"I Can't Wait to Marry You."

Typically, I am not up this early on a Saturday morning, especially after going to bed at 3 o'clock in the AM. But the bug terminator rang our door bell TWICE, and I jumped out of bed the second time, thinking it could be Santa delivering my presents. Instead, it was the most adorable elderly man, all bundled up, wearing his baseball cap crooked over his dark grey hair. Brutal barked hysterically as this man spoke broken english to me through the peep hole. I think his name might be Peter, because we get these little typed notes down in the lobby. They say when our building will be sprayed next and they are signed, "-Peter, the exterminator." I think it's safe to call him Peter. I let him in to spray our bathroom and kitchen and then he left after being here for two and a half seconds flat. I got up for that? 

Typically, I am not up this early on a Saturday morning, but once I'm done with this blog or post, it won't be 9:45 am, it will be 6 at night.

On this snowy weekend, I would like to talk a little bit about children and the incredible things they CAN say. Not all children are charming and bright and I know not everyone likes kids, so I hope I don't lose your attention at this point.

The other day, Porter and I went to Barnes & Noble to hang out and read kids' books. We do this often on account of the weather, and the library doesn't open until 1 on the days that I get off at 2. Anyway, Porter usually picks out a couple of books for me to read, and when we're done with those, he puts them away and picks out a couple more. We do this until it's time to leave or until he sees other kids and asks if he can join them. Most days, he finds a new friend to play and read with. 

On this particular day, Porter only wanted to look at "tv books", and he wanted to read them by himself. I sat there watching his face light up with the turn of each page. Neither one of us had noticed the boy and girl sitting behind him reading quietly to each other. While Porter was picking out new books, I watched the little boy and little girl who had been sitting behind Porter. The girl was tall with a very round face and a curly blonde ponytail. The boy was smallish and thin with dark hair and tiny dark eyes. I figured they were not related. 

I listened to their conversations, as Porter independently looked at his stories. They took turns reading aloud, but they were not actually reading, you know, because they were just three years old. The little girl was very loud when she told the little boy what to do and where to sit. She spoke to him like a big sister speaks to her younger siblings, but with a lot of love and patience. I could hear her saying, "Ronin, come here! I picked out your books!" and "Ronin! This is your favorite, you have to listen!" She was very bossy, and he obliged. 

As I was watching this amazing interaction, I was wondering if their nannies could hear what I was hearing. The little girl kindly told Ronin that he was now the baby and she was the mommy. She made him lay down with his head on a pop-up book, as she told him not to cry. "Ronin, you're the baby. I'm going to read to you," "Stay there Ronin!" "Ronin, you are the baby and this is your favorite book." While the girl placed the books by her side, and finally stopped talking, Ronin sweetly looked her in the eye and said, "I can't wait to marry you." It was the most precious and sincere moment, I almost started to cry. 

I realize that I sound like a dorkyromanticcrybaby, but given my current situation, me witnessing that second of pure kiddie love, was something that I almost could not handle. It was just so sweet and true. And I also realize that these two will most likely not end up falling in love and getting married. 

I will not leave you with just one adorable exchange of words, but with one more. This one was heard in our favorite pizza joint, and spoken by my Porter and his friend, Sasha. 

That same day, Porter and I left B & N, to go pick up Sasha from school. It was a nice walk on a chilly day. Porter was so excited to see Sasha, not just because he wanted to play with him, but because he did not want to have lunch without his friend. That means, he didn't eat lunch until 3 that day. We pick Sasha up, and slowly but surely get to Vinnie's for a couple of slices and garlic knots. While I'm stuffing my face with the best Brooklyn pizza ever, I'm watching these boys giggle after whispering the word "butt" (which my close friends know is my favorite word too).

