Cheers; Where Everybody Knows Your Name... and Theme Song

We all know that the show Cheers was written, performed, and aired from the early 80's to the early 90's, but only a few people know that the theme song was actually created two decades before the show was even thought of.

While watching The Newlywed Game with his parents in 1968, 21 year old Alan Thicke had a bright idea for a new song. He rushed to his dreary room and scribbled the words "Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got". It took seventeen straight hours and thirty cups of his fathers black coffee, but young, tenacious Thicke finished his first television show theme song.

While working at small convenience store in his home town of Canada, the 20-something shopped his song to movie and t.v. executives all over the world. But nobody in the biz thought that such a young and beautiful man could be taken seriously as a theme song composer. With no luck and no money, Thicke disappeared into a deep depression for several years. There were rumors about his mental health and sexuality, and ironically, everywhere he went everybody knew his name.

In the fall of 1979, a group of television producers happened upon Thicke's untitled theme song. The team mocked, scoffed at, and spit on the cheery lyrics until one producer read it aloud with an open mind and an open heart. At once, the men warmly read the words to themselves in disbelief. As they sat in silence for a few moments, one producer stood up and said, "I wouldn't mind going for a Thickey!" And that is how it all started for A.T.

The critically acclaimed Alan Thicke would then go on to write the catchy tune to Diff'rent Strokes and my personal favorite, The Facts of Life.

Tales of a Teenage Maverick

I'm the one wearing a LARGE, blue [311]  shirt.

If you look up the word 'maverick', you will find: 

1: an unbranded range animal ; especially : a motherless calf2: an independent individual who does not go along with a group or party

 

This post is dedicated to every adolescent, pre-teen, tween, youth, and teenager who might be considered a 'non-conformist, free spirit, rebel, loose cannon, dissident, or an informal cowboy'. Clearly, 'informal cowboy' is the best description one could hope for. 

I remember being interviewed for kindergarten. Ms. Maines, who I would later have as my teacher that year, sat with my father and I and asked me questions about what I like to do, if I like to read, draw, etc. I thought she was so nice and pretty that, as I stood up to leave, I turned to her and said, "I hope you are going to be my teacher!" She smiled a warm smile and said goodbye. For my first day of P.M. Kindergarten, I wore a pale pink dress with white frilly eyelit sleeves, frilly white socks, and black maryjanes. My mom put my hair in a delicate side ponytail with a slight curl to my bangs. I was so excited, (so was my 3 year old sister, Jordan) as most kids are for their first ever day of school. 

But that did not last. I started hating school in 3rd grade, really truly hating it. But just one year before that, in second grade, I began my journey as an informal cowboy. And I remember the day it started; I was V.I.P., not because I was actually a very important person, but because it was my turn alphabetically. My favorite teacher, Mrs. Gillette sat me up in front of the class on an elevated seat so everyone could see me. She asked me questions like, "When and where were you born?" "What is your favorite color, food, music?" Let me tell you really quickly, my favorite food is the same: ice cream, chicken fingers, and french fries, and my favorite music was Mariah Carey. I felt kind of vulnerable and scared up there on that stool, so I gave the teacher bunny ears. The whole class started laughing really hard, including Mrs. Gillette. After that, I couldn't take the rest of the questions seriously, and I just made up jokes. At the end of the week my dad brought in cupcakes and sat in the front of the classroom with me, as the teacher read out loud everything my classmates said about me. And they (almost all of them (how original)) said, "Whitney is funny, she will be a comedian when she grows up." Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Gillette's class of '92, I'm not a comedian, I'm a regular Joe hanging out with children during the day, and my dogchild at night. 

After I moved on from Mrs. G's class, I realized that not all teachers thought I was funny and charming. I quickly became the annoying little girl in the back of the class who just wanted attention. And boy was I annoying. Even my friends' mothers were hesitant about letting me come over, especially for sleepovers. It got worse as I grew into a young adult. In 7th grade, Ashley and I got countless detentions for disrespecting our tech teacher, Mr. Patterson. We called him "Mr. Spatterson". We never finished our typing assignments, instead we drew pictures in Paint and typed swear words in large font. One day, sitting in the back of the room far from the teacher, we decided to tear up tiny pieces of paper and flick them at each other. We thought that was too much, so instead, keeping a low profile, we crumbled up the tiny pieces and flicked them over our desks. We did this for the entire length of the class. When the class was over and it was time to put our folders away, a couple of kids walked in front of our seats and stopped, stared, and laughed. They looked at us and told us we were going to be busted. Ashley and I couldn't see the mess we had made because the back of the desks were elevated and each row was one long unit. We stood up to leave and saw that there were hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny balls of paper covering the floor. We grabbed our backpacks and ran. Mr. Spatterson never spoke to us about that, but on several occasions, we had to answer to him for one thing or another. 

