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…

Guess What We’re Having For Dinner?

Wito woke up yelling “Hungwey, hungwey, HUNGWEY!” at 5:12 this morning. Now, the hungry part wasn’t so weird, given I currently own the title of Mother To Gigantor, but the 5:12am part was less than desirable for reasons I’m sure I don’t have to explain here.

I let him roll around for about 45 minutes while he yelled phrases such as, “I burped, mommy! EXCUSE ME.” and “Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, milk time!” (Seriously, people. He’s a counting savant. Also? When we’re driving in the car and listening to music? He names THE INSTRUMENTS that are being played in the song. How in the hell does he know the difference between a guitar, piano, trumpet and violin? OH, ENLIGHTEN ME.)

(Sorry. I just had to get that out there.)

Finally, when I decided to embrace the early wake-up call and drudge my sorry ass out of bed, I carried Wito into the kitchen and asked him what he wanted to eat. We pretty much have a standard high class breakfast menu at Casa Whoorl, which consists of Eggo waffles (Um, Nutrigrain because I, like, really KER about health), yogurt, milk and/or cheerios.

I looked at Wito and asked what he wanted.

“Waffle?”

“No.”

“Toast?”

“No.”

“Blueberry yogurt?”

“No. HUNGWEEEY.”

“Sweetie, what do you want?”

“I wan cheekey nunnets and faffel fwies.”

“What?”

“I WAN CHEEKEY NUNNETS AND FAFFEL FWY.”

“Um, you want chicken nuggets and waffle fries? Right now?” (6:18am, to be exact.)

“Yes.”

I stood there, looking at him and thinking of the two times in his life that we have fed him fast food. (Chick-fil-A, of course! I mean, is that REALLY fast food?)

And honestly? I did a little happy dance because OH MY GOD, I GET TO EAT CHICK-FIL-A FOR DINNER. HELL YES.

I’m off to San Francisco tomorrow morning to attend Blogher. Hope to see you there!

Want to hear about my weekend?

Then head over to Secret Agent Josephine’s blog!

(The incredibly lazy writer in me LOVES it when this happens.)

Admitting Defeat

It’s been approximately 7 weeks since I wrote this post.

I tried to be a better, non-internetish sort of person. I really did.

Truth of the matter is, I love Twitter. I love it so much it hurts deep down inside.

Where else can I record a fleeting thought about some chick’s way-too-short-hoohah-baring “pants” on So You Think You Can Dance? How else will I know if Metalia goes into early labor? What if I am looking for a recipe utilizing Rotel and need an answer in milliseconds? Huh?

When I deleted my account, Twitter made it extremely clear that it was over. The account would be deleted forever and ever. However, last evening, I was informed that my account wasn’t deleted forever and ever! It could be restored with a click of a mouse!

IT WAS A SIGN. A SIGN, I TELL YOU.

So, yeah. I’m back. Just in time for SYTYCD.

(Please don’t tell my husband.)

(Although, I do have a plan for time suckage reduction. Never fear.)

A New Home

Say goodbye to hair-related posts at this joint. Hair Thursday has relocated to much cushier digs over here. Trust me, your hair told me to tell you to go check it out.

You know what this means, don’t you? Whoorl.com can once again become a truly inspirational and creative outlet about things that are important.

Issues that matter.

Like these, for instance.

1. So You Think You Can Dance starts TONIGHT. The electricity that’s buzzing through every pore of my incredibly pale body is incomprehensible. (Although, Palm Springs, here I come! Swimming pools! Coppertone tans! HELL YES.) I never thought my adoration for Travis could be beat, but Danny? DANNY, I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU FROM THE DEPTHS OF MY JADED SOUL.

In other SYTYCD news, I saw Lacey out shopping last week and I had to restrain myself from having a quick “chat” about her hair extensions on the show. (Hair. All day, every day. It’s a disease, people.)

2. I stubbed my toe this morning, let out a little yelp, and Wito looked me directly in the eye and said, “No whining”.

3. There is a very slim chance that my Nightline segment will run tonight.

Well, munch on THOSE inspirational morsels for now. Peace be with you.

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.

Wow.

OMFGBLAHDEEBLHAHAHAAGLAAAG.

Yes, I think that accurately explains how I feel this morning.

Click here for the online version.

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