You’re From The High Plains, Whoorl


Yesterday was one of those days that just physically kicks you in the ass. Repeatedly. The kind of day that makes the middle of your back burn and ache; the kind where you find yourself exhaling as you finally, FINALLY melt into the couch at day’s end. And I totally over-emphasized the couch-exhale bit last night, similar to Kyra Sedgwick’s character in Singles when she is about to brush her teeth before Steve Dunne shows up at her door.

Can we talk about Singles for a bit? Like the fact that it was released in 1992? 15 YEARS AGO?! Dude, I’m old.

I’m pretty sure I’ve memorized the entire dialogue of Singles. God, I LOVED Cliff Poncier. Most likely because I was dating (in a Janet/Cliff kind of way) a long-haired brunette band member at the time who looked remarkably similar to Cliff. Interestingly enough, they also shared the same IQ. We had an extremely deep and intellectual relationship. Alas, I was not an amazon woman and we eventually parted ways.

Moving on.

My shiteous day revolved around the beach. AGAIN. Really beach, what the hell?! The beach and I are headed for disaster. That, or couples counseling.

We have been experiencing early June gloom (or May Gray, is that what we’re calling it?) for the past week. Yesterday, between the hours of 11 and 1, the sun miraculously parted the clouds, the angels were singing and I knew it was time. I packed up the jogging stroller with my beach gear:

1. Sunblock
2. Hats
3. Sunglasses
4. Phone
5. Camera
6. Diapers and wipes
7. Crazy pop-up tent (fucking fucker)
8. Beach blanket
9. Bottle
10. Cheerios
11. Toys
12. Burp Rag
13. Are you catching my drift?

Say goodbye to the days when I could throw on my bikini and iPod and head out. Noooooo sir. Now, it’s an Olympic event that takes WAY too much planning and thinking and planning and thinking. Anyway, we finally got out the door and started the walk to the beach. I use my jogging stroller at the beach because the large front wheel glides effortlessly through the sand, unlike my eleventy trillion dollar Bugaboo. The only problem with the jogger is that it’s pretty hard to steer when you aren’t actually jogging. Which is pretty much a BITCH, people. Turning tight corners makes me want to cry (cue the middle-of-the-back burning). Whatever, we made it there. Quit blubbering.

We found a great spot, opened the tent (fucking fucker) and things were great. Before I go any further, you must know that our pop-up beach tent is dangerous. Literally, you pull it out of the bag, throw it on the ground and run like hell, hoping it doesn’t smack you in the ass. However, the biggest issue is folding it back up. Now, being the planny planner that I am, I practiced folding it up SEVERAL times before we left for the beach. I didn’t want to be that dumb ass that can’t fold up the damn tent.

Doesn’t look that difficult, right? Little tent, you don’t fool me…

Janet, I could not be fooling you less. (Who can name the scene?! Anyone? Anyone?)

After relaxing for a mere 45 minutes, the damn clouds rolled in and it was time to make a move. And this is when I would have given anything for a wingman with a camcorder. Because the tent-folding episode would have provided much entertainment on YouTube.

I could not get the damn tent to close. I tried and tried and then forcefully tried, which bent one of the rods the wrong way, resulting in a big 1 – 2 PUNCH right in my face, knocking me down on the sand in front of several beach-goers. Oh, and did I mention there was a hottie hot men’s volleyball tourney going on? Awesome!

Just imagine – glistening, sweaty hot dudes spiking the volleyball on the horizon. Oh wait, what’s that in the foreground? Is that a woman WRESTLING a pop-up tent to the ground? DUDE, the tent just knocked her OUT!

30 minutes later (yes, 30 – THREE ZERO), when it became clear that 9-month-olds can suffer from utter embarrassment, I called D at work. “I CAN’T GET THE FUCKING TENT TO CLOSE! I’M LEAVING IT HERE! ON THE BEACH! I DON’T CARE! (clenched teeth) People are laughing at me. What?! Yes. YES! I don’t want to drag it home! FINE!”

He said maybe it could be salvaged – he had a point. I had to find a way to get it home, but this type of tent doesn’t “fold” or “collapse”. It’s like a huge juicy zit, just seconds away from exploding all over the mirror. If you press one side down, the other side pops up. It was a huge pain in my ass.

Somehow, I managed to contort it into a 6-foot-long pressure cooker, laid it on top of the impossible-to-steer jogging stroller and attempted to walk home, trying to keep the breeze from turning it into a kite. All I can say is, that was one long-ass walk.

When I finally arrived home- sweaty, sandy and STINKY- I tried to get the tent through our back alley gate. Wito was sleeping in the stroller, so I was attempting to be quiet when the tent exploded and hit me in the face AGAIN. You guys, Whoorl done lost her shit.

To all of my lovely neighbors: I’m very sorry for the slight disturbance you may have heard yesterday around 1 pm in the alley. You may have witnessed some cursing, kicking, yelling and possibly, lots more cursing. And yes, the altercation was fueled by an inanimate blue and yellow object.