There I am, at the tender age of 14 and the roaring height of 5'8". Please spot the tan lines.

By that year I thought I was so cool. Not only was I the loud, crazy kid, but I dressed like the biggest idiot. We all did. And by 'we' I mean my group of friends, also known as, "The Skater Kids". At 14, I wore oversized band t-shirts, Jnco's, and had dyed fuchsia hair. We wrote ANARCHY on everything, including the sidewalks and walls at the park, in coal from the public BBQ's. 

As a Frosh, I was still very sure of myself, but let me please tell you something extremely embarrassing about my little 9th grader mind. This is something that I may have only told one person about, or maybe no one at all. I wanted so badly to have a nickname and further my imaginary popularity. I thought that if I ate Skittles every day for the first month or so of high school, I would then proudly earn the nickname "Skittles". Thank the universe I didn't go through with my plan to snack on Skittles everyday. My dentist would have been pissed. And let me also mention that I had graduated from Jnco's Mammoth pants and started wearing jeans that were 70" around, EACH LEG! 

I despised school so much (or at least I thought I did). But to be perfectly honest, I hated 3rd and 5th grade more than I ever hated high school, but I still ditched as many classes as possible. Btw, my parents never found out when I had missed a class because I gave the school my personal landline number. I would often come home to a full answering machine telling my parents that I had not been in school that day. Anyway, when I was actually in class I was not learning, I was entertaining. I took it upon myself to make the class laugh. But not all the students wanted to laugh, unfortunately. One girl even took a picture of me dancing on the biology counter while a substitute was in the middle of teaching a lesson. She later turned the picture in to the principal's office. I got a referral and an in-school suspension the first time I danced on the biology counter, but not that time. 

I finally started dressing "normal" by my sophomore year, but my misbehavior (or showing off ) didn't improve. I still barked when my math teacher wrote problems on the board, answered my cell phone in class, ran marathons with Cortnie while we were supposed to be teacher's assistants, had walkie talkie's confiscated for using them on campus, and you know, the usual. 

It wasn't until I graduated, started working a shitty telemarketing job, while still living with my parents, that I realized I should have been less of a rebel and more of a formal cowboy. But I haven't fully grown out of wanting attention and feeling the need to make a fool of myself. I often see loud, obnoxious teenagers on the subway doing acrobatics on the hand rails, listening to terrible pop-punk, dancing on the poles, and I just laugh. And when I see these mild creatures at the park, with blue streaked hair, homemade piercings, and Avril Lavigne eyeliner, I always smile at them, while the parents around me give disgusted looks and pull their children closer. But I understand them and love them. I was once just like them and Sarah Palin, a maverick. I know they just want attention, they want to be hip and original. They're not bad kids, they're just freaks.

The Hipster Grifter IS REAL!

Kari with my puppy and best friend, Brutal.

Kari Ferrell became an overnight sensation when this article: The Hipster Grifter | The New York Observer,  was released just last week. Since then, people have been blogging about their unfortunate encounters with her, uploading pictures (including some naked ones), and on Ebay, someone is even selling a note from Kari written on a matchbook. Please, see for yourself:matchbook note

I decided to jump on this blogging opportunity after much hesitation. But I have been reading so many comments (on other blogs/articles) claiming Kari does not exist and that this is just some great big marketing scheme. Let me tell you naysayers something... she is very real! 

Most of my readers, being my friends, already know this story or have at least heard about Kari and her tall tales, or rather her tiny chubby tales. But I would still like to tell you the story of my short BestFriendship with Little Miss Grifter. 

I met Kari shortly after moving to NY this past fall. One lonely weekend, my internet friend, Jodi, invited me to a comedy show in Manhattan. With no friends and nothing to do, I excitedly accepted. Jodi told me that her friend, Chelsea, could not make it, but that her other friend, Kari, heard about the meet up and invited herself along. 

