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.
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.
Actual artist rendering of DimWhit on grocery day. Drawn to scale.
You see, yesterday was go-to-the-grocery-store day. Of all the items that appear the “Shit You Gotta Do When You’re A Grown-Up” list, grocery shopping is my uncontested least favorite. Human beings are at their most annoying when they’re in the produce section, the parking always sucks, without fail I am destined to pick the wrong check-out aisle and by the time I make it home, most of the crap I bought has escaped their bags and tumbled into the most difficult to reach spots in my car.
I think all the agitation unleashes my inner Lou Ferrigno. Because by the time I arrive home, I am so irritable and so completely over it that I am able to do this:
It’s an incredible feat of strength and efficiency that I have yet to duplicate in any other activity. Period.
Take for example, unloading the dishwasher looks more like this:
It’s too heavy!
And today’s chore is laundry.
Laundry is so easy! I get to sit on my ass for a majority of the process, making it by far my most favorite domestic task. But hand to God, as I look at that laundry basket with ergonomic, no-slip-grip handles, faced with the knowledge that I have GOT to get it up the stairs, I can almost literally feel my muscles (the very muscles that carried 268 lbs. of grocery bags in one trip just yesterday) retreat into my body.
Seriously, I get all Benjamin Buttony.
One day this week, I already know that I’m going to have to carry out a load of trash. Jesus-take-the-wheel, it will not be one of my finer moments. I typically kick this task off with approximately 30-45 minutes of this:
Put your head between your knees, you DimWhit!
When that doesn’t work and I’m finally faced with the ugly truth that the garbage didn’t magically disappear and if I procrastinate any further my friends are going to bust me and turn me into the the producers of “Hoarders”, I saddle up and do what any proper part-time She-Hulk would do.
Until next time, friends. I’m off to go refill the toilet paper.
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.
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)
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.
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!
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!)
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”.
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:
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:
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.