The Floaties of Yesteryear

We’ve made a last-minute decision to spend our Memorial Day weekend in Palm Springs, which means one glorious thing. POOL TIME. I can’t fully express the excitement I am feeling about spending the next three days lying by a pool, but it’s safe to say I’ve broken out the African Anteater Ritual a couple of times this morning.

Pools are hard to come by in a beach community, mainly due to the fact that there is this large mass of water called an “ocean” within walking distance. The ocean. Yes, it’s beautiful and serene and what not, but it’s also a pain in the ass. Just the beach packing ritual alone is enough to make me talk in tongues, not to mention the damp sand that Wito enjoys eating by the fistful. I have sand issues. I admit it.

But, pools! POOLS! Backyard pools beckon you with promises of instant access to a bathroom! A nearby refrigerator filled with snacks! No sand! A towel and sunblock is all you need, my friends.

In a nutshell, the pool is spontaneous and easy to enjoy. The beach causes certain people to lose their shit in an alley.

This morning, I made a quick (ha!) trip (ha!) to Target (ha!) to purchase some sort of flotation device for Wito. Now, in a typical Whoorl Planning Situation, I would have conducted the proper research in a timely fashion, but as you see, we are leaving in less than 24 hours and Target was my best option.

After spending 45 minutes in Aisle 26, I came to an enlightening conclusion. Parents only have two options when it comes to toddler pool safety.

1. Toddler experiences hours of pool fun, but is forced to wear a contraption that looks like Dora the Explorer puked all over it.

OR

2. Toddler is quarantined in an oversized Pack-n-Play thirty yards from the pool because the parents refuse to dress him in a Cookie Monster Wears Hawaiian Shirts And Eats Coconuts life jacket.

What happened to the plain yellow floaties we wore as kids? Oh yeah, that’s right, they now cause cancer, early stimulation of estrogen receptors, a huge lisp, etc.

Oh, and the whole Swim Level thing? I spent upwards of 20 minutes reading the backs of multi-colored packages about all of the Very Important Swim Stages. Is Wito a 1? 2? A? C439?

Listen, I just want my child to maintain a proper level of oxygen in his lungs for the next three days, but of course, I caved and bought a couple of options. I couldn’t help it, I was having trouble reading the fine print due to my acute blindness from the heinous patterns everywhere.

FYI - I am leaning towards the Swim Sweater. (3 Million Sold! 3 Milliones vendidas! 3 Millions vendus! More like, HOW COULD YOU GO WRONG, IDIOT PARENT?)

Mother’s Day

Yesterday was my greatest Mother’s Day yet.

(Is it wrong that I can’t make a statement like that without conjuring up a mental image of Chris Harrison? Stay tuned for Whoorl’s Greatest, Most Romantic Mother’s Day Yet! Don’t go anywhere! You do not want to miss The Most Dramatic Holiday Of The Year!)

(Is it even worse that I am STILL watching The Bachelor? Who’s it going to be? Shayne? The other chick? WHO?)

Now, technically (if pregnancy counts), I’ve only had two of these holidays under my belt, so I don’t have a lot to go by. BUT, c’mon people. Wito walked into the kitchen holding a homemade card, actually handed it to me and exclaimed, “Happy Birthday, Mommy!” (A+ for effort.)

You have to admit, CUTE. Precious, even! The Most Precious Mother’s Day Yet!

What an incredibly crazy week. As I mentioned, Nightline was at my home most of the afternoon on Monday, which was nerve-wracking and surreal in itself. Add in a toddler with a 103 degree fever and no babysitter, and watch Whoorl spontaneously combust!

When working out the details, I planned to film the segment over Wito’s naptime, with Brenda and Bug on call just in case he woke up. Obviously, as Monday morning approached, that plan went to the dogs, since I didn’t want to expose Bug to Wito’s mystery high fever from hell with no symptoms except half-mast eyelids and noodle limbs. So, I figured I would just have to make it work and pray he didn’t wake up. (These are the times when I am SO NOT COOL with the fact that I live thousands of miles away from my family.)

The producers were amazing, patient and so accommodating. Even mid-sentence during the interview, when high-pitched wails from the back of the house suddenly permeated the entire area. Um, about that nap. The producers kindly stopped filming, I ran to the back, tried my best to sooth, ran back to the living room, adjusted my hair and lip gloss (NARS Foul Play, if you must know. The Most Perfect Nude Gloss Yet!) and tried remember what in the hell I was blathering about. Lather, rinse, repeat.

After ten minutes of back and forth, I accepted defeat, called D from the back room, forcibly mumbling, “For the love of sweet jebus get your ass home I can’t do this on my own ABC is in my living room holy hell I’m going to die right here and OMG HELP WITO IS DELUSIONAL.” Luckily, he was home within ten minutes, and all was well. (I will let you all know the airdate as soon as I find out.)

So, this has been an increasingly long-winded way of telling you that Wito has been a sick kid all week with Roseola.

Roseola: The Mysterious Asshat Virus.

What is Roseola? Well, it’s a virus that causes a high fever for four days with absolutely no symptoms (besides the feverish hell), until the fifth day when an awesome red rash breaks out all over your child’s body. (Oh, and no matter what your doctor says, it DOES ITCH.) The good news is that once you get it, you’ll never deal with it again. The bad news is that your little one looks like this:

Wito: Homo Sapiens Palmes Larges

However, as Mother’s Day weekend commenced, the clouds parted, the angels sang, the rash disappeared, and Voilá! Happy, healthy boy!

See me in fever-free motion! p.s. - Get the hell out of my way.

Oh! How could I forget The Most Romantic Mother’s Day Gift Yet? Now, D and I normally don’t spend much on gifts, but he surprised me with the PERFECT necklace.

The Most Beautiful Necklace Yet!

(I took it too far, didn’t I? I’m stopping.)

I finished the day with a couple Sierra Nevada Pale Ales, Kung Pao chicken and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. All in all, a great day.

How was your Mother’s Day? Good food? Great gifts? Do tell!

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.

Sappy

1. Who is this big boy? Certainly not MY baby.

2. I’m a little misty* today due to this small step in my parenting world. (YAY! But also, WAH.)

*most ridiculous word EVER

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!

19 months!

Happy 19-months to Mr. Wito Whoorlito. He’s a catch.

This is how we spent the morning. So, um, maybe this photo would be a better example of Wito’s current age.

“BROWN! BROWN!” Yes, sweetie, it’s brown, but possibly petrified shit. Please refrain from placing in your mouth.

Bonus points for anyone who can tell me what those round, spiky balls that fall from trees are called. SAJ calls them “dingleberries”. Unfortunately, I grew up with an ENTIRELY different definition of a dingleberry, and can’t bring myself to yell, “Wito! Quit eating the that dingleberry!” at our local park.

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