I'm one of the few people that can say that they have professional experience in answering questions. (No, really! I worked at ChaCha Search Inc. for a year. My IQ may never recover from the experience.) I figured some of you would like to take advantage of my inquiry expertise. Normally you'd have to pay money for my services. Actually, no you don't. ChaCha is funded by advertising and free to use. Normally you'd have to look at ads for my services. But being a good Samaritan, I thought I would extend my skills out to my adoring readers. (All fourteen of you.)

I opened an online forum for questions. (This is just a fancy way of saying that I posted a Facebook status asking for questions, and some of my friends responded.) Now that the amount of questions pleases me, it's time for...

Whitnicism's Question Corner
[Insert Mr. Rogers-esque theme song here.]

How do I become awesome?

Luckily you asked the Regional Ambassador of Awesomeness. (Well, not really, but this should seriously be a thing.) It's fairly complicated being as awesome as I am, but here are my three most crucial tips:

1. On the Office, Dwight's favorite piece of advice from his boss was as follows: Don't be an idiot. "Changed my life," Dwight said. "Whenever I'm about to do something, I think, 'Would an idiot do that?' And if they would, I do not do that thing."

The same applies to awesome. "Be awesome." Whenever you're about to do something, think, 'Would an awesome person do that?' If they wouldn't, don't do that thing.

2. Become a Nerdfighter, since they're made of awesome rather than cells and tissue. I'm one of those.

3. Dance like a crazy person in your room by yourself to a song from Glee or a pop song from the 90's, at least once a week.

Do boys not like me because of my Harry Potter/Glee/Darren Criss/watching gay kisses obsessions?

Yeah, probably. Or at least most of them.

Yet it seems to be that everyone has a handful of quirks that make themselves think, 'Wow. It'll be really hard to find someone of the opposite genitalia that will want to come near me.' (Or the same, if that's how you roll.) It's about finding that one in a thousand person that will find these quirks endearing, rather than running for the hills. People get into relationships all the time with more serious issues than just "quirks." Toenail collectors. Kleptomaniacs. Spencer Pratt. There is love in this crazy world for everybody.

You should probably take down the Kurt and Blaine shrine in the back of your closet before you invite any boys over, however.

Do you think it will be legal someday to marry my cat?

You might as well have asked me, "Do you think it will be legal someday to marry my child?"

How do you beef up a resume?

I'm supremely employed and I have an answer to this! (That was called sarcasm. Sarcasm is something you will need to learn before reading this blog much more.)

My latest quest is to find myself employment, and I haven't had luck in that so far. If you're like me, you're trapped in the "you can't get a job without experience and you can't get experience without a job" paradox. Of course lying on a resume is prohibited, but if you need that extra umph, add jobs and employers that are impossible to get in contact with and trace back to. For example:

Occupation: Ninja
Employer: Sensei (name withheld.)
Contact Information: N/A. He lives in a hut somewhere on a cliff in China, meditating for 15 hours a day in his zen garden. He doesn't believe in phones.

OR

Occupation: FBI Agent
Employer: Federal Bureau of Investigation
Contact Information: I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.

You could also add some pizazz to your resume by filling the "skills and abilities" section with a ton of flashy nouns and adjectives. Your prospective employer will be so taken in by all of the awesome words that you'll be hired for sure. Some examples are: Hyperintelligent, wizard, alive, flying, pirate, reads books, important, vast, American, sparkling, melodic, obedient, early, nutritious, Gryffindor, substantial, optimal... I could go on, really. The more words, the better. Fill pages and pages of words.

Can one simply walk into Morodor?

I'm not really sure. Let's ask Boromir.

Nope. One can't.

Do you think someday it will be possible for me to have a coffee IV?

I'm no medical expert but WOWEE I HOPE SO. I would constantly be tempted to drink my own blood, though. 'Tis a blessing and a curse.

Is it possible to love all my shoes equally?

It's not possible for me, personally, to love all of my shoes equally. I like my comfortable black flats more than the vindictive brown ones that dig painfully into the back of my heels. My brown flats are aware of my prejudice, too. I always tell them, "I wish you were more like Black Flats. Black Flats never causes any trouble." Brown Flats will probably grow up to be a whore, I've damaged her self-esteem so badly.

