Road Trip! (With unlimited parentheticals!)

We’re leaving tomorrow morning for a week’s vacation in the home of one of D’s clients.

I haven’t prepared one bit. I haven’t packed, I haven’t created a single list (serious travesty), I haven’t thought about what I’m going to wear (we are vacationing WITH D’s clients, which means I have to be Whoorl 2.0: Perfectly Coiffed Edition at all times), I haven’t planned for the 14-HOUR ROADTRIP WITH TODDLER THAT I ACTUALLY SUGGESTED INSTEAD OF FLYING BECAUSE WE LACK A SENSE OF ADVENTURE SO HELP ME GOD, I haven’t done anything.

What have I done today?  Well, for starters:

1. I wrote this completely pointless blog post.

2. I set up all sorts of iPhone/Flickr/Twitter/Twitpic applications. (Road Trip 2008! Live blogging! Would that be fun? Boring? Ridiculous? Do tell! If I keep asking all of these questions, I won’t have to pack.)

3. Dropped by Old Navy to buy Wito some socks and never made it to the kids’ section. (Try to deny the cuteness of this and this and these, Whoorl 2.0: PCE! Try!)

4.  Actually took the time to take photos of those jackets because they aren’t listed on the website.

(Are we sensing the level of procrastination yet?)

5. Attempted to fix Crayola Disaster #2. I obviously didn’t learn anything from Disaster #1. (How about keep the fucking crayons AWAY from the furniture, Whoorl?)

(My solution? Flip the couch cushion until D finds it and maims me.)

7. Laundry. (This one counts as preparing, right?)

8. Whispered sweet nothings to my laptop before saying goodbye for an entire week. (Although, I’m bringing my iPhone for quickies.)

It’s nearing 2:00. I must go. Wish me luck, my friends! Any toddler road trip wisdom would be greatly appreciated. Actually, any wisdom pertaining to anything on the planet would be welcomed with open arms. (That way, I can read your comments INSTEAD OF PACKING.)

So You Think You Can Dance - Blogher Edition

I had such a fantastic time at Blogher. In a teeny nutshell, I was just so thrilled to be surrounded by smart, hilarious and well-rounded women instead of wiping dookie booty all day. (Can I get an AMEN?)

I think my personal high (LOW! LOW!) point of the weekend had to be “dancing” at the Mighty Haus launch party. Now, one would think that upon being invited to a party hosted by the lovely Maggie Mason, you would keep a certain air of composure about yourself as you navigate through the space and guests. And I did that…for about the first hour or so.

It’s just that people started to dance. And I really didn’t WANT to dance, but bodies were filing onto the dance floor and my adrenaline started pumping, and well, you’ll see.

Lucky for you, after noticing some photos on Flickr (thanks to Greeblemonkey and Mrs. Flinger), I can recreate this atrocity for your viewing pleasure with a mere five photos.

Photo #1:

There I am, making my way onto the dance floor. You can smell the determination in the air, can’t you?

Photo #2:

Here is my trademark warm-up maneuver. I like to walk around the floor, clapping my hands next to my ear, much like the Paso Doble. Look how Heather is rendered helpless by my matador-like movement. There is no denying it, she wants me.

Photo #3:

After the blood starts pumping, I launch into a contemporary performance art piece that Mia Michaels might as well have choreographed herself. Now, to the untrained eye, it seems I’m attempting the Charleston, but check out the back of my shirt. See how it’s airborne? This could only mean I’m at the tail end of David Lee Roth-type jumping maneuver. Leslie and Alana are AMAZED by my dancing prowess.

Photo #4:

Seriously, I have no idea.

Photo #5:

The pièce de résistance. My beloved Sprinkler maneuver. Let’s chat about this photo for a second.

1. Take notice of my face color. No, not reddish purple from embarrassment, but from INTENSITY. The Sprinkler is no joke, people.

2. I wonder, am I actually singing AND dancing at the same time? Or is it more of a guttural grunt, much like Serena Williams playing tennis?

3. My shirt buttons are literally holding on for dear life. Like I said, such is the Intensity of The Sprinkler.

4. The crotch of my pants is halfway down to my knees. This can only mean that the Van Halen jumps have loosened my pants considerably.

5. Will you marvel at my hand form? Mary Murphy would have nothing but praise for my lines.

All in all, I’m wondering about SYTYCD’s age limit for auditions because I am SO THERE NEXT YEAR.

Starstruck at Blogher

Come take a stroll with me down memory lane.

It’s 2:45pm on Saturday. I’ve just run up to my hotel room in an attempt to briefly thaw my corpse-like legs before the next session. I turn on the television set, realize ESPN bowling just isn’t going to hack it and grab the nearest Blogher schedule to skim over. Holy shit! I forgot about the room I’ve been wanting to visit since I arrived! The “celebrity” of all celebrities is in that room!

