sharing is pretty virtuous too.

 

The inadequate introduction of the hubby and my plea for your help!

Husband: I really like your blog, baby. You’re doing a good job.

Me: Aww. Thanks honey!

Husband: I do have a small complaint though.

Me: [blank stare] Really?

Husband: Yeah. When you refer to me in posts, you call me things like “hubby” or “the hubs”.

Me: And…?

Husband: Don’t you think I should have a cooler, more macho nickname?

The conversation went on like this for a while, with him tossing out a plethora of nicknames that better described his persona and overall manliness. And he was right. The man I married shouldn’t be flippantly referred to as “hubs”. It’s not right, not for him.

But what was my nubile blogging booty to do? As an occasional post peruser, I knew that many women used the initials “DH” when mentioning their men. It took me a while, but I realized later that it was a commonly accepted acronym for “Dear Husband”. (At least I think that’s correct.) But, I don’t care for that term of (lacking) endearment any more than I do “hubby”.

The challenge, of course, is to create a nick that suits my man, but is also obvious to my super kickass readers.

One of my favorite writers, Jenny Lawson of The Bloggess, simply refers to her husband by his first name. But since my preference is to avoid using the real names of my post subjects, that’s out.

Ree Drummond, the infamous Pioneer Woman, gave her husband the moniker “Marlboro Man”. Now, that’s more like it. It’s clear who she is referring to, it suits her site’s theme and it doesn’t hurt that it conjures up images of that Stetson and tight jeans wearing rugged guy sporting a lasso and a mean 5 o’clock shadow.

I’ve been thinking about this for a bit, and this is where I need your help.

To help-you-help-me, here’s a bit about the man/the legend:

  • He’s a proud native of Northern Kentucky, and he is adamant that God resides in the Bluegrass State.
  • He served in the US Army for 22 years, and retired as a 1SG.
  • Bourbon is his mistress.
  • He believes he should have been born a cowboy. And he acts accordingly.
  • He’s a long, lean, red-headed machine.
  • He’s smart, sassy, sweet, generous and professionally, he’s got one of those big deal business titles.
  • And finally, he’s loads of other awesome things, but ain’t nobody got time for that! (He is on my about page, if you do actually got time for that.)

Right now, I have two diametrically different ideas. I’ll quickly explain both, and what I need from you is your unfiltered opinion and/or your other original ideas. You can do that for me, right?

Idea 1 ) GH

Reasoning:

  • His actual, real-life initials are GH.
  • It’s similar to DH, so most people should get it.
  • Because he’s a great husband. Plus genius, generous, gallant, gregarious, goofy, grand, gorgeous, genuine, gracious, and a guardian.

Idea 2 ) John Wayne

Reasoning:

  • He quotes The Duke semi-regularly.
  • As mentioned above, he should have been born a cowboy.
  • The two honestly, have a lot in common.
  • He would like it.

I suppose he could also be dubbed 1st Sergeant or Mister or Jack Daniels, if you please. But since I just cannot decide, I’m enlisting you wonderful people in my quest. Please use the comment section of this post to cast your vote for one of my DimWhitted ideas, or probably better yet, offer up your own original suggestions.

The hubs and I can’t wait to hear from you!

My MacBook provides me daily affirmations! (and yours will too)

Yesterday, one of my favorite bloggers, Jenny Lawson of The Bloggess, came a tad unglued when feeling taunted by the ‘control’ button on her keyboard. What is that key for anyway??? She must have been on my mind, since I just happened to write about her yesterday in this post. I like to think it’s because we’re soul sisters, therefore granting me some kind of sixth sense that allows me to hear her cries of frustration carry over the vast, complex interwebs.

I understand, girl! I’ve had this MacBook going on 4 years now, and that damned button has yet to reveal its true purpose.

I wanted to reach out to her. To tell her…I GET IT! And to also let her know…there’s a better way to look at it! With one simple little trick, Jenny’s irritation can be magically turned into inspiration, and the rest of you Appleonians can use it too!

Just SHIFT your thinking!

The trick is simple, requiring only 3 easy steps!

1. Look at your keyboard.

2. Next, look at the image below and read the text aloud.

3. Now, look back at your keyboard.

Can you see it now? Our Macs provide us DAILY AFFIRMATIONS! It’s as if every time I find myself hesitating to click ‘publish’ on my most recent dumbass brilliant post, Steve Jobs himself stands peering over my left shoulder shouting words of encouragement.

You can do it, Whit!

You should do it, Whit!

The people need to see this, Whit!

You’re in FN CONTROL OF SPACE, Whit!!!

Gee, thanks Steve. And now that you (and hopefully Jenny) are aware of this MacBook-related best kept secret, you too can begin to harness the power of positive thinking your keyboard is desperately trying to bestow. Feels nice, eh?

FN right it does.

 

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!