Perhaps it is possible, if you're a better shoe parent than I am.

How does one cope with Post Potter Depression (aka PPD)?

Be right back, sobbing.

I've been dealing with Post Potter Depression off and on for years now (during the waiting period between new books and movies.) Not only have I not managed to get a grip on that, but this new PPD is an entirely new breed. It's like the rest of my life is this vast, grey, Hogwartsless field of nothingness.

The only thing I can suggest that has helped me is denial. Wrap yourself in a warm, fuzzy, invisibility cloak of denial and stay there at all costs. Reread the Harry Potter books. When you're done, read them again. Show up to work wearing Hogwarts robes. Bring your wand everywhere (I know you have one) and use spells. Develop a British accent. Spend all night in the woods trying to trap an owl to keep as a pet and train to deliver letters for you.

Or you could just check into therapy, but that's no fun.

How crazy is it to go to a bookstore and hug books/whisper sweet nothings to them?

Not crazy at all! I've hugged people and whispered sweet nothings to them. I like most books more than most people. Therefore it should be showing affection towards people that should be questioned, not books.

How do I get that cute boy at school to like me?

I didn't have much luck in high school in the boy department, but I learned a lot via quiet observation. It seemed to me that the majority of high school aged kids haven't grown up yet, and this goes double for boys. To be in a young student relationship, you must conform to young student standards. Some rules of thumb seem to be...

1. Take your IQ. Act like you're at least half that intelligent.
2. Take your level of niceness. Divide this by 1/8th.
3. Take your normal speaking pitch and raise it about five octaves.
4. Be annoying.

For some reason, boys 15-18 go nuts over girls like this. This is why I didn't acquire any boyfriends until after I graduated.

How should I deal with my Darren [Criss] obsession?

You've asked me one of life's most difficult questions, my dear. Darren Criss is hard to defeat. He is actually a cyborg that has been created in a factory, part of a vast scientific research on how to make girls go absolutely bonkers. It also comes in handy for the government if they need to shut the internet down. Darren just releases a shirtless picture of himself. Bam! Darren broke the internet.

I don't know how to deal with a Darren obsession, myself. I'm powerless against the government. But my first suggestion is to purge yourself of friends that ask questions like this:

How can one make Darren Criss marry Angel so that I can be a bridesmaid and hook up with the best man, Joey (if he's not off with Evanna Lynch)?

They only encourage your unhealthy behavior.

By the way, Joey Richter is a cyborg, too. It all makes sense now, doesn't it?

[Insert Mr. Rogers-esque outro.]

There are times in our lives when we have experiences that change us, and we have to share them. They're filled with heart, soul, and character-building pain that shapes us into the people we are and who we will someday become.

I don't have a lot of these experiences, so I'll make due with this.

Last weekend, in the course of our family reunion, a troupe of aunts and uncles and grandchildren went to revisit an area that my mom's family had hiked every year. My life-changing incident involves how I hiked to the top of a mountain. And didn't die.

It wasn't even a mountain, really. It was steep, intimidating, and included a cave and a very important-looking series of power wires on the top. My perception on what should be considered a mountain is likely warped. Living in the Rockies, we usually throw our heads back and laugh at what people from other places consider "mountains." This hill-mountain cyborg is nothing compared to the mountains that constantly surround me.

To clear up any confusion amongst readers, for we all have different opinions of what constitutes as a mountain or not, let's just all assume whatever I climbed looked like this:



Even though it didn't.

A recurring theme in this coming-of-age tale, the point that made this "mountain" trek such a struggle for me, was not my inability to walk far. I'm awesome at walking. It's one of my many talents. Heights also don't intimidate me much. I'm not stellar with being in high places, but they're manageable.

My thing is this: I'm bathmophobic. That is not a fear of baths, although that would be very inconvenient. I'm scared of steepness. I'm not sure how to describe this, other than the fact that I'm the least sure-footed person on planet Earth. Whenever I walk down a steep slope, I subconsciously expect this to happen to me.



The caves were fairly easy to get to, by normal people standards. A trail conveniently paved the way to them. However, part of this path was too steep for my standards. I walked up with no problems, but I crab walked on the way back down. I have no shame in admitting that. (Well, maybe a little bit of shame.)

