Sorta Out Of Order...Oh Well

Why Are My Photos Blurry???

I still don't seem to be gettin' the hang of taking digital photos...I mean, this doesn't look too clear, does it? Oh, well...more consulting is necessary, apparently. Anyway...without further ado..from left to right, back row:

Keith (old, old friend of groom-to-be and lead singer/songwriter of "The 88"), David (of Sonoma and boyfriend of oldest niece, Mindy), Me (check out undescribable "jacket" of previous post), oldest niece Mindy, bride-to-be Juli-Ann, nephew and groom-to-be Brian, great-niece and all-around tall (getting-too-old) great-niece Ashley, younger (ha!) niece Jamie, and her thank-god-we-have-a-doctor-in-the-family husband, Jon

Front row: yes-that's-a-boo-boo-under-his-nose great nephew Zac, all-around awesome--puts-up-with-my-brother sister-in-law Polly, super-smart (must-have-got-the brains-from-my- side-of-the-family) Jake, paying-for-the-whole-shebang brother Barry, and finally, what can I say--the best parents in the whole, wide world: Daddy and Annie

Randy's Version of Project Runway

Okay, by my watch, I just spent one hour and forty-five minutes trying on everything in my closet. Why, you ask? It's kind of a long story....you may wanna pause to get a snack or somethin'.

So this weekend's the big family wedding. Which means tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. Now, it's not like I left it all to the last minute--I even went (gasp) shopping!--but I thought I had back-ups. Multiple back-ups, in fact. So when I didn't find anything at the mall, I...well, I guess I rested on my laurels.

Big mistake.

See, the solution to the algorithm by which I must solve the apparel dilemma is constrained by my possession of (sorry to get personal but--oh hell, why not?) a certain amount of cleavage.

Turns out I've been forbidden to exhibit it around the parental units.

So I thought the gold cocktail dress was a safe bet. Sure it's strapless, but the bodice covers enough to protect even the Pope's sensibilities. Just to make certain though, I tried it on this evening. Well. There must be something about the color gold--it was like a big ol' spotlight shone on, er, things, making them look a whole lot more prominent than they really are. (Trust me, this is somewhat new--'cuz along with menopause came mutant boobs--yeah, I haven't seen it discussed in the literature, either).

Picture Jayne Mansfield in her prime (which would be before that car accident that decapitated her). Needless to say, the gold frock went to the back of the closet.

No problem, I thought. Didn't I say I had multiple back-ups? Next came the black sparkly strapless. Only, seen through the eyes of the parental units, it suddenly looked slutty. Ditto the next black strapless. And the next.

Started to get panicky at this point. And to wonder why I own so many black strapless dresses.

Let's try another color, I decided. A lovely shade of emerald green and although halter-style, a very demure version. Only one problem. No shoes to go with it. I must have spent twenty minutes on this one alone.

Hot and sweaty now, I resorted to clothes I haven't worn since I was thin-ner. Hm. Close, but no cigar. Besides, more cleavage, no shoes, yada, yada, yada...

At this point, I envisioned myself dragging all the options over to my parents' house and letting them choose. I even toyed with dressing up something I normally wear to work (ugh!).

Finally, I resorted to two plain black sheaths--hand-me-downs from my sister-in-law who (the bitch) grew out of them in the good way (meaning she got too skinny for them). Let me tell you why neither was an appealing option: although I may be conservative in a lot of ways, dress just isn't one of 'em.

Sigh. But, I was in a desperate situation, so I tried them on.

The first one didn't fit right. The second was better, but oh-so-boring. I looked around for something--anything!--to jazz it up.

And there it was.

This cool thing I can't even describe (I'll try in a minute) that's been hanging in my closet for years, waiting for the moment I'd figure out what the hell to do with it. I sloughed it on over my shoulders, and voila. Problem solved. (Okay, here goes: it's all beads but strung together kinda like a spider web, and sewn together to form the shape of a jacket. Screw it; I'll have to get a picture of it tomorrow night.)

So, you may be wondering why a 53-year-old woman couldn't pick her favorite cocktail dress from the line-up--boobs and parents be damned? Hey, they're 83 years old (the parents, not the boobs--although they're gettin' there). At that age, there's not a whole lot a daughter can do to make Annie and Daddy happy and proud.

I'm just glad they're still around to cause problems.

Holy Epiphany, Batman!

Just when I really, really, think I'm gonna have to shelve Leftovers--y'know, stash a year's worth of writing under the bed until I'm old and gray (well, just gray since I'm already old)--a light bulb goes off.

