Barracuda

Hair Thursday will be postponed until next week, giving Whoorl ample time to mourn the loss of her dearly beloved subtle layers, resulting from an extremely rare miscommunication with her unbelievably awesome stylist. She requests time to become acquainted with her new Ann Wilson quasi-mullet hybrid.

Currently, Whoorl’s mental state is touch and go. She was last seen drinking many glasses of wine, repeatedly murmuring “Is this your doing, Ramón? Is it? I’m just trying to understand, are you my magic man?”

Whoorl’s front quarter sections of hair will be dearly missed. Respects may be paid throughout the day in her comments section.

Hey Nancy, is that my hair twin?

The Universe Is Talking

It’s urging me to reconsider the title of “Hair Expert”.

Valentine’s has made me batshit crazy

I can’t stop writing about Valentine’s Day over at the scary place. Just in case you are looking for some last minute ideas, feel free to take a gander. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.

Looking for a way to convey your hot, sexy love through food? Here you go.

Think Valentine’s Day is for wussy shitheads? You might like this.

Is Martha Stewart your idol? Knock yourself out.

Want to gain 10 pounds on Valentine’s? Have at it.

Is your loved one only worth a dollar? It’s too late, but you can look anyway.

Incidentally, I haven’t done one flippin’ thing for Valentine’s. Not even a CARD. So, um, CIAO.

An Important Message From Wito

I noticed yesterday that my mother was braggity bragging about our house not being a “den of kiddie crap”.

You see, my mom likes to keep things tidy. She even wrote about it here. (Although DUDE, mom. I know I’m your muse and all, but could you NOT include me in those posts? Some of those ParentDish commenters are hella mental.)

However, on occasion, my mom’s silver laptop draws her in with the force of a black hole and I can do whatever I want.

Namely this:

So, um, I’m just saying she might want to change that statement or something. In fact, I have a new motto:

Wito: Keepin’ it real in ‘08.

Peace to all of you on this Super Tuesday. DON’T FORGET TO VOTE OR MY MOM WILL HUNT YOU DOWN. (Armed with a Dustbuster.)

Blame Ramón

This song is sung to the melody of Tyrone by Erykah Badu.

If you have never heard of this song:

1) Watch the video and please familiarize yourself. Feel free to follow along.
2) We obviously have NOTHING in common.
3) I might need to re-evaluate our friendship.

I’m getting tired of his shit
My fingers are really hurtin’
See every time I pull him out
I gotta play lame ass chords on Ramón
See why can’t I play a damn D, sometimes
See I’ve been practicing all day
For a long time
I just want it to be
So easy
Like it needs to be, baby
But he must like to kick my ass
I think I’m gonna crap

I think ya better blame Ramón
(Blame him)

And tell him come on, help Whoorl learn her shit (come on, come on)

You need to blame Ramón
(Blame him)

And tell him I said come on

Now every time I have a chance to write a post
He comes beckoning with sweet promises of most
Oh, well hold up
Listen Ramón
I have shit to do
Cause Miss Whoorlie is always dealin’ with poo
And you know it’s true

Every time I try to play
I gotta turn the DVD on
To keep Wito engaged and not let him stray
While I practice the day away

Wito thinks Rachel is his mom
Because she’s da bomb
I must remain calm
Guitaraddiction dot com

I like you
But I must tell you the truth
Ramón wants to give
the internet da boot

So, you better blame Ramón
(Blame him)

And tell him come on, help Whoorl learn her shit (come on, come on)

You need to blame Ramón (OHEEEOHEEEOONNN)
(Blame him)

Hold on…but he sure is some fun

Introducing…

Ramón Alejandro Django. (Django is pronounced “Jango”. Also, RAD for short.)

He’s a total sadist and I can’t feel my fingers. I hate him.

The end.

The Miracle Ham Adventure

Friday, December 28th, 2007. The day that altered my life forever.

Picture this. A chilly day spent on my grandmother’s ranch in Oklahoma. After a fairly uneventful drive from Oklahoma City, we arrive with gifts in tow. Why, here we are, relaxing on (read: breaking) my grandma’s Lazy Boy.

Christmas at my grandmother’s home is a very relaxed affair. A down home meal, homemade pies, sweetened tea and some football. Usually, I end up sitting on the above chair for most of the 5-hour visit.