I can be an overly ambitious person. You know, when I feel like it. Regardless of that moment in the Whitney Hall of Shame,I felt like I could still make the hike to the very top of the hill-mountain lovechild. This involved a fairly extensive trail including many, many steep slopes.

I'm an idiot.

With a handful of family members, we set forth. The trail we hiked was a bit of a challenge, with inclines that hours of walking on the treadmill hadn't quite prepared me for. Do you remember the old nursery rhyme, the Bear Went Over the Mountain, where a bear had climbed up and over a mountain only to find another mountain he had to climb? I sympathized with that bear. Whenever we turned a corner, believing we were finally almost there, we found another obnoxious series of twisting and turning trails.

Then we saw it, the Grand Poobah of hills. The path leading to our very destination, the very top of the not mountain, was hardly a path at all. It was a series of rocks, hundreds of them that could break off the side and cause you to topple to your doom. It's also important for me to mention that this path was very steep. Remember, I don't like steep. Steep is bad. Very bad. The sight of it alone was enough for us to give up right then and there.

All of us except for my great Aunt Margaret. My great Aunt Margaret is in her 70's and very, very miniature. Just to give you an idea, here is an actual-size drawing.


Point being, she's elderly and frail and adorable and the last person there that would be expected to try tackling the Grand Poobah of hills. Yet she did. She stared it determinately in the face. Umbrella in hand, clad in a brightly colored floral jumpsuit, she began to climb.

My uncle Darren turned to me and said, "Look at Aunt Margaret! She's doing it! If she can do it, we can!" He began to follow her. Thinking bitter thoughts about peer pressure, I followed him.

I ended up crawling up on my hands and knees. Humans have the disadvantage of only being able to use two limbs for walking. You don't see a lot of bathmophobic mountain goats, so maybe they're onto something. It was then when I felt like I was in the climax of a movie. A movie about a girl on a family hike with a fear of slopes that she needs to conquer. (I have a feeling there isn't much of an audience for that movie.)

My hands were scratched up from climbing. I started sweating and panting, which I'm sure was ridiculously attractive. About a fourth of the way up, I sat on a rock to rest. My aunt, bringing up the rear, talks about how wonderful I was to "stop and wait" for her. I'll let her believe that. When my aunt caught up with me we walked, hand in hand (because having something sturdy to grab onto helps with my fear of slopes) the rest of the way.

The view was gorgeous, probably all the more so because I was thankful I didn't fall to my rocky doom. There was also a deer about ten yards away, who had four limbs to climb with and obviously did not share a fear of steep hills. The trail back down was easy, gorgeous, and rewarding.

And there were only a few steep areas where I had to cling onto my aunt for dear life.

Let’s start this blog entry with two truths and a lie. For those of you who have never interacted socially with anyone else before, “two truths and a lie” is when I tell…two truths and a lie. The plot twist comes when you have to guess which is the fib.

1. I’m an expert at dating.
2. I had three sets of teeth.
3. I once dislocated my kneecap by swinging my leg over a four-wheeler.

If you guessed point #1, you win! Congratulations on your common sense. Clearly that is the most outlandish out of all of the given choices! However, I decided to push myself a bit out of my comfort zone and attempt blogging about that very thing today.

Before taking anything in this entry seriously, or heeding any advice therein, I would like to note that this blog is the equivalent of Charlie Sheen writing about how to be sober.

Until recently, I had taken a hiatus from the escapades of the dating world. How long of a hiatus, you ask? Think of a point between “I’m asserting my independence” and “I’m agoraphobic.” My explanation for the break was pure apathy. I was content with being single. I was interested in dates, but if it took any more effort than a Jake Gyllenhaal look-alike’s car breaking down in front of my house, I couldn’t be bothered to find any. I simply had higher priorities.

I’ve come to the conclusion that, as awesome as fictional boyfriends are, I should consider trading in for a real model. (Sorry we had to cut our imaginary relationship so short, Peeta Mellark.) Along with this realization has come another: once again, I am going to enter social labyrinth that is dating.

For posterity, I thought I should record the phases that I personally go through when dating. I could refer to them as “the phases of dating” but I’ve accepted the fact that I’m not normal a long time ago. Making these phases seem relatable to anyone else would be false advertising.

