Charleston and Mr. Drama

My lovely family unit is leaving tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn (5:15am! Come join the festivities!) for Charleston, South Carolina. My lovely family unit is very much looking forward to this trip, even if it involves appeasing my son, Mr. Drama, on the airplane all day.

This (rather loud) drama is surely a phase, right? I mean, I know I might have a tiny bit of flair for the over-dramatic myself, but COME ON, I employ it solely for entertainment purposes. I’m an Entertainer. Not an Overly-Dramatic Fool.

(Dear Mom and Dad, you are not allowed to comment on this entry. Especially if it involves a story of my youth involving green Jello. Love, Whoorl)

Just this morning, while I was sitting in the living room, D announced that it was time to get Mr. Drama dressed for the day. You would have thought we were packing him up for the orphanage.

D: (Looking over at Mr. Drama, who is calmly playing with building blocks.) “Let’s go get dressed, buddy.”

Mr. Drama: (Calmness morphs into insta-hysterics.) “NOOOOOOOO! Mommy! Don’t go! Bye-BYYYYYEEE, Mommy! Bye, Mommy! Love you, PRECIOUS MOMMY!”

Whoorl: “Honey, I’m right here. Daddy’s just taking you to the next room to get dressed.”

Mr. Drama: (Lying on the floor, holding on to the door frame.) “I LOVE YOU, MOMMY. GOODBYYYYE….”

Whoorl: “Fine. I’ll get your clothes. Let’s go.”

Mr. Drama: “NOOOOO! DADDY! I’ll miss you, precious daddy! Bye-byyyyyye, daddy!”

Purchased the wrong kind of juice? DRAMA. Passed him the purple crayon instead of the blue one? DRAMA. Must quit playing outside because it’s dinner time? DRAMA. Max and Ruby is on the television? DRAMA. (”NOOOOOOOOOO Max and Ruby, Mommy! NOOOOOOO.”)

(I have to say, that show does kind of suck.)

You see, situations like these make it easier to understand why upon passing a rather attractive firefighter, my first thought is no longer whether or not he looks good in his skivvies. No, it seems now the most pressing matter is whether or not his fire station participates in the Infant Drop-Off Program, and maybe, just maybe, if I bat my eyelashes, he’ll look past the fact that Mr. Drama is decidedly NOT an infant and take him anyway.

(Any recommendations for good eats/shops/parks in Charleston? I’ve got a good list started, but I DON’T WANT TO MISS A THING!)

(That was a little dramatic, wasn’t it?)

Rocky Mountain High

Wow. That is the cheesiest post title I have ever written. (Although, Zeus? Hera? Where’s the God of Teeth when you need him? and Memories, Light The Corner Of My Mind are additional fine options.)

I just don’t know where to begin. I mean, do you all even KNOW ME anymore? No, no, I don’t think you do, and the only way to remedy the situation is a quick post filled with written diarrhea.

Let’s see. I just returned from a quick trip to Denver and Boulder. As you may or may not know, my husband graduated from the University of Colorado and we wanted to check out his old stomping grounds while meeting up with his brother’s family. (Which included the most delicious 6-month-old ever.) The weather was beautiful, the leaves were starting to change, the air was crisp and the food was tasty.

We poked around neighborhoods and parks and generally fell over dead when we saw the housing prices. Houses that would easily be over the 2 million dollar mark in my beach community were literally, dare I say, remotely AFFORDABLE. Frankly, it makes me wonder, is the beach that worth it? Is the year-round perfect weather that worth it? Will I live in a small bungalow FOREVER AND EVER, GOD HELP ME?

Wait! That’s not all! The women? At the beautiful Colorado parks? Were NATURALLY attractive. NOT shot up with Botox, sporting blond extensions and Juicy Couture track suits! I did not see one bright yellow Hummer or flaming red Aston Martin. The people were friendly! With not a hint of passive aggressiveness!

OH MY GOD, Orange County, you are slowly killing my will to live.

(See? This is when I think I should continue not updating my blog. Do you really want to read this drivel?)

Also, I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit that I am almost physically ill that I finished reading the Twilight series. What in the hell am I supposed to do now? Blog or something? I love Edward and Bella, and I could care less if people think it was a poorly-written series because I could NOT put it down. Being a huge Anne Rice fan, I thought I would scoff at these books, but I loved them, oh how I loved them. Is there going to be a 5th book? Please, someone MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY. If you absolutely loved Twilight, do you have any other books that you recommend I read? I belong to Goodreads, but I get lost in all of the millions and trillions of suggestions.

(Also, does anyone else wonder if by reading and thinking about vampires, you are sending out some sort of other-worldly wavelength for the vampires to come find you? No? Just forget I mentioned it.)

Now, if you are looking for something to make you laugh your ever-loving ass off, might I recommend Cringe by the lovely Sarah Brown? It’s a compilation of grade and high school journal entries that are some of the most hilarious pages I’ve read in any book.

(But I don’t WANT funny now! I want Edward and Bella! Wah.)

Help me find some sort of substitute before I am forced to read The Witching Hour for the fifth time.

My Sister: A Conversation and New Hair

A conversation between Lala and myself yesterday.

S: I just heard from the Nightline producer. Looks like my segment will run next week.

L: Dude, are you going to watch it?

S: I think I am going to record it and watch it later. You know, so I can pause and bury my head under a pillow every 23 seconds.

L: Good plan.

S: What if the interview is all cut and spliced and I sound like a total idiot?

L: (Deep sigh) Oh, that is totally what happened to Brenda.

S: Brenda? Who is Brenda?

L: (incredulous laughter) Um, BRENDA. Remember when she was interviewed about her friends by some newspaper? And the reporter totally twisted her words and misquoted her? And like, EVERYONE was furious with her? Donna and Kelly WOULDN’T EVEN TALK TO HER.