Porter and Sasha start talking about Go, Diego, Go!. Sasha excitedly tells Porter that he just got a new Diego movie. Porter is very intrigued and looks at him and asks, "Which one is it?" Sasha is confused by this and says, "Go, Diego, Go!" Porter then says, "Which one is it?" Sasha just confidently repeats himself. Porter is kind of frustrated by this and says, "Yes, I know, but WHICH ONE is it?" I'm so tickled by this, that I don't explain to Sasha that Porter is asking him which episode or adventure is on his new movie. They give each other quizzical looks and continue doing this for a couple more minutes. Finally Porter looks straight at Sasha and says, "Sasha, WHICH DIEGO IS IT?" Then Sasha takes a bite of his cold slice of cheese pizza and says, "I don't remember." And that's that. Porter didn't ask again, he was completely satisfied with that answer. 

I get to hear unbelievable conversations like this all the time, or I get to take part in them! I'm super lucky, I know. And too, I wrote down a bunch of quotes from kids I watched in Seattle, but I'm afraid they might be packed away somewhere. I wish I could share more with you, but I'm tired, and I'm going to take a nap. 

You've been wonderful, give yourself a pat on the back. Also, happy holidays to those of you celebrating holidays. I have two weeks off, and I'll be blogdoggin' it up. 

bye

Dealing With Your Bully, If Your Bully Is Whitney Chandler

I have been thinking about how I don't blog as often as I would like to, I guess because I'm really lazy or I don't have interesting things to say, but then I started thinking about people who are power bloggers, or super bloggers, or mega bloggers. I pictured an early 30's man sitting on the toilet, his underwear (no pants) around his ankles, a pit-stained t-shirt hugging his chubby chest, with his lap top sitting right there, comfortably on his hairy thighs. He's writing about how over the weekend, he came to the realization that the girls he meets at "the bars" are not the girls he pictures himself marrying. As I was imagining this unrealistic scenario, I came to the realization that it is very realistic. There are people who sit on the toilet, probably for a couple of hours, and type away about their lives. Unfortunately, I am not one of these people. 

This blog has absolutely nothing to do with blogging on the throne or single men who have trouble going to the bathroom. I would now like to talk a little bit about bullies, being bullied, and the act (or art) bullying.

I recently read an amazing book called Black Swan Green by David Mitchell. The young narrator broke my heart over and over, (I actually cried several times while reading this book), when he talked about being picked on by the more popular and tough kids at his school. This got me thinking about bullies. Real live bullies. In books, on tv, and in movies, the bully either physically or mentally attacks the victim in such a way that I would imagine is not something most people can recover from. The timid child is always so so humiliated and brutalized. The bully is always big and angry and manages to intimidate everyone around him. On tv, we see him tie kids to poles in the school courtyard and pull down their pants and pour milk on their heads. In books, we read about him peeing on other children on the school bus, or pushing a boy down the stairs in the hallway of their elementary school. Do these things really happen? Yeah, I guess they do. But that stuff is pretty old fashioned. Now kids are killing themselves after being tormented over the internet. Ugh, how awful it is to be a teenager, and I'm being completely serious.

Ok, this blog is not going in the direction I intended. So, let's just stop.... and regroup. 

 

I, Whitney Chandler, have not really had to deal with being bullied. In fourth grade, I was picked on a little bit by a couple of popular girls for wearing perfectly matching outfits my mom bought at J.C. Penney, or "PENNIES!" as my mom would call it. And since I was the darkest kid any of those crazy mormons had ever seen, I got called "chocolate" and was told I would melt in the sun. I was also told that I would never get a sunburn because I was "so black". And even though I tattled on all of those kids, none of it really hurt my feelings. 

No, I was not bullied. But here's where you'll be surprised... I was kind of a bully. Yeah, I know. I'm not talking about how much I beat up my siblings or embarrassed them in front of their friends and their schoolmates. I'm talking about screaming "GiffTURD!" out the window of the school bus at Gifford Newberry. I laughed at and made fun of kids in class and more often than not, other students would join in. And it wasn't just little quiet nerds (or teachers) who got my guff, it was my close friends. 

