No vacation is long enough

Dear Readers,

Have you ever spent two weeks not blogging, but thinking about your big back-to-blog post? And then the two weeks were up, and suddenly you couldn't think of anything to write about, except maybe a long diatribe about your daughter's unique poop scent? (Think fermented peaches.) But then you remembered that moms are more than their children's excrement, so you couldn't think of anything substantial to write?

Well, if you did, then you are Mrs. Dub. (Except your name isn't really Mrs. Dub; it's a name that starts with Q. Except that it doesn't, but it is in the same alphabet.)

Anyway, such is my life. My vacay was really cool and probably needs some adjective like "fantabalicious" or "hardcore, extreme violence," minus the violence part, with lots of relaxation and fun for good measure.

I love the beach. I want to marry the beach. I just became a minister online so that we can live together until death do us part - at which point I hope heaven is filled with beaches.

I also love my sister, family and bestie who hosted me on my long-winded journey from the OC to camping in Carlsbad to some Arizona-loving.

Am I still typing? I think I am, but there's no way to confirm it.

Anyway, I hope to be back in best blogging form tomorrow. Until then, check out my cute daughter, whose poop smells like fermented peaches.

Love to all!
Mrs. Dub

Funny face

See you in a few weeks!

Attention: Arizona is a desert!

As you know, I fled Chicago for Arizona for a fortnight. But there's no way to fully recount my journey, both because it would bore you and because I already can't remember what I did. So let me summarize it with this statement: Cancer sucks. Sunshine rules.

No, I do not have cancer. I also do not have sunshine - at least not the kind of sunshine that embraces 85-degree winds, allowing me to prance outside with nary a hat or jacket. I'm talking flip-flops, baby! Instead, I have the kind of sunshine that is generally coated with clouds and frigid winds. In other words, it's highly likely that Arizona and Illinois are actually on different planets. I would encourage further study on this topic, but who wants higher taxes?

So it's kind of a bummer to be back to regular life. I miss my parents. I miss my "Fabulous" friends. I miss flip-flops.

And I really have to give Arizona credit. Growing up I liked to bag on it, mostly because it didn't have an ocean, which is still true . However, the weather (8 months out of the year), the infrastructure and the shopping/eating are divine. Granted, it is a desert, something I didn't believe as a kid. I'd think, "Sure, it was once a desert, but now it looks like anywhere else." Um, no. It's very brown and very cactus-dense. Most front lawns have rocks instead of grass. And while there are definitely less scarve-wearing wooden coyotes now than a few years back, there's still an epidemic of bolo ties, typically worn by Midwestern transplants. But overall, it's a nice place.

That's about it.

Any questions?

Like a post, but not really

FIVE reasons Arizona is better than where you live*

1. Blue skies - natch.

2. Higher percentage of stairwells = more hare-tossing opportunities.

3. World's largest collection of porch swings.


4. Easter every day!*


5. Better acoustics.

* Does not apply to anyone living near a beach or in the south of France.
* Does not apply to any day except for the Sunday immediately following the first full moon after the vernal equinox.

Remarkable

Something truly remarkable happened while Miss Dub and I were away on our two-week SoCal expedition.

No, it’s not the fact that I only gained a pound after eating ridiculous amounts of food, including the luscious seafood heap pictured above. (Alright, Mr. Dub and I admittedly only put a dent in that Ports of Call dish.) It is remarkable that I didn’t gain 15 pounds considering some of the food establishments I visited and devoured – Wahoo’s, Pipes, Ruby’s, Fatburger. But perhaps it’s a testament to the fact that Miss Dub only has an appetite for anything on my plate, particularly fries, and to all the walking that we did along the beach. Including 2 to 3-hour strolls when we first arrived since Miss Dub chose not to reset her clock to Pacific time, opting instead to wake up at 4 a.m.

So what was remarkable?