S: Wait. Are you referring to a Beverly Hills 90210 episode from 15 years ago?

L: Um, YEAH. Don’t you remember?

(Complete silence.)

L: Seriously, HOW COULD YOU NOT REMEMBER?! Whatever. I’m just saying, it could happen.

S: Thanks for the tip.

L: No problem.

In other news, we had an unofficial sisterly Hair Thursday this week. Lala was sick of her long hair and wanted a change, so she went from this:

To this:

Super cute, huh? Donna and Kelly would be BLINDED by jealousy.

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.

Guitar Hero

Last week, I changed my New Year’s resolution. I originally wanted to start crocheting so I could make hats like this, but I just couldn’t get myself super excited at the prospect. (Maybe because I can BUY them with one lazy click of my mouse!) (Wait, I don’t have a mouse. Whatever, look at how cute Wito looks!)

I still wanted to do something with my hands, in order to help pull me away from my computer. (Internet BAD, Music GOOD!) So, I decided to learn to play the guitar.

Now, I’m not a total stranger to musical instruments, as I kicked SOME TRI-STATE ASS with my clarinet as a young lady.

Jealous much? 9 years old under the influence of something. (Most likely, Benny Goodman.)

I also started flute lessons in my late twenties, and let me tell you, there is nothing more humbling than showing up in your $500 J. Crew suit after selling a trillion dollars worth of pharmaceuticals that day, only to be sandwiched in between two eight-year-olds with braces. (Keep rocking the flute, Brittany and Jessica! Drugs BAD, Music GOOD!)

However, I have absolutely NO experience with string instruments. But I’m ready! Bring on the blistered fingers and utter frustration!

(I am hoping that having an extremely gifted guitarist as a father might give me an edge. GENES, DON’T FAIL ME NOW.)

To put it simply, I love music. My family loves music, and Wito LOVES music. In fact, he experienced his first jam with my father over the holidays.

Jam from whoorl on Vimeo.

The kid has an affinity for Hammond organs, no?

After much discussion and searching with my father (who will now be called GURU Stu Tu), my first guitar arrived today.

Isn’t he handsome?

So, I’m asking the internet a favor. Check in on my progress once in awhile. Keep me in line. Hold me accountable. And especially, expect a nothing short of a fabulous recital next December when I participate in Neil’s 3rd Annual Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert. I guess I better start practicing.

WAIT! What should I name him? (He was made in Spain, maybe something Spanish?) Oh help me, wise friends.

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.

Adventures With Hoagies

Adventures with hoagies - complete with visual and audio pleasure! (Tasty AND sexy!)

Multiple choice. Christmas day is approaching. It’s 32 degrees outside and snowing with wind gusts up to 35 miles an hour. Conditions are deteriorating rapidly, roadways are quite slushy and it’s colder than a witch’s tit. What do you do?

1) Make hot chocolate, wrap yourself in a cashmere throw and hunker down for the day.

2) Gather the family around the fireplace and sing Christmas carols.

3) Order pizza and watch some favorite DVDs.

4) Drive clear across town (and when I say across town, I mean across Oklahoma City, the SEVENTH LARGEST CITY IN AMERICA IN TERMS OF LAND AREA) to pick up a 4-foot hoagie.

Awwww, yeah. You know the answer to that.

Now, before I go any further, I must inform you that our family has a certain Griswold-esque charm. We’ve had some interesting situations in the past, therefore, we prefer to stay on the down low for our own safety, and the safety of those around us.

Like the time we were enjoying a family barbecue at my home. Dad was cooking steaks outside and the ladies were taking care of side dish duties in the kitchen. I remember washing fruit at the sink, when I suddenly noticed our extremely ancient and DRY pine tree bursting into flames in the backyard.

Turns out, my father had chucked a tiny, flaming piece of beef over his shoulder while grilling outside. That tiny, flaming piece of beef landed ever-so-softly in the ancient and DRY pine tree, and well, the rest is history.

Oh, how I long for you, Mr. Pine. Rest in Peace.

So, um yeah. The Griswolds.

After our gratuitous, smiley “I’m gonna blog this, heh” photo, we hunkered down and got serious. We had a toddler in the car, you know.

We decided it was best not to talk - we needed to focus on the task at hand. That was until Feliz Navidad came on the radio.

Game over. This was the result. (Little did my family know that I was utilizing the Voice Memo feature on my phone. BWHAHHAHAAA.) Notice how the chorus of Feliz Navidad quickly dissipates into “Blahdadaadablaaa”. The family that sings together stays together.

Then, as we were cruising a cool 40mph and caroling in faux-Spanish, this came into our view.

Dear person,

Not really a good place to leave your trailer. OKTHXBAH.

Love, Whoorl

I’m pretty sure my mother was trying to explain how, in Oklahoma, people leave their rusty trailers filled with garbage wherever they please, even if that place is smack dab in the middle of a 45 mph roadway.

Wito was all, “That’s some crazy shit, Grandma! Holla!”

It was not the most optimal day to be on the roads, but the streets weren’t icy yet. We decided to press onwards.

When we finally arrived at our destination, it was quite shiteous outside.

However, Bishop Stu Tu procured our 4-foot hoagie with careful precision. FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, DON’T SLIP WITH THE HOAGIE! SECURE THE HOAGIE!

Did I mention this massively long hoagie (which almost didn’t fit into the SUV), was going to be consumed by a mere 5 people?

So, I ask of you. Was the 4-foot hoagie really necessary?

Someone, please save me from the crazy.

Stay tuned for Adventures In Rural Oklahoma: Whoorl’s Visit To A Meat-Packing Plant Straight Out Of Deliverance!

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