As I write this post the last hours of Official Summer are whizzing past. The alarm clock has already been dusted off and inspected for operability and now we’re just killing time on our way to its first rude squawk since school let out in June.

I always get pretty depressed about the end of my summer. Not so much the weather part of it. That is guaranteed to hang on for another three months in these parts. I’m a little bummed about the end of Official Summer during which there is no school, no PTA and therefore no obligation to set down the tequila or put on clothes. I’m not ashamed to admit it: summers around here are kinda sorta clothing optional. 

Not strictly speaking of course - we don’t run completely naked through the hallways of Matulich Manor - it’s just that short of a presidential visit, I rarely find occasion to dress myself or my offspring up in anything more formal than swimsuits. I even managed to start my own salsa company last July wearing nothing more complex than a stringy tie-dyed number.

Pajamas. Bikini. Pajamas. Bikini. Pajamas. Bikini. Sunrise. Sunset.

Therefore I figured that I’d mark the final morning of Official Summer by jumping into the ocean for a swim over and through the massive kelp forests of Monterey Bay. 

I even wore a bikini for the occasion because I’m sentimental like that.

And I wore a wetsuit over the bikini because dude, that water’s freezing.  

If a better way to spend time has ever been devised I have yet to discover it. There is nothing more enjoyable than treading water offshore in the lift and roll of swells, pulling oneself through kelp beds in a half swim half crawl and watching the tourists watch the sea from the sea. Where else but a kelp bed can you lay around and watch the harbor seals pop their cat-like heads up close enough to cop a whisker feel?

And when it was over I was kinda bummed that this really, truly was IT. The End. Adios. Over. Gone. The period at the end of a well-loved quote.

I tried to be ok with it. And I was for a little bit, until I found myself sitting at the top of the stairs at my in-laws house in Santa Cruz where I could still smell the saltwater and seaweed coming off my sand-covered flip flops.

And that’s when I realized that I need to sell a ton of salsa or begin a life of high-paying white collar crime so I can just hang out at the beach year round.

A couple of weeks ago, just before I seemingly abandoned my blog, my husband and I decided to take the kids on a family vacation. Since he and are alike in that we find the prospect of taking a two year old on a plane about as inviting as performing home dental surgery on one another, we decided to vacation close to home.

Also, the in-laws had taken their RV and skipped town, thus leaving their Santa Cruz County digs, fully-stocked liquor cabinet, porn collection and cache of guns lonely for company.

Kids? Meet Mr. Tequila and Mr. Glock. They’ll be your babysitters for the next two weeks.

Before our vacation I decided to try my hand at triathlons which means enduring the Pacific Ocean’s sub-Arctic conditions which means purchasing a wetsuit which means that somewhere between the words “Honey” and “I’m thinking about doing triathlons” my husband shelled out a few hundred bucks to cover his wife from neck to ankles in neoprene with nary a blowjob to show for it.

But he got even. And how.

So while we’re in SC we decide to take the kids out to the beach. He picked Sunset Beach; a lovely stretch of sandy coastline that shelves gently into Monterey Bay. It is quite a relaxing spot if you are, in fact, intelligent enough to remain on dry land.

At any rate, we arrived at the beach. I had my wetsuit. My husband and kids had parkas. We were ready for an authentic Northern California beach excursion minus the hypothermia that seems to plague bikini-clad tourists who’ve watched too much television.

I’m not going to bother going into detail about the ambivalent signage everywhere that indicated that yes, while it was true that one could technically swim at this particular beach, it was not generally advisable. Not that there were signs that specifically said “Keep Out” or “perhaps you should reconsider” or even “update your life insurance.” Instead, there was a plethora of directions on how to survive should the ocean throw an undertow, sleeper wave or riptide your way.

I’m also not going to bore you with details of waves several feet taller than me, jellyfish and kelp infested swells, or even the fact that I would have had to swim halfway to Japan to get beyond the surfline.

Sufficed to say, things were not going well. I was taking a ton of foam in the face and within ten minutes I felt like I had eaten a salt lick. Have I mentioned that I’m terrified of water? These are but a few of the reasons why - when I saw the nice boy with the lifeguard gear waving at me from the beach - I was more than happy to pack it in.

“What’s up? Is there a problem?” I asked the kid, not that I didn’t know the answer. Of course there was a problem; some idiot at Fleet Feet had set me loose with a wetsuit.