No, it’s not the fact that I had a marvelous time on the trip. That is remarkable, but basically what I expected. From camping on the beach with Mrs. Jay to chilling with my sis and Li’l Gee to relaxing on the sand with the entire Ess clan … life was good. Life is always good near the beach. (I almost said in SoCal, but seriously, people, don’t you think those Laguna Hills Harbor kids are already conceited enough?)

So what was remarkable?

No, it’s not the fact that traveling with an infant is equal parts easy and hard. That is remarkable, but apparently every seasoned mother already knew that. On one hand, you have added help from friends and family and loads of activities to serve as distractions and a welcome respite from day-to-day monotony. On the other hand, you have a cranky, clingy child who requires several suitcases alone to survive. And there’s the constant barrage of “Don’t eat that!” and “Don’t touch that!” to help protect your new environment from its worst prey: Miss Dub.

So what was remarkable?

It’s the fact that my little baby grew into a little girl, and I didn’t even notice. Sure, she’s not walking yet, but she now confidently strides with only one-handed help from me. And she’s not really conversing yet, but her vocabulary went from a few words – duck, dada, dog – to a series of phrases – “waz dat?” “who’s dat?” “a duck!” “a dog!” “dad-dee!”

I must have been too busy staring longingly at the ocean to notice, but everything about her is different. She’s taller. She’s thinner. She’s smarter. She’s more interactive. She eats sandwiches and uses a straw, people!

So while I left with a baby, I came home with a toddler.

It’s truly remarkable.

That or SoCal is filled with mutant growth pollution.

Sucks for those Laguna Hills Harbor kids.

Homeward bound

Tomorrow, we go home.

Tomorrow, we won't be on vacation any more.

Tomorrow is a very, very sad day.

Tomorrow, I will be drowning my sorrows in ginger ale, my aeronautical beverage of choice.

What vacation were you saddest to leave behind?

And why does ginger ale taste so much better on planes?



p.s. Happy Bertha Day to this girl!

Kiss and Tell

For your edification, I’m currently camping on the beach in San Diego with my best friend and her family.

Our BFF-ness was cemented with such camping trips during our youth. Realizing we were equally boy-crazy and equally dedicated to lying to win over our fleeting crushes really brought us together.

Lest you think camping on the beach is like camping on the woods, let me assure you that while you do sleep in tents, there are bathrooms, electrical outlets and warm showers if you have some spare quarters. Depending on the location of the campsite, civilization might be across the street or just down the road. And the beach is either out your tent door or down a flight of stairs.

So even though we were camping, Mrs. Jay and I always packed our best clothes and a boatload of makeup. (Though to our credit, we were never high-maintenance girls.) We’d primp every night after a day of laying out and trying to surf. Then, we’d troll the roads outside the campsites looking for guys our age. If that failed, we’d look for guys under 18. And if that failed, we’d settle for anything under 21.

Of course, anything under 21 wasn’t always interested in something around 13 so we often had to fudge our age. I think we were 17 for three years straight. Our ruse usually worked or at least no one was bothered enough to confront us.

While I cannot confirm or deny any rumors that are still rampant in the San Diego metropolitan area, our deceit may or may not have resulted in some extracurricular kissing. (No worries, mom, nothing serious.)

One year I kissed Mrs. Jay’s cousin while he was wearing his clothes backward in an ode to the then-popular Kriss Kross. Another year I kissed a boy who was so uninteresting I actually came up with a brilliant closet organization scheme while we kissed atop the lifeguard station. And then there was the time that we went to Disneyland, and I kissed a professional volleyball player, but that’s another story.

(This is the point that I could tell you about the time that Mrs. Jay kissed a Christian rapper in our tent while I was sleeping right next to her, but since I’m a good friend I won’t embarrass her. For the record, she has apologized repeatedly for the incident and avoided Christian rap in my honor.)

I don’t think I’m going to be kissing any boys this year as Mr. Dub is back home working hard for my spending money.

But I will be taking a trip down Memory Lane this week in honor of my beach vacay, and I’m hoping you’ll join me.

Which means it’s your turn to tell us your most random kissing story.

We won’t tell.

Promise.