First there is finding guys to date, or what I like to call…

1. Building the harem.

It’s at this point where qualities such as approachability, outgoingness, and the ability to create small talk would come in handy. While I have my miracle moments, I don’t have much of these traits to spare. Regardless of my societal ineptitude, I’m aware that I have an entire market of men available to me, and my brain reflects this. It’s like man shopping. As soon as this stage is reached, lasers are set to stun. Rather than two eyes I have acquired dual scanners, scoping out potential mates.

This phase starts off very idealistic. I half expect to run into someone who is obviously my ideal mate from the second we meet, as if a romantic comedy script writer is penning my life. At least half of my list could be marked off within five minutes, in my dream world. “I see you’re listening to my favorite band on your iPod,” is how my model introduction to a guy would begin. “Your shopping cart is full of spaghetti. You’re also wearing a shirt that says: ‘I’m a genuine, honest, laid back, smart, fun, sweet guy who likes kids and cats, and will watch Disney movies with you. Also, I’m not a douche.’ Let’s date!” I would be pretty convinced that I had found my dream man in five minutes, which is a big time saver compared to the months you’d have to take out of your life to make the same conclusion.

Now that I think about it, the scoping process would be much simpler if we advertised a key part of ourselves via t-shirt, something that we want the eligible public to know. It doesn’t even have to be the most prolific part of you. For example, shirts that would reel me in include:

“I like Harry Potter.”
“I give great hugs.”
“I play a musical instrument.”
“My hair is curly. See?”
“The fact that you spend a large portion of your time on the internet does not intimidate me.”
“I’m Darren Criss.”

With the inability to filter people out this way, “I’m going to find my perfect match at the grocery store” turns into “I’ll go out with this guy because he seems nice and like he wouldn’t be a serial killer.”

2. 50 First Dates

Now that my harem is built, here comes the time when I have to start interacting with these people. This is the first step into truly diving into the dating process, and it’s the most intimidating one for me. You have a few hours to convince a guy that it would benefit them to spend more of their time with you in the future. No pressure.

Even if it’s not a love connection, I think I do a pretty good job at just enjoying someone’s company and a free meal for an evening. Yet some first dates are just so…awkward. It’s like mentally shoveling through six feet of snow just to get through the night. Conversation is like running underwater; you’re putting in all of your effort, but you’re not moving very far.

“What kind of movies do you like?”
“I like the documentaries about earth worms, and whichever new action movie fad is out.”
“Oh. I haven’t seen either of those.”
“Oh?”
“Oh.”
“…”
“I’m cracking a joke.”
“Your sense of humor doesn’t register with me.”
“…”
“…”
“So, how’s the weather from three feet away?”
“Slightly more humid.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“…”

Usually the date and I come on unspoken, mutual terms not to see each other again. There are times when my tendency to make jokes in awkward situations is mistaken for charm. (Since I tend to make jokes in just about every situation, though, I can understand the mix up.)

They say that you have to sift through a lot of coal to find a diamond. After you sift for a while you should eventually find that person you make a connection with. Which brings me to phase three.

3. HOLY CRAP! ARE YOU EVEN REAL?

After a seemingly endless series of awkward or mediocre people, I find someone I truly connect with. Talking is easy. Laughing is constant. This person seems to subconsciously hit every “I really like this guy” trigger I have. It’s like he somehow acquired a collection of the best things to say on a date with me and is reading them off, one by one.

Some examples of what I may hear on this date include:

“I like that really obscure interest, too! Maybe we should like that together sometime!”
“I totally respect your space. I won’t even breathe the same oxygen as you without your permission.”
“I’m not the only one who has wondered why they don’t make band-aids in different skin colors?! Woah! You’re practically my soul mate right now!”

He’ll also tell me that my eyes are as blue as raspberry Otter Pops, or whatever guys say to girls to compliment them nowadays. It’s not like guys don’t tell girls they’re attractive on dates all the time, for whatever reason. Yet a part of me believes he isn’t reading off of a predetermined list of compliments. There is a certain genuine undertone to everything he says that you don’t run across every day.