“Um…” The kid started to hem. He didn’t need to talk. His expression said it all, Lady, there’s a whole list of reasons you have no business being out here but you’re a sasquatch and I’m afraid you’ll rip my arms off before I reach #50.

“There’s an awful riptide comin’ through here today.” The kid stammered. He pointed to a red warning flag that was most definitely not there before I’d gotten in the water. Not that it wouldn’t have been helpful to know. “Could you, uh, just swim closer to the lifeguard tower?”

“Do you mean swim closer to it or get out?”

“Um…” The kid looked at me and then looked at his feet.

“Look, what would you do?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t be swimming. Not out here anyway.”

“Can you just tell me that I’m being kicked out of the ocean?”

“You’re being kicked out of the ocean.”

“King Neptune thanks you.”

…you’re all eagerly awaiting me to write about my fab chick get away. You are, aren’t you? I knew it!

Ok, so yeah it was two weeks ago and all but I’ve just been too freakin‘ busy with, like, real life to actually sit down at the computer for any length of time. I mean, the kids had to be fed, laundry done, a @*$&%! Harvest Festival to be planned for my kid’s school, and the husband medicated after being left in charge for the better part of a week. The usual drill.

So, since I don’t have the time to really go into depth about the awesomeness that was Chick Trip 2007 I’ll give you bulleted highlights. Ready? Let’s go:

#1 - Any vacation that starts off with you seeing one of your favorite people (who now lives in Bend, Oregon which is way too far away for you to see regularly) waiting for you to unlock the door at a beach condo is immediately kick-ass.

#2 - So Jenn and I arrived hours before everyone else and proceeded to drink a few beers. And eat dinner at a quaint place on the beach. And drink a few more beers. And go grocery shopping. And drink a few more beers. And get settled into the condo. And I think we drank a few more beers although there may very well have been some tequila-quaffing in there as well.

And you know? Somewhere during all this grocery shopping and dinner eating we ended up sitting together on the beach in the dark wondering if the water would actually feel cold if we hadn’t drank so much beer.

#3 - Lori, Maria, Pam and Colette all arrived on the same airport shuttle driven by someone who is about to become our new favorite person: John Rubio.

John is a recent immigrant from Tijuana, Mexico and has the unique distinction of being the only person from Mexico to ever warn me about drinking the water. In San Diego. Without any sense of irony whatsoever.

#4 - During all this time the creepy landlord Maurice has been coming into and leaving our condo. He had a perpetual load of laundry going in our unit at all times.

Maurice is the one taking the photo. Yes, he was that close to us all freakin‘ weekend and we did nothing about it. Probably because we were perpetually drunk. Well, at least I was.

#5 - You know, I could sum up the entire weekend but it would read like “woke up, ate breakfast, did some stuff, started drinking, went to sleep”. So let’s just say that we summoned John Rubio to take us everywhere because his shuttle was cheap as hell and he was a kick ass driver. I mean, how many times have you been picked up at the San Diego Zoo and just when you think it’s weird that you didn’t arrive at your condo twenty minutes prior your driver turns to you and says “Hey, ever been to Mt. Soledad? We’re almost there.” Or, “Wanna see La Jolla? I take you there.” Or, “No, that smell is not the brakes. Must be something else.” as you are careening out of control down the face of a steep hill at a speed that’s roughly equivalent to the space shuttle just before it re-enters the earth’s atmosphere.

…and he never charged us any extra for all the little side trips and sight-seeing he took us on despite the fact that we wore out at least two sets of brakes.

#6 - How about a few zoo pics? Our friend the orangutan:

The sun bear:

…and my maternal favorite:

#7 - The rest of the trip was pretty much a blur. I think there were two days in a row that I woke up thinking “I know how I’ll get around that no-glass-on-the-beach-thing! I’ll pour the tequila in a water bottle!” So we did the beach thing, the swimming thing, and get-the-cops-called-on-us-thing.

#8 - So when Sunday morning finally rolled around Lori, Maria, and I found ourselves at the airport hung over. Ok, so I was probably the only one who was hung over but I like to pretend that they were too because it makes me feel a little less like I belong at the Betty Ford. At any rate, some guy sits down across from me with a Cal Guard shirt on and we chat him up. He asks us about our weekend, to which my tequila-stinking carcass responds with something that makes him raise an eyebrow and wonder aloud if we should be arrested or sent to rehab. After a moment of silence I, the eternal dumbass, try to change the subject by asking him “So, you’re in the Army Guard huh?”

