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.

A Weekend In Boston - Observations

1. Warm, sunny weather is my life force.

2. A trench coat is not a coat.

3. People stare. At the airport, walking down Newbury Street, running errands, everywhere. (Booger? Spinach in the teeth?) While having lunch at Zaftigs, the woman seated next to us literally turned her chair towards us and stared the entire meal, completely ignoring her lunch companion. I’m going to hold a seminar on my next visit entitled, Quick Sideways Glance: learn it, live it, love it.

4. I met the lovely Miguelina for coffee. What is the DEAL with all of the East Coast soul sistahs I’ve encountered? Why aren’t these types of women living in Orange County? (Wait. Don’t answer that.)

5. I couldn’t help but pretend I was Ali McGraw while visiting my brother-in-law’s school. Of course, my superstition got the best of me and stopped thinking that, because um, she DIES in that movie.

6. The stoplights in Boston must not employ sensors, but use timers lengthy enough to allow drivers to take a quick snooze (and possibly prepare an omelet) before getting the green light.

7. Strong headwinds will make your flight home quite lengthy. As in, Very. Long. (6 1/2 hours, to be exact.)

8. While watching BBC on said flight, I encountered a show where a dietitian actually trifles through people’s poop. In tupperware. A family of four stood around while this woman dissected their poop IN FRONT OF THEM. This has crossed some sort of television-viewing boundary, and yet, I am intrigued.

9. Fresh baby head smells really good. Yet, not good enough to persuade me to have another baby right now.

10. I will enjoy the beach today with renewed fervor. Flip flops! Sand in my toes! Warm sun on my face! YES YES YES!

Boston, you and I will meet again, my bipolar friend. Preferably in the spring.

Boston Update

Hello, my friends! I’m in Boston! And warm!

Thanks for all of your suggestions- of course, I didn’t read most of them until I arrived here, but I’ve brought lots of layers and am peachy keen, jellybeans.

I’m extremely superstitious and don’t want to jinx future travels, but I have to say, yesterday was a breeze. We woke Wito up at 5:00am PST, he went to sleep last night at 10:45pm EST (with only a 35-MINUTE NAP on the plane) and was perfect all day. PERFECT. He must have been delirious, yo.

Currently, we are adjusting to the loss of three hours (aka Time Change alá SHITTAY). I’m experimenting with the blogging-to-keep-me-awake approach, but the boys seem to have nipped the issue in the bud:

5:15pm. Look out, Boston! The Whoorl Family is CRAZY.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Hair Thursday Coming Soon…Packing Hysteria Takes Precedence

Hair Thursday is going to be late due to the fact that I’m leaving for Boston at 5:45 IN THE MORNING. I’m not sure if you have noticed with Daylight Savings Time, but 5:45 IN THE MORNING is a very dark time. Very night-like.

My current packing situation looks like this:

In clockwise order from top left: D’s pile of shit, Whoorl’s pile of shit, Wito’s pile of shit.

This East Coast weather thing has me all sorts of confused. Temperature in the 40’s, possibly the 50’s, possible rain, possible snow, possible sun, possible wind gusts, possible GOD HELP ME JUST TELL ME WHAT TO WEAR.

All of my shoes were meant to be worn on bare feet. I don’t have socks, people. This is one of the side effects of living in the land of warm sunshine. You abandon socks! The liberation!

I was advised to bring gloves. Negative, Ghostrider. In fact, I don’t even own a winter coat that isn’t under 6 years old.

Anyhoo, mass confusion at this here point in time.

Maybe I’ll finish Hair Thursday tomorrow night when it’s midnight and I’m wondering why I can’t sleep.

(Another stressful issue: It is almost midnight in Boston! Yet, I just ate dinner here! Confusion!)

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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