I actually believe that he is beginning to like me, the same way I am beginning to like him. As nice as having an open, honest, and comfortable relationship is, not much can compare to the “getting to know someone you‘re starting to like“ phase. Every little molecule is tingling with the excitement, the possibilities. I haven’t had to go through the uphill climb of “learning to love this person” or “embracing their flaws.” In the grand total of five hours we have been acquainted, and in seeing all of the best sides of him, he is perfect. I don’t know which pet peeves he invokes, or how he might piss me off later. All I know is that I want to see more of him.

I am on crack. Pure, unfiltered, dating crack.

4. The Waiting

While the previous phase is obviously exciting, it’s also riddled with uncertainty. It’s not a part I do particularly well with. Seeing how things go? I have the patience of a seven year-old on Christmas Eve. Taking leaps of faith? My name is Wimpy McWimperstein.

I’m a complete weirdo in the fact that I like to have things planned out. If since birth I was given a chart containing the information on who I was going to marry, what my career was going to be like, where I would live, and how many children I would have, I would be content (because a calendar with a day-by-day schedule of the rest of your life would be a little unrealistic.)

Because life does not and will never cater to my anxieties, I just have to wait to see what it dishes out. Whether it’s waiting for a call, or waiting to find out if you feel equally interested in each other, or waiting for that piece of information that tips the scale for or against his favor. All I can do is wait. Even though I’m a fairly busy girl, it’s like this aspect of my life is put on pause. It’s the most awkward feeling ever.

In the meantime, I’m left to think of events so far. I feel like I overanalyze to the point of borderline psychosis, while others just call it being female. Girls (or at least me, because it’s not fair to drag half of the world’s population down to my level) have this uncanny ability to take this simple phrase or action spoken on the part of the guy and twist it, mold it, and grind it until it’s unrecognizable. I evaluate it into the ground.

Here is a hypothetical example of what I mean.

“I like you.”
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? Let’s review our nouns here. Is there a store called You? A restaurant? No, not anywhere nearby. Maybe he was referring to a girl named ‘Yuh.’ Does he have a thing for Asian girls? Were there any Asians in the immediate area when he said this to me? Damn my brain for not being able to recall the Asians because that’s very important information now!
He could have meant he likes “you” as in “me,” but I don’t want to jump to any conclusions.

In my attempt to simplify the dating process (because I greatly need it simplified), and whether or not I should give the guy I’m questioning another date, I’ve made this flow chart.



These are the only concrete phases I can pinpoint before the possibilities branch out into all sorts of different directions. I could go on a few more dates with this guy and just not feel it the way I did in the beginning. I could discover something unsettling about him (like his secret kiddy porn dungeon, for example.) Or the flow chart could‘ve told me that I should eat ice cream instead, and I always take what flow charts say very seriously. Especially when ice cream is involved.

Or worse. I could end up in a relationship with this person.

I kid, even though sometimes my inner cynic rings clear. In my most bitter days, I've taken a walk by a local park. There is a house obscured by trees with no neighbors, and a bright yellow sign in the front saying boldly, “PRIVATE PROPERTY: KEEP OUT.” I see myself being that guy.

Yet there is something so enriching, maybe even worth it, about bringing someone else into your life. It’s worth the social niceties, and the counterproductive dating etiquette, and even the second guessing. I can give myself a complete life on my own, but it’s the people I share it with that make it worthwhile.

Until then, I'm going to go through this dating labyrinth and hope it doesn't drive me insane.

Tee hee. "Ample" is my second favorite way to say "a lot of." My first is "an abundance."

For the keen of eye and the none of life, you probably noticed that I haven't updated this blog in almost exactly two months. This is for the following reasons:

1. I'm in denial that there aren't actually Inspiration Fairies giving writers who behave themselves inspiration dust for writing blog entries.
2. I magically gained three followers without doing diddly squat. If I actually write something, I fear I may lose those followers.
3. Since about a week after my last entry, I've been in Texas. I've been here all spring with my sister and two-year old niece.

Lately, I've been trying to avoid dying. It's harder than it sounds.

Texas has been extremely enjoyable, but these past two weeks have been absolutely ridiculous. You know how everyone has an unfortunate bout of threat to their health? A fall here or a flu there? It seems like the Sheer Forces At Will have been attacking me at all sides with throwing ninja stars and fury. They're after me. I'm convinced. And I'm not even exaggerating (like I normally do.)

