Being mean to Whitney

                When I was in my Catholic grade school we had to go to church every Wednesday morning and it was the worst. First of all we had to stand and kneel all the time and the ratio of standing/kneeling to sitting seemed highly disproportionate to my ten year old brain. Sometimes for some reason there would be a bunch of old people who came to the Mass and they would get the good comfy seats up front and we would have to sit the back of the church where I would compare myself to Rosa Parks. I would get really really hot at Mass. Like, so hot I thought I would pass out (which I tried to do sometimes because I knew that everyone would then pay attention to me but I could never force myself to make it happen.) Back then I thought that maybe old people just get really cold or the power of Jesus was enveloping me. In retrospect I realize that it was probably because I was fat and in a crowded room. 

                Anyway, whenever I was in trouble or sometimes when I was so hot at church that I couldn’t bear it, I would start to cry uncontrollably (actually controllably but I was an acTOR so it looked uncontrollable) and I would cry out, “My parents are divor-hor-horced!!” This usually got me out of anything as I assumed all the Catholic teachers were like, “Well his parents are going to Hell so I better have him sit in a dark corner somewhere…”

                The previous was a long story introduction to tell you that my parents are divorced. BUT REEEEMARRRIEED! This means more presents at Christmas. So here is how my familia works. Mom and Dad had Sam and Brad. They got divorced. Mom got remarried to Stepdad and had Whitney and Sarah. Dad got remarried to Stepmom and had Tommy. I am 21, Sam is 20, Whitney is 14, Sarah is 12, and Tommy is 6. 

                The previous was a long story (yeah I said previous to start two paragraphs… Can I get some more previous up in dis ma?! )to introduce you to my family so you know who I’m talking about when I talk about them. So Whitney is our least favorite member of the family. Not really but sort of. My sister and I were so used to everything being all about us that when she was old enough to start crawling down the stairs to our play room we would barricade the door with cardboard bricks that looked like stone. We called them Castle Blocks. Sometimes when she was being especially annoying with her wanting to play with us we would say, “Whitney! Guess what? There’s ice cream upstairs!” Her two year old eyes would light up like giant watery fireworks. “Go upstairs and tell mama to get you some!” … Stepdad comes downstairs. “You guys can’t tell Whitney that she can have ice cream.” As she eats her ice cream… and begins to ruin EVERYTHING. We worked really hard on our Barbie Fashion show and she wasn’t invited. 

                Whit was super smart and probably the kindest person in my whole family (until she turned 13 and the Devil inhabited her soul.) She was the middle child to every extent of the word. There is a hallway in Mom and Stepdad’s house where big pictures of Sam, Sarah, and I hang on one wall and Whitney is by herself on the other wall. Sometimes my parents would forget about her. We went to Dairy Queen and Stepdad got everyone a hot dog (including the friend that Sarah brought with) but forgot to get Whitney one. One time she got stuck in an elevator. One time she walked off an elevator when she was five and no one chased after her to tell her that it was the wrong floor. Stepdad clearly favors Sarah (not really but Sam and I make sure to point out to Whit when he does something nice for Sarah.)

Sometimes conversations go like this:

Brad: Sam, who is your favorite sister?

Sam: Sarah, duh.

Brad: Sam, who is the fattest person here?

Sam: Ummmmmm, Whitney.

Brad: Sam, did you know that Whit was adopted? Her parents were fat demented heads that didn’t want her.

Whitney: You guuuyyyys. Sto-ho-hop.

Sam: What is that annoying buzzing? Brad, do you want to go to Starbucks just us two with no one else invited?

Brad: Duh.

The problem is now she is so sure of herself and nothing brings her down because we forced her to evolve a giant shell of confidence. And now we HAVE to pick on her to bring her down a little bit. 

Sam: Mom Whitney’s high school problem is that she has too much self confidence. What was my high school problem?

Whitney: I can hear you!!

Sometimes Sarah makes up lies about Whitney.

Sarah: Whitney started eating before we prayed.

Sarah: Whitney failed her test today.

Sarah: Whitney tooted. Gross. It smells like her hair.

None of these statements were true. 

One time Sam and Whit were walking the dogs and Whitney dropped Hyper Dog’s leash, twice. The first time was because she’s dumb and the second time because Sam threw a bag Passive Dog’s poop at her. Completely warranted. Whit was being a brat and said, “I refuse to pick up poop. I don’t do that.” 

So what is today’s lesson? Well Whit gets all A’s in school, is really pretty, popular but not too popular, has super thick skin, and is really really stubborn. It all goes back to ma gurl, Rosa. Whitney rose like a terrible phoenix and now she can conquer anything but she’s become just as mean as my sister and I. More conversations of us being mean to her to follow.