Or, maybe the Muse showed up. (Wait, I don't believe in 'em, remember?)

Anyway, the words started to flow again...better yet, the ideas started to flow. And suddenly, I knew how to end it. The story that is, not the words and ideas. Well, of course, I knew the ending a long time ago, but not exactly how to get there.

Now, I do.

At least for tonight, I do.

Does that ever happen to you? A burst of brilliance sears your brain...you get all excited about FINALLY finding the answer, then wooooosh! Something gets lost in the execution, and the whole damn bubble deflates.

Not this time (she said with determination). This time I'm gonna MAKE it work. 'Cuz see, along with the inspiration, I saw very clearly that this book is so close to being finished, I'd be a fool to quit now.

Who cares if the market for chick lit is dead? (It's not really chick lit, anyway.) Who cares if the market for mom lit is dead? (Hm...not that, either). Who cares if no one's buying stuff written in first person? (Uh-oh.)

Humorous women's fiction anyone?

Sometimes they say you have to step back from a work-in-process (progress?). Get some perspective. Well, I did that (thanks to weeks spent editing Stealing Amy) and when I finally got back to writing new stuff on Leftovers, I read over the last scene and decided the whole thing was utter crapola. Big doo-doo.

Then, tonight (post-epiphany) I read it again.

Hm. Not bad. Not bad at all, in fact.

So, it's back to the drawing board. I WILL FINISH LEFTOVERS. I WILL FINISH LEFTOVERS.

Now...dare I...dare I make a commitment here? Oh, what the hell....let's say...um...I promise to type THE END three weeks from today.

Omigod. Can I backspace and delete? Nah...let's go for it, huh?

Besides...NaNoWriMo is only a month away...and I've got BIG plans for a new headache, er, masterpiece.

Ka-Ching

You wake up on a morning in September and realize something is different. Something about the way the sun’s rays slant differently through the window. And then you know—even though southern California temperatures are still hitting the 90’s—you know.

Damn, it’s Fall.

Still…Fall can be beautiful—even in southern California—more precisely, it can inspire…you guessed it…another ROAD TRIP. This time up the coast to Santa Ynez where my faithful blogreaders will remember (come on, everybody—let’s hear it) yes! There's an Indian casino. Pardon me, a Native American casino?? Anyway…so yesterday, my partners in crime (you know them as Marty and Ann) loaded me up in the car and off we went. Our route took us along Pacific Coast Highway through Ventura up to Santa Barbara where we cut inland along the San Marcos Pass. I don’t know why, but lots of people freak out as they drive over this bridge. They’d REALLY freak out if they could see it from afar.

Once at Chumash, Ann and I gravitated toward the penny and nickel machines (yes, we’re SUCH high rollers). At one point, I was playing a penny slot called KABOOM--in honor of Ann’s recent performance in Rosarito--and won a jackpot worth 6100 2 cent credits...which...after much mental calculation (and cashing out) turned out to be $122. Cool!

Eventually, we moseyed into the “high limit” area. (Notice the interesting dichotomy here--Ann and I go from pennies to $5 without blinking an eye). Long story short…won a couple of jackpots together and in the end, managed a net gain of about $270 a piece for the day, so we were happy campers.

On our return home, we retraced the route through San Marcos Pass—and would have made good time if we hadn’t run into a sobriety checkpoint! Chumash doesn’t even have a bar (and no, the sound of bottles clinking in Ann’s oversized purse were NOT mini-sized wine bottles—so don’t think that they were) and Marty doesn’t drink while he gambles, so the checkpoint didn’t give us pause, but geez. It sure added time to our drive—and caused me to miss Amazing Race (sob).

But wait. $270? Small price to pay for missing a dumb reality show, huh? And a great way to spend a perfect Fall day.

Rosarito -- The Narrative

So we got on the road last Friday by 9:30 a.m. Not bad since I was aiming for 8:30. Then, around Westwood, I successfully staved off an emergency visit to McDonald’s by having thoughtfully brought along Jenny’s Toffee Mini-bites (better get your blood-sugar levels checked, Ann!) (See post from several months ago regarding trip to Rincon-San Diego.)

Traffic was remarkably light, and in record time, we pulled into a market at Del Mar Heights to stock up before crossing the border. By “stock up” I mean all the weekend essentials, like: 4 bottles of wine, a jug of pre-mixed Mudslides, giant bag of tortilla chips, jar of salsa, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of crackers, some salami, and…oh, yeah…water.