As of a little less than a week ago, this was the state of my body. I now present you the Diagram of Pain:



Some injuries are not to scale (or to appearance) due to my extreme lack of artistic ability. Besides all of that, this was what my body was like. All at the same time. Oh, me.

Now for the fun part: Telling you how it all occurred.

Let's go through it chronologically. The last time I was a normal person, we were leaving the Post Office. For me, tripping and falling is commonplace. Give me a flat field with no hills or holes, and I will find something to trip over. If I were a seeing eye dog, blind people would use me to avoid dangerous situations due to me constantly approaching them. However, I always seemed to luck out when I was carrying precious cargo (i.e., my niece.) Until that day.

All it took was an uneven area of sidewalk, thus beginning an intense battle between myself and gravity. I would normally have just accepted my fate and let myself fall, but I was carrying my niece. Those were the closest I have probably ever come to those fancy and protective "maternal instincts." At the time it was intense, but looking back on it, I'm sure it was kind of hilarious. The top of my body was teetering forward, then lurched quickly back as if to say, "Oh no you didn't, GRAVITY." I looked like a weeble wobble.

The only difference is that weebles wobble, but they don't fall down. I did.

The whole process was in slow motion, slow enough to encase my arm around my niece and accept defeat. Because I wasn't able to catch myself, the dead weight falling to the ground amplified every blow. That explains half (yes, only half) of the bruises on my knee, and every single scrape in the diagram. The arms and elbow got the worst of it. During one account, my sister proclaimed that she could see bone through the elbow. (I can't confirm or deny that statement considering I could hardly bring myself to look at it.) The most astonishing thing about it is that, even though my injuries shined threateningly red, I didn't bleed.

Luckily, my niece didn't have a scratch on her. I could feel ripped off, but I was relieved.

A little less than a week later, I took a nap during (and exceeded) my niece's because I felt tired for no reason. I also had a chilly fever, if that made any sense whatsoever. In 80 degree weather, I was wearing a jacket because I had goosebumps on my arms. I went to bed early with a jacket and slippers due to more cold oddness.

I woke up at 7:30 that morning (extremely out of character for me), feeling like a swarm of tiny men attacked my muscles with little jackhammers. I eventually lulled myself back to slumber and stayed that way until my normal time. Upon waking, I stumbled to the bathroom. In a life that I've known one thing above all else (and it's that sleep cures everything,) I was astonished to discover that I actually felt even worse. It was sometime during that realization that I...woke up.

My first thought was, 'Odd. I must have dreamed that whole thing.' That thought shut itself up when I put my hand down to help myself up and it was cold and hard. There I was, on the bathroom floor, and I didn't even have excessive drugs and alcohol use to blame. I went through a period of denial when I believed, 'I couldn't have fainted. Maybe the bathroom floor felt cool and nice and pretty and I curled up on it and slept for a little while.' That was until Knee Bruises: The Sequel came out. Even then I wasn't entirely convinced because the idea of fainting is frustratingly inconvenient. Welcome to my brain.

The only symptoms unexplained are the coughing and sore throat. That doesn't have as elaborate of a tale as the others. They were just there. For a long time. From the fall at the Post Office to the swooning in the lavatory almost a week after both incidences, there it was. The symptoms refused to subside. It's like my throat was starting to mock me and my existence. I think everyone has had an illness that they have begun to get irrationally angry at. It's an awkward feeling to wake up every morning and want to shout at your own throat.

I wasn't sure if it was allergies or weather changes, so I went on a "kissing my niece" boycott during that time. That was the last straw. I started to go a bit insane at that point. I was bitter towards the world. I would mention poverty and war in the same breath and seriousness as this sore throat. I became a soldier for health, putting myself through every obstacle, every sacrifice, and every old wife's tale to get rid of the cough once and for all.

I would also have conversations like this:

Me: I'm so sick of being sick! I'm going to beat this thing!
My sister: Geez, you're talking about it like you have cancer or something!

For the record a combination of honey, gargling salt water, and cough drops did the trick.

I wrote this entry because...well, first, because I actually think all of this is hilarious (which means I have the weirdest sense of humor ever.) Also, I want to remind you all that everything is temporary. Even the wounds from when the Post Office sidewalk beats you up, or the results of your boycotting throat. Now I can celebrate my wellness, and the fact that I don't feel like a shell of a healthy human being anymore. Hooray!