I grabbed my bag and walked hurriedly to the elevator. My heart seemed to beat out of my chest while thinking of the possibilities. What if I get the chance to have a short conversation? What should I say? Should I go for an awkward hug?

I had no time to think. I needed to get to this room before the next onslaught of people arrived on their break. I weaved through the hallways, staring straight ahead, careful not to catch the glance of anyone who could slow me down.

And then I arrived. The minute I walked into the room, I saw the Blogher VIP across the way and immediately started to cry. CRYING, PEOPLE. “Oh, Jesus”, I thought to myself, “Get it together, Whoorl! What am I, FOUR??”

I couldn’t help it. I was staring at such an inspiration. I wiped the tears off my face and walked straight over to introduce myself and maybe secure a photo or two.

I must say, Grover did not disappoint. I was suddenly a five-year-old again, just thrilled to get a hug from the famous puppet.

Although, Grover, are you attempting to cop a feel?

Let me help you with that hand, Grover. Okay, much better.

For those Sesame Street fans, Eric Jacobson (whose face is in the second photo) has been the only person to puppeteer Grover besides Frank Oz. (Is it just me or do Eric and Grover resemble each other?)

More non-puppet Blogher fodder to come…

How To Use A Neti Pot

1. Enter Mother’s Market. Spend upwards of twenty minutes aimlessly walking around the store, feigning interest in various items while, in reality, you are too shy to ask the cute dude with dreads about the Neti Pot.

2. Locate a very tall Swedish man with a skinny plumber’s butt and ask for assistance locating the Neti Pots. Loudly knock over an organic tissue box display with your stroller.

3. Find and purchase Neti Pot.

4. Return home. Sit on couch. Take Neti Pot box out of the shopping bag.

5. Stare at Neti Pot box.

6. Repeat #5 several times.

7. Make dinner.

8. Finish dinner. Sit on couch.

9. Repeat #5.

10. Place Neti Pot box on the couch next to you, barely touching your leg. Pray that the physical contact alone will unleash the magical healing powers of the Neti Pot.

11. Realize magical Neti Pot diffusion isn’t happening. Decide to open the box.

12. While opening the box, notice the term “nasal douching” written on the side. Gag forcefully. Repeat #5.

13. Quickly get over your fears when your sinus cavities remind you that YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DON’T DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE MUCUS.

14. Prepare Neti Pot with the warm water and salt. (1/4 teaspoon to 8 ounces water is the recommended amount. I used a little bit less, thanks to your comments.)

15. Read the directions 5,000 times and obsessively worry that your head won’t be tilted properly.

16. Lean over the sink, tilt head and stick the Neti spout into your right nostril, creating a “seal”.

17. Pour water into your right nostril. See nothing coming out the other side. Wonder where the water is going. Tilt head upwards to look in the mirror. Salt water now gushes down your throat. Choke. Scream, “I’M DROWNING! HELP MEEEE!”

18. Realize you are, in fact, NOT drowning. Collect yourself.

19. Try again, this time tilting your head properly. The saltwater flows directly out the other nostril! You are amazed! This is the coolest party trick ever!

20. Feel equally happy/horrified about the expelled contents of your nose.

I’m here to tell you - don’t be scared of the Neti Pot! There is definitely a little bit of a learning curve when it comes to the tilt of your head (not tilting downwards enough can cause the saltwater to drain in your throat), but once you have that down, it’s really easy. I’m definitely a fan. Now, if I only had bought one a week ago, I probably wouldn’t be dealing with my newly-diagnosed sinus infection of mammoth proportions. Oh well, at least I’ll know next time.

Stale And Desperate

You know that feeling when you haven’t spoken to a friend in so long that in order to get to the present day you would have to spend hours trying to catch them up, but you really don’t want to listen to yourself ramble on about seemingly meaningless shit for hours, so you just don’t talk at all?

Yeah.

So, how’s it going?

Hmm. Yeah.

Well, okay then! Nice talking to you!

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I’m at a fork in the road, people. I’m not trying to be dramatic (yes, I am), but I’m going to shut this website down (no, I’m not) if you don’t help me out RIGHT NOW (or maybe over the course of this week).

Let’s see. I could tell you about my trip to Oklahoma, my savant son with a photographic memory, the blossoming love for Ramón, my complete lack of exercise for the past three months and my new workout plan to remedy the situation, how teaching a stubborn 22-month-old how to drink out of a straw is driving me to profuse amounts of alcohol…

Pretty please, do me the biggest favor and help me out of my blogging funk.

What do you know? It’ a handy-dandy POLL! HAHAAAAAAAAA, HOW NOVEL.

If you find that my options blow hard, please feel free to enter your own suggestion (which I’m praying you do). Maybe I can rack up a month’s worth of material or something.

My Head. It Has Not Been Reattached.

Well, hello! Here I am. Headless.

Things haven’t really simmered down on the home front nor the Hair Thursday front. I returned Friday from Oklahoma, where Wito was cared for (read: spoiled rotten) while I was prancing around New York with TV makeup on.