Needless to say, the tent is no longer salvageable.


I’ve Got Nothing


Good thing I have this cute baby to exploit.



The Crush


I have a crush on Wito’s pediatrician. I think I may have told you all about him, once or twice or 5,000 times. Who’s counting?

(I am! I count the times I think of the crush!)


It’s just his dark, wavy hair. The perfect dark, wavy hair. McDreamy hair, to be exact. And his cool glasses. And his accent. His South African accent. Did I mention his South African accent? I could go on forever…

Unfortunately, this crush renders me speechless every time we occupy the same room. I can’t remember answers to the simplest of questions! I verbally morph into Sloth.

Dr. Hot – “How have you been adjusting to the baby, Whoorl?”

Whoorl – “Baby? Ruuuth, Ruuuth, Babyyyy Ruth.”

Dr. Hot – “Um, excuse me, pager. Emergency. Must go….” (blindly running out of the room)

Lest I remind you of my occupation for the past 8 years. I was generously compensated by a pharmaceutical company to do what? Oh, that’s right -TO CONVERSE WITH DOCTORS. I am the queen of talking to physicians! This gal can walk the walk and talk the talk with the most analytical and socially inept of all physicians. That is, unless said physician has McDreamy hair. Then, apparently, all bets are off.

And please don’t get me started on the visits involving Wito’s scalp cyst! The only way to keep Wito still was to hold him cheek-to-cheek to steady his head while Dr. Hot looked verrrrrry closely at the bump. Our faces were so close, I could feel Dr. Hot’s breath on my face! (It was fabulous breath, OF COURSE.) Do you KNOW what restraint I had to muster in order to NOT lick him?! It’s too much, I tell you! Sweet Jebus, too much!

Which is why you all should understand that I don’t like visiting Dr. Hot. In his presence, I’m stupid and licky. Case closed.

Imagine my dismay when Wito’s 9-month well check popped up on my calendar. Great, more opportunities for ridiculous behavior. I told myself everything would be fine- just focus on not licking the doctor. We got to the office building, stepped into the elevator, pressed the 7th floor, and as the doors began to close, Dr. Hot hopped on! Holy Shit! Just me and Dr. Hot! (Oh yeah, and Wito. Whatever, details…) In the elevator! 7 floors of witty banter and tongue restraint! This was not good.

Dr. Hot – Hi, how are you?

Whoorl – Fine, thanks! (Hellooo, handsome.) We’re just coming to see you…(Oh dear God. Did I just say the word “coming”? Keep it cool, Whoorl. KEEP IT COOL!)

Dr. Hot – (looking at Wito) He is such a handsome boy…blah blah blah blah?

Whoorl – (seriously blushing and no idea what he just asked me…hypnotized by his perfect teeth) Er…yes? (thinking most likely, he has asked me a question involving an affirmative response)

Dr. Hot – I just love this age, too. They are so fun to be around.

Whoorl – (Yes! I knew it was a “yes” question!) So, how is the new office coming along? (STOP SAYING “COMING”, GODDAMN IT)

Dr. Hot – It’s almost finished. We’re very happy with the new arrangement… (exiting elevator) Well, see you very soon!

Whoorl – Bye! (You hot hunk of man love.)

I proceeded to see him 10 minutes later, where I might have exclaimed “Long time, no see! Ha!” when he entered the room and believe it or not, was (un)lucky enough to see him AGAIN the next day when Wito developed the ear infection overnight.

Let’s just say I’m in no hurry to attend Wito’s 12-month appointment.




I’ve wanted to post a video of Wito playing with his very favorite toy, the nasal aspirator. Over the past 9 months, we’ve spent approximately 1.9 million dollars on ball-popping, squeaky-singing, colorful toys and all he cares about is licking and chewing the snot sucker. It’s simultaneously endearing and fully disgusting.

However, I’m holding out for two reasons. First of all, he is not wearing any pants AGAIN in the video and frankly, there have to be some people wondering if I ever dress my child from the waist down. And the answer is, no. Not really. Secondly, the whole aspirator-thingy looks remotely phallic and I can’t bring myself to publish the video knowing there are some sicko turdbags out there that would possibly derive pleasure from watching such a thing. What can I say? I watch Dateline.

Back to the pants situation. I do put pants on my child when we make our public appearances, but the minute we return home, the pants are whisked off in a manner of seconds. Have you seen my child’s thighs? Witnessed his Dunlap’s Disease? The kid needs room to breathe. He is barely 9 months old and wearing clothing made for 2 year olds. It physically hurts me to see his belly exploding over the top of his pants when he’s stuck sitting in the car seat or stroller. My only other option would be to buy pants made for three year olds, but I’m pretty sure that would require hemming. Lots of hemming. See figure one.


However, please direct your attention to Wito: Yoga Master.