This was only a couple of weeks after the couple of months that I haven't been blogging, however. I don't know why I used these as excuses.

Today I engaged myself in such a horrible, unsavory, torturous activity that I can barely even say the word without shuddering in horror. Cleaning.

I wouldn't say that I'm a messy person, but I'm only selectively organized. My closet is organized by color, yet my bed is always unmade. My music collection is immaculate, yet there is a Smurf village among the clutter on my computer desk. This is the oxymoron that is my life.

I don't even hate cleaning, per se. My sense of accomplishment in extreme cleaning lasts me for months at a time, which is ultimately my downfall. The process is like this:

Immediately after cleaning: My room is beautiful! I'm going to keep it looking this way forever and have a world record for cleanest, most awesome room.
A couple months later: There are a few things thrown on chairs and misplaced. No biggie. My room just looks "lived in."
A few months after that: The denial period. A black hole must have eaten the remote control to my iHome because I just barely cleaned it.
Then eventually: This is getting ridiculous. I unravel myself from my cozy blanket of denial.

My previously disastrous room was brought to you by busy-ness, laziness, and lack of motivation. I have a procrastinator attitude as well: Doing little bits of work at a time is just too easy. If you load an unrealistic amount of work on yourself and manage to do it all, you are the most sensational accomplish-er of things in the entire history of the world. You are Oprah.

Not to mention whenever I clean my room, my parents act like I've won the Nobel Prize. While they usually claim that it looks like a cyclone tore up the place, my mom proudly paraded my dad around my newly polished room. If I had kept my room clean, it wouldn't have been such a big deal. The tactic is that I make my parents disappointed and lower their expectations of me to ground zero. Every once in a while I'll do these insignificant things that make me seem like Daughter of the Year. "Whitney, you're outside!" or "Whitney, you woke up before noon!" It's worked so far.

The whole process was a little intimidating, honestly. There was one moment when I found a long lost item under my bed and I was sure that a monster would grab me forcefully by the arm and drag me into the abyss. However, it was pretty neat finding things I'd long forgotten about.

My favorite of the day: Old school assignments. I never seemed to take school seriously. However, my teachers mistook my snark for actual writing talent and gave me A's.

Exhibit A, actual excerpts from a script for Little Red Riding Hood: the Musical that I wrote for Music 1010:

WOLF: You are brilliant, you devilishly wolfy self! Dressing in drag is the perfect way to get a meal. Although I suppose I could've just gone to McDonald's. But I'd better practice a little bit so as to get into character... (Clears throat.) (Old lady voice) Oh, my heavenly ginger snaps! What a mess the young folk have become! I remember when I was a little girl, we had to walk fifteen miles barefoot in the snow to the drugstore just to get a packet of spearmint gum and a yo-yo.

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD: Hello, Grandmother!
WOLF: Hello, young (realizes he never knew her name) um...I'm sorry. I'm getting a bad case of the grandmotherly forgetfulness! (chuckles) Um...
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD: Little Red Riding Hood?
WOLF: Oh, yes! I never would've picked out that name. You look more like a Sarah...or a Penelope...

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD: You saved me, Axeman! Thank you! But how did you know that I was in trouble?
AXEMAN: I have no idea, actually. I guess I heard some screaming and wanted to investigate the ruckus. Not to mention my axeman senses were tingling.

NARRATOR: The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon happily munching on Little Red Riding Hood's delicious basket of goodies. The moral of the story is this: If you want dinner, go to McDonald's. Don't dress in drag.

Then there was the bill I wrote for Government. While others chose serious subjects like medicine and abortion, I wrote a bill about how the letter "W" should be recognized as the best letter of the alphabet. I made bulletproof points such as "since 'W' is the beginning letter of 'water,' we would dehydrate and die without it" and "E is the most used letter in the alphabet, and it looks kind of like a 'W' when you tilt your head to the right." Regardless, this bill was immediately rejected in fake Congress. One of my more outspoken classmates even said it was pointless. I just like to believe that I'm one of those misunderstood, offbeat, artist-y types. At least that's been my excuse since I was thirteen.

Besides, if Bert believes it, it must be true.



Bert from Sesame Street would smile upon (or at least his unibrow would smile upon) my room cleaning and W loving ways.