And he answers, “Yeah.”

And me, being Thou Who Has No Concept Of The Seven Degrees Of Separation Or Consequences says, “Oh yeah? My dad’s in the Guard.”

“Oh yeah? Where?” Mr. I’m-Wearing-An-Army-Shirt asks. So the Queen of Dipshittery (that would be me) answers,

“In Stockton.”

“Which unit?”

“G Company? Something-something battalion? He does chinooks, I’m sure you’ve never heard of him.”

“What’s his name?”

I should have stopped there and feigned retardation or something. But I didn’t. Instead I damned my father to the reputation of having a daughter who looked every bit like she had been the main attraction in Tijuana the previous night by answering, “Steven Armstrong?”

“Oh! Steve! Yeah! I’m his commander.”

…and then the guy hands me a card that says “Nader S. Araj Maj NGCA” and a bunch of other acronyms that could only have been produced by the government, thus proving that he must work for the military because no other organization on earth could ever come up with that many letters that don’t spell out anything. Fuck.

…to participate in the Chick Vacation ever again. It seemed as if there was one point at which someone watched me pour the last of the tequila into a tumbler and said “You know, these are the stories that always end up at the beginning of those AA testimonies you see in movies.”

At any rate, I don’t have a ton of time to post because of that whole “real life” thing interfering and all but someone said something about me not having the balls to put up photos of our vacation, to which I said Pshaw! I have no shame! Or a job to lose! Or… like… friends after this little venture!

Here is a photo of Maria and I on the beach at sunset. No, that’s not a drink in my hand. Must be a trick of the light. Why do you ask?

This is a photo of me back at the condo mid-fall. I have no idea where the beach ball came from. In fact I can clearly remember asking my condo-mates “Where’d this beach ball come from?” the next morning and they all turned to me and answered, “I don’t know Steph, where did that beach ball come from?”

This is me being sobered up by being fed bread by my step-cousin-in-law Pam. She was so sober that she decided that people from Colorado speak Spanish and deserve their own subtitles.

There will definitely be more to come later. Remind me to tell you the story of how my hungover carcass ran into my dad’s commander at the airport on our way back to Sacramento. Good times!

My kids and I will be gone most of next week. We’re going to spend some time with my mother-in-law in an RV on the beach and since my mother-in-law is now a faithful reader of this blog I will take this opportunity to remind her publicly that once we arrive in Monterey, the kids new bedtime will be 4PM and it will be enforced by Boone’s Farm and Pediatric NyQuil.

There is no other way that we can enjoy a sunset without having to listen to my daughter scream while her brother uses her as a magic carpet.

At first I was reluctant to go on this trip because of the whole “RV” thing. I mean, I’ve spent my entire adult life denying the redneck blood coursing through my veins. Volunteering to live out of a dwelling with wheels on it seemed counter intuitive to that effort. Still, I’ve since checked out the vehicle in question and feel much more comfortable now that I know it comes with a wine cellar, plasma television and a staff of domestic servants. I mean holy crap people, did you know they make RVs larger than my last apartment?

It also has a nifty screen door that locks so that we can enjoy the ocean breezes without having to let the kids inside.

“I’ll have that removed before our trip.” My mother-in-law told me, pointing out the latter. “We don’t want any accidents.”

The accident she fears, of course, is my oblivious ass destroying another screen door by walking through it. Since I’ve been married I’ve managed an average screen door kill rate of three per year. I’m like the Dr. Death of the home furnishings set. Consider yourself warned dear readers; if you ever decide to invite me over for dinner or drinks there will be a visit to Home Depot in your immediate future.

So, where was I?

Oh yeah. The Alcatraz swim is on August 5th. It’s high time I abandoned the comfortable womb of the lap pool to practice in water cold enough to kill you within half an hour and you know what? This seemed like a perfectly rational and fun thing to do when I was in Fleet Feet renting my wetsuit but typing that prior sentence just made me realize that I am nothing short of retarded.