Throughout seventh grade and all the way to high school, Ashley and I were so awful to one of our best friends, Kyndra. Ashley was always very jealous of her, but I just thought she was a slut. We used to call her names right in front of her (as if it's better if we do this behind her back...) and tell her that we thought she was the dumbest person we knew. Then in h.s., we would tell her that we would meet her at her house so we could all walk to the bus stop together, but we never would. And if she saw us walking by herself, we would run away from her and act like we didn't see her. Girls are so bitchy. 

But Ashley didn't have immunity. Actually, Ashley got more shit from me (and Cortnie) than anyone else. I made fun of her for being sloppy and dirty, and I wouldn't let her NEAR my bed when she came over to my house. Cortnie and I told her that she had "boob cheese" because she had and still has these enormous Double D jugs stuffed in her shirt. This caught on fairly quickly and other students chuckled as they called her by her new nick-name. She hated it and she hated us. In twelfth grade, we had to fill out a survey for the yearbook. One of the questions read, "What is the biggest lie you have ever told?" Cortnie got someone to write, "Telling Ashley Cook that she is smart." And since I was the editor, I picked that girl to quote, and I published that in our Senior Yearbook for the whole school to read.

On the one hand, I would pick on my insecure friends, or random uber nerds, but on the other hand, I went on a date with a physically and mentally disabled boy, I invited the most awkward boy to hang out with me and my friends at lunch time, and I helped out in the special ed class. How could I be so sensitive, but be so awful at the same time? In my adulthood, I find myself very bothered by that kind of harassment. When I see that kind of behavior on the playground, I just get the most horrible feeling in my stomach. I immediately think of what it was like to be that age and how even the simplest happening could be the most painful experience.

You know?

Well, I'll end on that note. This is far too long, and not worth it. You must really love me if you have read this much. I appreciate you. 

bye

Have You Ever Been Accused of Killing Someone?

I think the way a lot of people start their blog, is by saying how long it's been since they last blogged. I'm not going to do that today. But I will begin by telling you that this is another blog about Brutal, my dog. 

As you, my friends, family, employers, fellow bus riders, the man at my corner store, and everyone I see at the Carroll Park Playground already know, I bring my dog everywhere. He is usually either pulling so hard on his leash that he gives himself "reverse sneezes" or he's screaming at other dogs from his little carrier, which I carry on my shoulder. 

Today, Brutal walked quite a bit because Porter wanted to attach the leash to his pants so he could be walked by Brutal. And just like any other day, Brutal was in his carrier when we went into stores and to get lunch. He was walking/running with me to the bank after work so I could deposit my check. But he happily jumped in his cozy dog bag when we got to the bank. 

This is where the story gets more interesting for you, my loyal reader.

I walked into WaMu on Smith Street around 5:30 this evening. I set Brutal down on the bench so I didn't have to hold him over my shoulder while I waited second in line for 20 minutes. You know, Washington Mutual employees are so slow and no matter which branch I'm at (in N.Y.), they take forever with each customer. You might call that good customer service, but I just think they're fucking retarded. Anyway, as I'm being helped by this sweet Middle Eastern woman, a very elderly couple walk in, right as the bank is getting ready to close. They stop by the entrance to make sure there is time for them to be helped. The kind, but goofy teller with glasses, hides the fact that he is annoyed. 

As the old couple walk by, Brutal goes crazy! He's barking and shrieking so loud and hard that his carrier topples over and rolls off the bench and onto the floor. I'm so pissed and embarrassed that I don't notice the old lady lying on the ground on her back. Her husband was yelling and pointing to her and trying to get someone to help. Everyone rushes over to her and I quickly forget about Brutal. There's quite the scene to be seen. Someone calling 911, all the employees crowded around her, watchers watching from the window, and the best part, her husband yelling at me. I was so in shock at first that I didn't even realize what he was saying.