Except for this particular day- I heard my father and grandmother talking about some fantastic, life-altering ham and how he just HAD to have one to take back to the city. Some shuffling and jingling of keys ensued, and before I knew it, my dad was heading out the door.

Normally, this wouldn’t have phased me- I mean, it takes a lot to get my ass out of that fine leather chair, but for some reason, I found myself yelling, “Dad! I wanna go! Hold up!” He inquired incredulously, “You want to go pick up a HAM with me?”

“YesIwannagosomeonewatchmybabyokayfineseeya!”

Thus began our adventure to secure The Miracle Ham. Through two small towns and a very desolate 2-lane highway, the entire time listening to my father boast about a damn ham. “It isn’t injected with ANYTHING! Such smoky flavor! Hung to dry! Natural! The best flavor you’ve ever tasted!”

Luckily, I had his new iPhone to play with, thus counterbalancing the ham sermon. However, I was very careful to interject a well-placed “uh-huh…you don’t say…mmm, smoky” along the way.

I guess, in my mind, I assumed we were heading to a retail operation, such as a Honeybaked Ham store (although, YOU HAVE NOTHING ON THE MIRACLE HAM, FOOLS!) Little did I know that we were going to spend some quality time here:

The iPhone came in quite handy, you see.

I looked at my father and asked, “Is this, like, a meat production plant-type establishment?”

To which he replied, “I do reckon, little lady, now git over yonder!”

(My extremely suave and well-spoken father hasn’t lived in a small town since 1967, yet transforms into Smiley Burnette within a 20-mile radius of his old stomping grounds.)

We walked up to the door, me skittishly standing in my father’s new-found cowboy shadow, and what I saw next was marvelous.

A smoky office about the size of an elevator with what looked to be a 113-year-old woman sitting at a desk, smoking some Kool Menthols. Across the cluttered desk sat her grandson and great-grandkids, looking at us as if we were just transported from Mars.

Keep in mind, the Miracle Ham Establishment isn’t even located in a town. It is in the middle of nowhere, and I’m guessing the owner/operators of the MHE do not have daily run-ins with people donning winter white peacoats and iPhones. It was a little awkward on my part.

However, Smiley was having a ball.

“Well, HOWDY, Miss Jones! It’s me, Ronny! Arlene’s boy! How ya doing? I was hopin’ I could buy one of those deeelicious hams of yours. I’m fixin’ to head out to the big city, and I sure would like a taste!”

*insert overdramatic eye-rolling on my part*

However, my eye-rolling was cut short when I noticed the young great-grandson (10 years old, tops!) eyeing me like I was a juicy ham myself. People, he licked his lips and with great (and unnecessary) fervor.

Let’s see - Smiley Burnette in one corner, Kool Menthol Elder and 10-Year-Old Pervert in the other. Things couldn’t get much more uncomfortable when, all of the sudden, the front door busted open. As I peered through the thick smoke, I saw the silhouette of a Very Large Man yelling, “Give me my hooves! I need my hooves!”

Kool Menthol Elder - “Well, why on earth would you need some hooves?”

Very Large Man - “Because I’m building my GUN RACK! DO YA RECKON?”

10-Year-Old Pervert - *licking lips*

At this point, I was trying to silently delineate if pigs even had hooves, and if not, what kind of hooves did he mean? More importantly, WHY WAS I IN THIS SITUATION IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I quickly decided I was going to turn around and face the wall. Sure, it might look strange, but trust me, it was my best option.

I turned around, expecting a wall, when I realized it was a glass window. A glass window looking into the meat production “area”. Holy hell. May I just use a few words?

Pig. Parts. Blood. Rust. Raw. Machines.

I’ll let you take that for what it’s worth. I looked at my father and mouthed, “Halp.”

Thank God, at this point, a lovely lady (wearing the world’s bloodiest apron and a poorly-bandaged thumb) appeared with our Miracle Ham. Fantastic.

We said our goodbyes and made our way back to car, feeling much dirtier than before we left. (Well, at least on my part. Smiley was singing about billy goats or something.)

We returned to my grandmother’s house just in time for the big meal. And you know what? I ate two slices of The Miracle Ham.

Now, I’m not really a ham person, but that Miracle Ham? It was damn good.

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