Despite California’s reputation for being a hundreds-miles-long beach, the risk of stepping on used hypodermic needles isn’t the only difference between being seaside in Orange County and Northern California. The cold water is far from being the only thing that will kill you. Riptides, kelp entanglements, undercurrents, and tidal drift can help you earn a Darwin Award just as quickly as hypothermia. Also, just because a beach is safe for “wading” doesn’t necessarily mean it’s safe for “swimming”. Up here there’s a distinction made between an activity in which you never breach the surf line and one that may result in your swimming 2,000 feet above an undersea canyon.

Therefore it seemed prudent to find a beach that shelves gently into the water where lots of other people swim. Preferably meaty people who swim slowly and make a much more delectable hors’ devours for fish with teeth. Ideally, I would have my own personal lifeguard wrapped in hamburger but since the King’s only response to my new found interest thus far has been to increase our life insurance I doubt he’s up for the job.

So I checked beach information online to see if there was anything useful and found this cool little cam. It’s a 360-degree shot of San Carlos beach in Monterey and you can “look around” by clicking on the photo and dragging the arrow to the left or right. This is the beach where I became scuba certified, and if you are “facing” the water you can see the Coast Guard pier to the right and Cannery Row to the left. The brown patches on the water are kelp forests and as you can see, there are an absolute ton of swimmers, snorkelers, and divers.

Anyway, I thought it was kind of cool.

I love Texas with all the wet fury of a Austin-bound armadillo. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean except that I love Texas. Really. Truly.

That being said there are a few things about Texas that never fail to leave me agape and agog. It’s not like I wasn’t aware of these things, but every time I visit the south I develop a convenient case of amnesia upon departure. Then I return and go into shock all over again.

For instance, the smoking. I mean holy shit, is there a single person in Texas who doesn’t smoke? Not that it bothers me, but I come from a state where smoking is prohibited everywhere except inside of your refrigerator between the hours of midnight and one and you can only light up after you have secured a series of tarps over every window in your house and filed a request for permission from the EPA. So entering what amounts to the nation’s smoking section always throws me for a loop. I mean, everyone was lighting up. Everyone. Men, women, old people, dogs… even strollers were outfitted with ashtrays.

Texas needs to hire an army of Wal-Mart style greeters to meet visitors at the end of the jetway in Dallas-Fort Worth. Only instead of adorning you with leis like they do in Hawaii, they can hand tourists a carton of Marlboros and a lighter.

Secondly, if I lived in Texas I would have to become a hunter-gatherer. Otherwise I would end up weighing three hundred pounds because the only dining out I saw was served up by Whataburger, Cracker Barrel, or Chick-Fil-A. Plus, everything that bears the slightest resemblance to food is dutifully dredged in flour and deep-fat fried. Sure it’s delicious, but is it really necessary to restrict one’s diet to food that is guaranteed to take several years off your life?

Thirdly, if I ever move to Texas I’m going to start a business. It’s going to be like those star registries only instead of stars, people will pay me to name water towers after them. Lord knows that there are enough of the damned things. I am pretty sure that somewhere in the annals of Texas townhood somewhere there is a clause in which no town will be recongized until it has it’s name spelled out in ten-foot letters on the side of its very own water tower.

Lastly, regarding the state historical markers… I realize that every state is in love with the idea of adorning every acre with the the standard bronze plaque to commemorate some event or another that took place there. To this end, I have a suggestion that will undoubtedly save the state of Texas a shitload of money. Instead of going through the trouble of minting an original tribute to each “site of historical significance” the state should just mass-produce a bunch of markers with the following text:

“This is the site where a bunch of white people killed a bunch of Mexicans”

I mean, since really, that’s what they all say anyway. Not that I’m generally against the European settlement of North America. I mean, if it hadn’t been for colonization my pasty white ass would be snowed into some northern European shit hole… and we all know how I break out in hives at the mere mention of snow. It’s just that there are less expensive ways to erect a monument without making some historian crazy as he struggles with ideas on how to differentiate one massacre from another.

It’s nothing personal Texas. I love you, I just think that there is room for improvement.

Alright Pirate and Travis. I guess I’m obligated to thank you for blogsitting for me, although I admit to harboring ambivalence about expressing gratitude to people who photoshop my head onto midgets and spread rumors that I like to shop for Jimmy Choos with third world despots.

But still, you came, you wrote, you photoshopped. On behalf of a grateful blogger I thank you. Kind of. I think.