I was being accused of killing his wife. Well, not me, my dog! He was telling me that Brutal's sudden tantrum scared his wife so badly that she had a heart attack.  He was threatening to sue me and saying that he was going to put me in jail for good. WHAT?! I don't even know what I was thinking at this point, I was just hoping she wasn't dead. I really wanted to run away. Before I could argue with the geezer, he was calling the cops. I was trapped. If I left, it would seem like I knew I was guilty. I never hated anything more than I hated Brutal at that moment.

After sitting in the middle of all the chaos for what seemed like hours, we hear a mass off sirens blaring. I didn't move from my bench and I didn't pick Brutal up off the floor, instead, I quietly cried as the cops, firemen, and paramedics crowded the lobby of the bank. It took only seconds for them to tell us that the woman is dead. The husband is hysterically yelling and crying and I can only make out a few words; "PLEASE!" and "DOG!" 

We took the ordeal outside, where the cold air made me so stiff that my neck felt like it would snap if I moved. I was questioned for a few minutes and forced to give the coppers all my information. The old man disappeared with the ambulance and flashing lights, onlookers stared straight at me, and all the lights in the bank turned off. I was told that the husband would most likely file a lawsuit and that I would have to register Brutal in N.Y. and update all his records. 

I was so upset. I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to kill Brutal for killing that poor old bitch. Was it really his fault? Was I really going to be the one to answer to this lady's untimely death? But it was her time. She was really very very old. 

Actually, none of this happened. Brutal did walk Porter, I really did eat Cheerio's, and I did take Brutal to the bank and leave him on the bench in his carrier. BUT there was no old couple, no one had a heart attack, and I was not told that I was going to be sued. While I was in the bank, I thought to myself as Brutal quietly cozied up in his portable bed, "What if an old lady walked in and Brutal barked so loudly and suddenly that she had a heart attack and died? Would I get in trouble? Would they try to sue me? And if they did, would they win?" A bit silly, I know. But I thought it would make a good story to tell you's. 

Well, I hope you enjoyed this tall tale. I certainly enjoyed writing it, although I struggle so badly with punctuation and past/present tense. As Bryan has admitted to over-using certain punctuation marks, I will also admit to totally over-using the COMMA. I love it. 

Thanks for reading.

bye

My Dog's Name is Brutal.

I know that I just wrote a blog less than 24 hours ago, but here I am again. (wait, why can't you say 'here i'm again'?) In today's bloggy, I would like to talk about my dog, Brutal, and our extreme love for each other. I am fully aware of how fucking crazy I may seem after you read this. I know I know I know!

Brutal is a Miniature Pinscher, who's about a year and a half. Bryan and I got him from a nice couple in September of last year, around my birthday. As we were driving home with him in my lap, I realized I didn't really like him that much. He was so cute and sweet and he played with my hair the entire ride home. But I thought I couldn't love another animal as much as I loved our sweet cat, Mr. Susan. I was very worried that they wouldn't get along or that Mr. Susan would be mad at us for loving another baby animal. But that wasn't what happened, at all!

Now that I think about it, I don't know when we started to notice that Mr. S and Bru were becoming BFF's. I don't remember Mr. Susan's reaction to Brutal when we first brought him home. Anyway, they were best friends and brothers. They loved each other very much, which made me very happy. I then started to realize just how much I loved Brutal. By the way, they still love each other, they just don't really remember one another because they have been apart for almost 2 months. :( 

Mr. Susan and Brutal were amazing together. They played A LOT, chased each other, made big messes, and got into trouble together. One time, they were playing with the Christmas tree ornaments, and Brutal pulled down the Christmas tree, breaking my new-favorite ornament. We woke up, in the middle of the night to shattered glass, tree water soaking our carpet, and two super scared animals. They knew they were busted! And Brutal absolutely HATES getting in trouble. His feelings will be hurt all day/night if he gets yelled at. Mr. Susan just runs away... laughing. 

