Mom: What did you think of the Florida game?
Me: What? What are you talking about?
Mom: The big Florida/Georgia football game.
Me: You’ve known me for 32 years. What do you think I think?
Mom: What?
Me: When have I ever shown the least bit of interest in football? It’s a stupid, uninteresting game. I couldn’t care less who won.
Mom: So were you upset that Florida lost?
Me: Deeply.
Mom: Really?
Me: No. Not really.

That was actually the name of a movie review column I wrote for my high school newspaper: Whit’s Flicks.
I wrote the column until my review for Willow was released, and the humorless student editor made an accusation to the equally humorless teacher advisor that I’d plagiarized a review that had appeared in Newsweek.
“Maybe they plagiarized me, did you ever think of that?” I’d asked the teacher advisor, when she approached me with the complaint (although to be fair to Newsweek, the only similarities between our respective reviews was the fairly obvious observation that the movie had ripped off elements of various fairytales).
Since my review had been handed in before the issue of Newsweek that contained their review had come out, I was pretty much completely and totally vindicated. Nevertheless, I resigned in protest when the editor and advisor refused to run formal apologies in the paper (although the advisor did make the editor apologize to me in person).
I used to be quite a spitfire, back before law school wrung all of the spunkiness out of me.
Anyway. Last night, George and I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It was fabulous. I don’t normally enjoy movies that are weird just to be weird (for example, Adaptation and Memento), but Eternal Sunshine was weird in a fascinating way. Jim Carrey gave the best performance I’ve ever seen of him, and Kate Winslet was as wonderful as always. I highly, highly recommend it.

Conversation with my mom’s friend:
Friend: So is Sam talking yet?
Me: He talks a lot, but mostly he just says, “Bitta, bitta, ook. Za!”
Friend: And you know exactly what he means, right?
Me: No. I have no idea what he’s saying.
Friend: [pause] Usually mothers always know what their children are trying to say when they babble. It’s like a private language between the two.
Me: Yeah. Um . . . no.
Friend: Huh.
Me: Well, when he points at a tree, and says, “Twee!” I know what he means. Does that count?

Me: I’m being interviewed tomorrow for a newspaper article.
George: Just try not to say anything offensive.
Me: Excuse me? When do I ever make offensive statements?

Whilst out shopping, I overheard the following conversation between two gray-haired little old ladies:
Little Old Lady One: Do you want to go up to the outlet mall?
Little Old Lady Two: Nah. I just shot my wad. I’m gonna go home.
Shot my wad?
So now the only question is, is she really that crass, or does she just not know what that phrase means? Inquiring minds, and all that, but it would take a braver woman than me to ask her. I don’t mess with trash talking grandmas.

I’ve updated the Author page. What do I wear when I write? How good of a dancer am I? What’s my favorite saying?
The definitive answers are here.

Good News: George switched me over to Movable Type, which means the comment function has returned (and it’s about a thousand times easier to leave comments now).
Bad News: My blog archives are gone, and will remain so until such time that George can figure out how to import them.

Sam is usually a pretty easy going, drama-free kid. Up until this morning, which has been going something like this:
Step One: Sam grabs George’s belt (as George is attempting to put on said belt), clutches it joyfully to his chest, and then immediately sticks it in his mouth.
Step Two: I grapple with him for a minute before succeeding in wrenching the belt out of his kung fu grip. I return the belt to George.
Step Three: Sam throws himself on the ground and sobs. His face turns red. Tears roll down his cheeks.
Step Four: I give Sam a cuddle, and than distract him with a toy. This works for a few minutes, until Sam sets his sights on his toothbrush. Or my shoe. Or the dog’s leash. Or a pair of scissors.* Or shards of broken glass.* Or a flaming torch.*
Step Five: Go back to Step One. Repeat all steps.
*No need to call Child Protective Services. I’m exaggerating on the fire, glass and scissors because it makes the post funnier. Really, try reading it without those examples. Not as funny, right?

Everyone has as blog. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that my grouchy yet frighteningly clever pug had a blog, which I imagine would go something like :
Today I thwarted my female captor by winding under her feet and tripping her. While she was distracted, I managed to steel all of Short Round’s graham crackers. Excellent. And tomorrow . . . tomorrow I do the same thing I do every night. Try to take over the world!*
Anyway. I check out a half-dozen or more blogs a day, and I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend among posters — both bloggers and commenters alike — to end every post with the following gem:
I’m just saying.
Why? Why is this repeated over and over and over? It’s becoming the blogging equivalent of the surly “What-ever” of the Buffy-inspired Gen-Y dialect.
Sometimes they even vary it up:
I’m just sayin’
Or
I’m just saying . . .
Or
I’m just sayin’ . . .
Original, no?
No.
It’s gotten to the point where it is now a cliche. And worse, it’s redundant. It’s like saying, “Personally, blah blah insert opinion here blah blah**,” when it’s already perfectly clear that whatever it is that’s about to pop out of your mouth is your personal opinion.
Likewise, we know that whatever it is that you just typed is, in fact, what you were “just saying.”
So, please. Let’s just move on.***
*The reason I didn’t do better in law school probably had something to do with how addicted I was to Pinky and the Brain. In case you’re not familiar with this Warner Brothers cartoon gem, it was about two lab rats who were forever trying – and failing – to bust out of the laboratory so that they could take over the world. The Brain was a genius, and Pinky . . . well, not so much. Every episode ended with a variation on the following conversation:
Pinky: Gee, Brain what do you want to do tonight?
Brain: The same thing we do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world!
Pinky: Narf!
**Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I do this all the freaking time.
***A fair question would be, And why does this bother you so much, Whitney?
And my answer would be, Actually, it really doesn’t bother me at all.
I’m just bored, couldn’t think of anything else to blog about, and wanted to work in a Pinky and The Brain reference. Mission accomplished.

Considering my complete lack of respect for authority figures, I wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in the army. But I’ve always had a secret fantasy of being a drill sergeant, and getting to yell at a new recruit who has made the mistake of addressing me as “sir”:
“DON’T CALL ME SIR. I WORK FOR A LIVING!”
Yes, technically I know I would be a “ma’am,” not a “sir,” but it isn’t as much fun to yell.
I also like saying, “HOO-yah.” Just because.