(bastards)

Anyway, while I was away the King and I temporarily hung up our loyalties to the Longhorns and Wolverines long enough to root for the Aggies at the Alamodome. Not so much because we’re huge A&M fans but we were in Texas and neither of us are stupid. Not wearing maroon would be tantamount to hanging signs around our necks that read “I heart Osama” or “I’m gay and I’m proud”.

You can imagine our surprise however, when we took our seats and discovered that both Travis and Pirate had decided to join us:

As you can see, while away from the prying eyes of their women-folk these two could hardly keep their hands of each other. Needless to say, the Texas A&M, Tennessee, and Memphis fans were appalled. The Ohio State fans whipped out their camcorders and tried to join in.

But you know what? I had no idea Travis liked pink so damned much.

Dear Travis and Pirate,

Greetings from San Antonio, Texas! Weather is here, wish you were nice and all that jazz. I just wanted to write and tell you how much I appreciate you blog-sitting for me while I’m away:

The King and I are having a terrific time sampling the local culture. Well… the culture that involves tequila.

Anyway, the Alamo is a great place to visit and even more fun after three or even sixteen shots of Patron. And since I’m drunk and have walked roughly thirty two miles today, I’m going to go make my point before Alejandro the bell boy gets bored playing quarters with me and takes all this liquor to the trollop down the hall:

I love the Mexican people. I would NEVER mock them for not being able to swim. Nor would I dream of collecting illegals for my personal compound. Ok, so yeah I have been known to get snarky about the whole “losing Texas to the white people” thing, but only on Cinco de Mayo, when some of my Latino friends insist that we celebrate the one day that Mexicans held any kind of military superiority. I mean really, they were fighting the French for Pete’s sake. It’s not like they faced a real military.

…and yeah. Try to forget that I made fun of the Mexican military one paragraph after mentioning the Alamo.

At any rate. I wanted to drive home the point that I love the Mexican people. I love them and they just fucking adore me:

My love runs so deep, it even extends to their hats.

…even the goofy leopard-print ones that they sell to white people just because they can:

So, in closing I would like to tell you to stop writing such silly nonsense about my mockery of our neighbors south of the border. For my part, I will concede that I guzzle tequila while throwing firecrackers at my husband’s feet and yelling at him to do the Mexican hat dance.

Yours truly,
Steph

P.S. - I bought both of you t-shirts! Since you’re such great friends, I thought that a multi-cultural tribute would be appropriate:

Firstly (is that even a word? It is now!) I grabbed a machete and hacked away at my blogroll until I had whittled it down to blogs that are still current and being updated. I’ve added y’all who have been kind enough to link me. If you would like your blog on the blogroll, e-mail me and we can swap links.

Secondly, y’all may have noticed something. Like the fact that I have used “y’all” twice in one post now. That’s because I’m spending next week in Texas. Plans keep changing, but right now we’re slated to terrorize our renters in College Station. They’re a bunch of college kids so maybe we’ll show up unannounced with some drug-sniffing dogs. Or their parents. Or the police. Or all three. Good times!

After that we’re headed to San Antonio where we are going to park our asses alternately at the Marriott on the Riverwalk, the Alamodome, and whatever bars happen to be in between because WE’RE GOIN’ TO MARCH MADNESS BABEEEEE!!!!

Thirdly, I’m a big dork.

…but this brings me to my point: as of my departure on Monday morning this blog will be left in the care of Pirate and Travis. Though I doubt their sincerity, they have given me their word that this space will not be turned into their own playground of sin. But since an open approach is always helpful, I would like to take this opportunity to lay a few ground rules down:

QofD’s Rules for Travis and Pirate whilst they are babysitting her blog:

#1 - No using my blog to pimp yourself out
#2 - No using my blog to pimp other people out
#3 - No photo-shopping my head anywhere at any time
#4 - If you ignore #3, do me a favor and at least don’t photo-shop my head onto Barbara Boxer’s body. That wasn’t funny the first time, Travis.
#5 - No running escort services from my blog
#6 - Swearing is generally encouraged
#7 - No using my blog to generate interest for your off-shore horse-meat distribution scheme
#8 - No poking my readers with sticks
#9 - No Drano milkshake recipes
#10 - No “Risky Business” at my house while I’m gone, and that means naked Twister too, guys.
Dear readers? Do you think I’m missing anything?