When I lived in Seattle, I brought Brutal everywhere. He came to work with me, if I went to the store, he rode in the car and waited until I came back, I took him to the dog park almost everyday. He went running with me every night, or walked the 3 miles around the lake. We were inseparable. And still are, of course. This is why I have Brutal, and Bryan has Mr. Susan. You can't take a baby away from his mommmmmy!

Now we're here in NY. I bring Brutal with me to work, the corner store, shopping, and stuffs. We hang out all day and all night. When I leave him at home, he cries and howls, and totally annoys my roommates. Then when we see each other after being apart, he gets crazy and jumps and kisses and licks and wiggles. When I'm not with him, I think about him. I think about what he's thinking or what he's doing with his doggyself. I might be crazy, but I think about awful things happening to him, and I get so upset. I just want him to be safe and loved at all times. When we're together, he can never be close enough. Sometimes, it seems like he's trying to climb into my skin. Sometimes, I put my hand underneath his chest while he's sleeping and I'll just feel his little heart beat. It's a nice feeling, but I should never have children. I'm such a crazy dog mom.

Right now, he is laying on my legs, curled up, just as happy as can be. He loves me so much. I have said this before, and it's so true... I'm the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up, and the last thing he thinks of before he goes to sleep. He's totally obsessed with me, as I am him. I have only loved or still love a couple people as much as I love this baby dog. We need each other!

Thanks for not puking all over yourself as you read this silly piece of shit. I truly love you.

bye

First Blog! WOOHOO!

Ok, I decided to blog about stuff. I figured it would be fun to do this when I'm bored at home, instead of doing OTHER dumb shit on the internet. I like to internet it up.

Also, I know you want to read about my life, right?

I will start my blogging adventure by talking about how awful I am at writing. I don't know what it is, but I'm just no good. From a very young age, I wrote little stories, poems, and books. OH, and songs. I wrote songs about boys, being in love, getting my heart broken, and I was just 6. What the fuck? Anyway, I was always writing. It was the one thing that I knew I wanted to do forever. I was pretty stinkin good too (for my age). I remember being pretty exceptional in 7th and 8th grade. I never did my homework and I was always getting in trouble, but as soon as we were assigned an essay, I was the first to pick up my pencil. It was such a great feeling. 

High School was pretty different. I was in the normal/regular English class in 9th grade, and did very well. But Sophomore year, my guidance counsellor suggested I try the Honors English class... So I did. NOT. COOL. I could not keep up with my fellow classmates, at all. It's hard to explain this, but being in that class made me very nervous. The teacher didn't like me because I had such a hard time turning in my assignments on ttiimmee, and I never came to class prepared. AND I felt like the other students were judging me. Ok, I realize this sounds kind of ridiculous, it's just a h.s. English class....

Anyway, I finally got my shit together that year, and I ended up doing alright.

The following year, Junior year, was even worse. I struggled with EVERYTHING; vocabulary quizzes, every test, staying awake during Gulliver's Travels, and even ESSAYS(?!). No matter what I did, I could not please my teacher or get a good grade. I mean, I did not fail, I think I just kept getting C's, which is not acceptable in English. I remember this one essay I wrote about Mark Twain. I worked so hard on it and it took me forever to finish. I was excited to hear what Mrs. Teacher thought about it. And I got it back with a big red "C" on the cover page. Ugh! I started to realize that I had not grown as a writer. My writing skills had not advanced at all. I was still writing like I was in 8th grade, which was great for an 8th Grader, but not a Junior in an Honors class. 

This realization was very depressing to me. It still is. I absolutely love writing, I just wish I was better at it. Maybe this will help a little. Maybe with each inarticulate and boring blog, I'll get a little better. Maybe. 

But I will say this, I am a pretty good speller, I spell well. So if there are any typos or misspellings, it was just an accident. I don't proof-read, which is silly. I should, but I don't.

Alright, I'll let you go. If you read this, thanks for reading it. 

bye