Christmas Is a Time for Drinking


Ooooh, check out my shiny new kitchen. It was my very favorite toy/monstrosity during my third and fourth year. I would spend hours making culinary delights for my “dinner parties”, where the invisible elite would dine and discuss topics such as The Genius That Is Sesame Street.

My mom recently reminded me of a story regarding my shiny kitchen and a lovely exchange with one of my grandmothers at the ripe old age of three. First of all, let me give you a completely succinct background and in NO way an embodiment of my grandmothers’ complete essence*. Both are exceptional women- I couldn’t ask for a more loving, fabulous set.

Yet, they are very different. Mimi is a devout Southern Baptist, hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in her life, lives on acres of farmland, etc. She is hands-down the sweetest woman around. Shan is just as sweet, funny as hell, and most importantly introduced me to the majestic 5:00pm cocktail hour (which, according to my rules, can be adjusted to 4:00pm in winter due to daylight savings time).

One day, when Mimi was visiting our home, I asked her if she would like me to cook something for her. She agreed and thus began my imaginary dinner party. As I was searching through the refrigerator, she noticed how the inside was painted with pretend jars and food. Being the the wonderful grandmother she is, she decided to continue developing my little, innocent three-year-old brain. She started to point to different pictures and ask me what they were.

Mimi: What’s that? (pointing to a tomato)

Whoorl: That’s a tomato!

Mimi: Very good! You are such a smart little girl! Now, what’s this?

Whoorl: Those are eggs!

Mimi: Why, you are such a little chef! Can you tell me what those are? (pointing to green olives)

Whoorl: Yes, those are for Shan’s martinis!

Mimi: Ahem.

Well, that was the end of that fun game.

*this disclaimer is to cover my ass when my mom calls wondering how I could reduce the extraordinary lives of my grandmothers to three sentences.


Her Royal Highness of Pastry Land

Last night I dug into my decades-old Ziploc bag looking for more baby photos to use on my sidebar. I spent upwards of two hours browsing and scanning what seemed to be millions of old memories from around 25-30 years ago (yikes), and became surprisingly sentimental over the whole deal. Being a young kid in the 1970’s was the best!

Case in Point #1:

Simplicity. Look how happy, albeit hot and sweaty, I am in this picture. Just chillin’ with my Aunt Jemima bandana on a hot summer day while my dad waters the lawn. I wonder how long I spun around on that dorky sit-and-spin. Probably all freaking day long. Would kids these days be content on a plastic spinny-thing all day? I think not. Now, it’s all about the over-stimulating video games or driving a battery-operated mini-Hummer. Crazy, I tell ya. Bring back the sit-and-spin!

Case in Point #2:

McDonalds birthday parties. Oh, how joyous! Eating our cheeseburgers and fries while shooting the shit. Hell yes. Not concerned that some crystal meth freak might snatch us off the playground. And not once did our parents worry about us catching the Avian Flu while jumping around in the colored balls. Good times.

Case in Point #3:

In the 1970’s, you were forced to use your imagination. First of all, check out my thrilling tea party. I don’t remember who that little boy is, but he appears to be having a mighty fine time. Actually, he looks a little constipated and/or scared. Whatever. What a hostess- I particularly enjoy the way my arm is resting on the chair, like I am posing for Town and Country magazine.

Whoorl enjoys a lovely afternoon of tea and crumpets in her fine Oklahoma home.

Ok, that isn’t the reason I posted this photo. I truly believed with all of my heart that a miniature pastry queen lived in the top of my yellow ruffled curtains. Her specialty was blueberry pie, but she also made all sorts of fruit tarts and pastries. When I would have friends over, I would sit them down on the bed and tell them about my pastry queen. Then I would hand them an invisible pastry and promise that if they squeezed their eyes shut really tight, they could taste her amazing pies. Their faces would light up and they would yell out “I taste it! I taste it!” I would just nod, knowing that I was the luckiest girl to have a miniature pastry queen living in my curtains.

Call me bonkers, but I really could taste those pies. They were damn good.


Pinto Bean Syndrome Part Deux

The Pinto Bean Syndrome has taken me down once again. I really thought my sneezing fits this week were due to allergies until I woke up with the infamous scratchy throat this morning. DAMN. Could the PBS rear its ugly head at a more inopportune time? HELLO, THANKSGIVING. How can I put my turkey face on feeling like this?

Here’s my plan:

1. I only have to work for three hours today. When I get home, it’s lights out.
2. Take Emer’gen – C right now. Hey, it’s cranberry-flavored! Thanksgiving flavors for everyone!
3. Think positive thoughts. The weather has been unusually warm here, so technically, it could be allergies.
4. Pray to the Pinto Gods.
5. Cancel martini night with my fabulous boss. Ohhh, this one cuts deep.
6. Don’t spend hours trying to write an entry, even though I feel very guilty that I haven’t written anything remotely worthwhile in a week. I know you lovely people will understand. Maybe? Hopefully? Please?

In exchange for my lackluster post, I am leaving you with a clip my sister emailed me this morning. I might be pinto-delirious, but I had tears shooting out of my ducts from hysterical laughter. Check it out* and have a Great Thanksgiving!

*for my fellow Mac users, you need Windows Media Player for Mac to view the video