When Kari arrived, Jodi seemed a little annoyed, but still able to talk and laugh and have fun. I didn't think much of it at the time, Kari seemed so funny and bubbly and just really fun to hang out with. So that night, Kari and I left the bar to go get some late night dinner, and the rest is history. Well, not exactly. As we were eating, Kari and I talked about music, her amazing job, and how we both just moved to NYC. We didn't have much in common, except for the fact that we had both lived in Phoenix and one other major thing... we both LOVE to party. Dance, I mean. We finished eating (I paid for the dinner, btw), exchanged numbers, and boarded the same train to Brooklyn. 

After that night, Kari and I hung out for about two months straight. She told me all about her battle with lung cancer and how she would probably end up dying because she could not pay for some kind of procedure. At first, this was very heavy news. No one wants to deal with the possibility of losing a friend. But she continued to drink and smoke and dance every Friday and Saturday. I was pretty concerned, but she always seemed fine and promised me that she was going to be alright. Cortnie, Kari, and myself.

Just like she promised she could get me on "the list". That's right, you name the show or party, and Kari could get you in. But every time we went to one of these events, I was never on the list. There were times that her name wasn't even on the list. But we got in... every time. I never really saw the charm or even cuteness that others saw in Kari, that's why whenever we did get in to places, I thought it was legit. 

Kari seemed to know everybody. She claimed to date and be close friends with mildly famous musicians, and sometimes she would even call them while I was sitting next to her to ask if they could play at some event or show she was putting on. She also knew a lot of the same people in SLC that my friend Lindsey knows. She name dropped in such a way that it didn't sound completely fabricated or untrue. 

I still kept my guard up. Unlike most, I never let her stay at my house, and aside from paying for our first date, I never paid for or bought Kari anything. She definitely mentioned not being able to cash her checks because of this or that, or not being able to use the ATM, but she always had lots of money on her. She even offered, and quite a few times, to lend me money or to help me buy furniture for my room. No, I did not accept.

During this time, Jodi and Chelsea stopped talking to Kari because of her inconsistent stories and out-of-this-world claims. My friend Keith and I were the last of our group of friends to keep meeting up with Kari, but he was just about done with her as well. He could no longer deal with her asking to stay at his place when her apartment was being "fumigated". He was tired of late night phone calls about her thinking she needed to go to the E.R. because she felt nauseous. And honestly, there is only so much cock-teasing a guy can take. 

After about a month and a half, I was on my own. Kari and I continued to hang out, but just on weekends. No more trips to Ikea or hitting up boutiques on Atlantic. It was really weird, but I felt like our friendship was coming to an end. I was starting to think that everyone was right about her. And still, I had no real proof that her outrageous stories were false. After all, who am I to tell someone they don't have cancer?

At the end of November, with a friendship on the rocks, I get an urgent text message from Jodi telling me to check my email. I was too excited to put it off and ran straight to my room, not knowing what information awaited me. As I stared at Kari's mugshot, I got text messages from a couple of mutual friends asking me if I heard the news. Jodi's email was none other than a mass email to everyone she knew of who knew Kari. I could not believe it. So later that night when I got a text message from Kari asking me what I was doing, I ignored it. I just didn't know what to say to her. Keith felt like we should confront her via text message asking her to leave us alone. So after a couple of days of ignoring her desperate text messages, he did just that. 

Keith, Jodi, and Chelsea never spoke to Kari again. But I did. One drunken night, a couple months later, I see Kari at a bar with a friend. It was a small bar and there was really no avoiding each other. So I went up to Kari and I told her that I was sorry. I didn't say what for, I just looked at her and apologized. She knew what I was talking about, I didn't need to explain in front of her new friend. I just felt bad. I felt like I should have told her why I didn't want to speak to her anymore and why we couldn't be friends. We exchanged a couple of drunken words and parted ways after a minute or two. And I don't see her again for about another month.

So Kari Farrell, the little hipster grifter is real. I won't say that she deserves this internet dragnet, but she's hurt and pissed off a lot of people. Anybody looking for more information or gossip can check out the following link:

This site has links and links and links of more info, pictures, videos, and goodies...

Good Night!

"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