My husband and I spent our honeymoon in San Diego, California, freezing our nalgas clean off. Fortunately, they sell nalgas out of carts at the Tijuana border, so we were able to replace them before returning home. And the beautiful thing is, they're always the tannest part of our bods. Remember, we just celebrated an anniversary, meaning (for those of you using the Mayan calendar) we were married in March.
Now, having grown up in Utah, we had a distorted idea of what "Southern California" was. To our way of thinking, anything south of Provo was pretty much a tropical paradise. And because childhood vacations had always taken place during the summer months, it stood to reason that any place you went on 'vacation' was warm and sunny. Also, no matter how you got there, your butt had fused to the naugahyde and the seat belts were glowing red-hot. This was true of every form of vacation travel, including rickshaws and llamas. Butt: Fused. Seat belt: Volcanic.
So of course we packed for sunshine and warm beaches. This was in the days before Google; in fact, Benjamin Franklin had only the year before invented the almanac.
Hence, the frozen and detached nalgas.
Twenty-six years later, during which time we spent four years in the Caribbean and nearly ten in Las Vegas, we finally came to our senses about what constituted "warm," which explains why I had my furnace AND my fireplace cranked up today because it was a bitter 62 degrees outside.
This picture is from my own personal back yard only three months ago.
I was pretty sure we'd get double the snow today.
Sixty-two degrees, people. I swear, it was like friggin' Nome out there this morning. What??
I know. You feel my pain. That means a lot, it really does.
Anyway, tomorrow all four of the Handys remaining in Las Vegas are heading to San Diego, where I will be participating in the SITS Bloggy Boot Camp while my family attempts to get a tan through their parkas.
This is where we're staying. It's called the Bahia Bay Resort, which, if I remember my Spanish, translates to "Bay Bay Resort."
And yet, surprisingly, I'm totally fine with this minor imperfection.
But I have missed the ocean like, well, someone who spent eleven years looking at it or surrounded by it, so I'm willing to forgive San Diego for the weekend's 59 degree forecast.
A reminder that we lived in Puerto Rico, where we spent every Christmas Day sunning ourselves on a different beach.
I believe that this is where a less mature soul would insert something along the lines of "neener, neener."
Don't hurt yourselves trying to do the math. I didn't mention that seven of those 26 years were spent in Seattle. See? It all adds up.
Living on Mercer Island, this was our view of Seattle.
I am of the firm belief that this is exactly what heaven looks like.
Anyway, since some of you are new here, I thought I'd share a few more of my favorite stories, if for no other reason than doing so goes a long way toward explaining why I believe that the biggest threat to our national security is the Nevada State Department of Motor Vehicles, known in travel guides as "Hell on Two Dollars a Day."
This one redefined 'poetic justice' for my husband. Think 'a mouthful of unusually warm river water.'
And this is the reason I would rather kiss a monk fish full on the lips than have to renew my driver's license in Las Vegas.
That should hold you for a while, at least until it's too late to run to the supermarket and you have no choice but to let Domino's cater dinner again. You are so welcome.
See you all on Monday!