I ask of you, television guest or high class hooker?

It’s a tough call, my friends. I’m sure the makeup was spot-on for the cameras, but the six business men who shared an elevator ride with me in my trench coat afterwards probably assumed the latter. You should have seen me walking into my hotel, just waiting for the manager to pull me aside, all Pretty Woman-style. (Excuse me, madam. Where do YOU think you’re going?)

Although, I’m happy to say I would have kept those false lashes on for the rest of my life if I had the chance. (Dear unbelievably awesome hair and makeup team, any chance I could get you to move to California? I make really good margaritas! Love, Whoorl.) As for the television appearance, I will let you know as soon as I get an air date so we can all laugh together at my rambling in front of a live studio audience.

Gulp.

Speaking of the television show, did I mention that the week before my trip to New York, field producers were sent to my house to film an at-home interview, as well as some additional footage of my day-to-day activities? One of those day-to-day activities was me bloggity blogging on my computer, and only in the middle of filming my hands typity-typing did I realize that my nails were possibly atrocious.

Guitar lessons + nails = Not Pretty. ZOMFG.

My living room was completely inundated with bright lights, microphones, people, cords, did I mention people? Yes, people staring at me while I talked about lord knows what. It was truly an surreal experience.

Fast forward to the present. Wito has had a fever of 102-103.5 for the past 36 hours. He’s a sick little dude, and I am taking him to the pediatrician in a couple of hours. My house is in its normal post-weekend state (DEMOLISHED) and guess who’s coming over in 5 hours?

ABC NIGHTLINE.

It’s clearly a slow news week. Let’s recap - messy house, sick baby and Oh, OH! Nothing to wear. Send help.

(At least my nails are manicured this time around. Positive thinking RULES.)

A Word Of Caution

Ketel One martinis + The New York Times anticipation = Ouch.

Ladies and gents, I’ve had a crazy week. You see, I’ve been on vacation with my family, which included a little bit of this:

La Cucaracha from whoorl on Vimeo.

(Wait, doesn’t everyone have a 6-foot statue of Captain Hook included in their vacation rental?)

A little bit of this:

And, a little bit of this:

Look at those cheeks. MONCH MONCH MONCH.

Meanwhile, my job responsibilities over here are morphing a bit, and of course, the New York Times article made its appearance and rendered this site inoperable for several hours.

As much as I would like to pretend that I calmly waited for Thursday morning’s arrival by speaking phrases such as, “The NYT’s Thursday Style section is quite a treat and the piece should be just delightful, my dears. Now, pass the bubbly, Ronald!”, that’s not exactly how it went down.

On Wednesday, the butterflies made their presence known. The interview and photo shoot were both so exciting, but I really had no idea about the size and scope of the article. By 4pm, I had decided with the utmost certainty that the title of the article would be:

NEUROTIC WOMAN POLLS INTERNET ON HAIR CHOICES WHILE CHILDREN STARVE.

My family decided I was in need of some adult beverages. Now, I usually have no issues with drinking a martini (need to create a new, exciting dinner? Try drinking a martini! Just watch the cooking improvisation unfold!), but the adrenaline building in my body created some sort of catalyst, hurling me into the galaxy of drunkity DRUNK.

(Two martinis! Just two!)

(Drunk, I tell you!)

D and I returned home around 10:30pm, I set the alarm for 6:00am (our local coffee shop only sells 5 copies of the NYT and I HAD TO HAVE ONE. Or three.), and clumsily plopped my head on the pillow.

Whoah. Spinning.

I groggily mumbled “UGH”, grabbed my pillow and trudged into the living room, where I attempted to watch the nightly news with one hand covering my left eye. You know, to reduce the television rotation.

(Two martinis! Just two!)

(Lightweight, I tell you!)

I must have succumbed to one hell of a deep slumber because I woke up at 2am on the couch, completely disoriented and apparently very hot, evidenced by my turning the thermostat ALL THE WAY in one direction to cool off the room.

I made it to the bedroom, crashed into bed and immediately fell asleep.

What happened next can only be described as moderately painful. The alarm went off. My mouth was dry. It felt incredibly hot in the bedroom. I stumbled into the living room, or what felt like the fiery pit of hell, looked at the thermostat and the room temperature was registering a balmy 86 degrees. I had turned the thermostat the wrong direction.

(Two martinis! Just two!)

(Idiot, I tell you!)

Did any of you see the Sex and The City episode where Miranda drinks 1,000 martinis with the extremely good-looking detective and wakes up with the worst hangover in the history of mankind?

That was me.

Still not getting a crystal clear visual?

How about this.

Luckily, I made it to the coffee shop in one piece. Wearing jeans, my pajama top, and smelling of vodka. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have PAID anyone to believe that was me in the photo.

Let this be a lesson to you all. Butterflies and alcohol do not mix. Go forth and spread the word, my friends.

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