Across the parking lot from the market, we spied a McDonald’s Gourmet Bistro (who knew?). To investigate further (okay, to be honest, in order to use their bathroom), we walked over (okay, to be honest, we drove) to check it out. Boy, hope this is the wave of McDonald’s future! It’s more like a McCheesecake Factory…or maybe a McFriday’s. You enter, and on the left you have your basic Mickey D’s, but on your right…mmmmm….tasty looking panninis and pastas! And an espresso machine! (Not to mention tastefully-decorated bathrooms on a par with upscale restaurants.)

Anyway, we got back on the road, then stopped just before the border to buy Mexican insurance. By the way, here’s my theory on that: Mexican insurance is more like a pre-paid bribe. Your own insurance covers you in an accident down there; but the Mexican insurance keeps you from going to jail. Like I say, just a thought.

We sailed over the border without incident, made all the correct yields/verges/turns to get around Tijuana, then leisurely drove forty minutes south, ending up at Calafia in time for cocktails and appetizers. Now, I don’t know what they do in Mexico, but the margaritas are exceptional. Maybe it’s the lime juice. Maybe it’s the brand of tequila. Maybe it’s just the friggin’ atmosphere, but man, were they good. The appetizers? Well, not so much. Rosarito isn’t the place to go for great food, unfortunately, but…well, how can you go wrong eating stuff like chips, salsa, quesadillas, nachos, ceviche…..? Sigh…I couldn’t have been happier.

Finally, it was time to make our way to the condo. Luckily, I knew how to get there; otherwise, we could have wound up circling Rosarito for hours. After oohing and aaahing over the view, we threw on bathing suits and hit the Jacuzzi armed with plastic glasses filled with wine. There we met some of our neighbors, enjoyed the sunset, and—frankly—got a little likkered up. Not enough to forget about going out to dinner, though! About eight, we dragged ourselves upstairs, changed, then snagged a taxi and went into town to El Nido where we ate traditional Mexican food. Oh, and we may have had a margarita. Or two.

On Saturday (my birthday!) Ann was gonna wake me up with bacon and eggs…except…well, we hadn’t exactly brought any. Instead, we drove to the Rosarito Beach Hotel and ate like civilized people in their dining room. Then…well, see…the plan was just to eat breakfast and go back to the condo for sunning by the pool. But…well, see…they have all these jewelry vendors. About FOUR hours later, we took a break from shopping and had a drink (okay, two drinks) at Pappas and Beer, where a TWENTY-THREE year old Navy guy kinda PICKED UP ON US. Was that sweet, or what?? I mean, here it’s my 53rd birthday, and this nice, young, guy asks if he can join us! And, it’s not like he was alone or anything. Oh, no. He was sitting with two other guys. So what if he was a little tipsy? He was a nice, Midwestern, boy who was respectful, but not too much so (y’know what I mean? Cuz too much respect would have been insulting).

Anyway…blah, blah, blah…more drinking, more shopping…Oh, we stopped in a pharmacia to buy illicit drugs (kidding) and when I used my credit card, the owner noticed it was my birthday, so she gave me a lovely soap as a present. How sweet was that? Sigh. Only in Mexico.

I think we took a nap when we got back home. Then we drove down to Puerto Nuevo for my birthday dinner. Translated, Puerto Nuevo turns out to be Newport Beach, but most people refer to it as Lobster Village. You turn off the road into a village square consisting of nothing but restaurants—all specializing in lobster. (Now, I’ve heard the rumor that the waters off PN lost their lobster population due to overfishing YEARS ago, but I’ve never substantiated it. Besides, who cares where the stuff comes from?) So, I picked a restaurant at random—poor choice, as it turns out. I mean, as y’all know, I’m a Mariachi fan, but not when they stay at one table for the entire evening! Not when the table is next to ours!! God, it was like a storm that never moved. We had to shout over the music the whole time. (Not that, at this point, our conversation was particularly scintillating or intellectual.) We ordered the $10.95 lobster (including rice and beans) and…well…okay, so it’s not The Palms…it WAS lobster.

Afterward, we (cough) did a little more shopping. It had gotten pretty late and was also pretty dark, so we can all excuse Ann for going boom in the middle of the street, right? A security guy rushed over, helped her up, and started speaking Spanish so fast, our heads spun. Couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying. The only part we understood was when he’d pause for an instant, say “Boom” really loud, then totally crack up. He thought the whole thing was hysterical…and so did we. (I know…ya probably had to be there.)

Okay, it was my birthday, so the night wasn’t over. We drove back up the coast, past the condo, and on into town to the Karoake Bar at the Rosarito Beach Hotel. Hey, they had some pretty good singers performing. Locals and tourists alike. Fun place.

An hour later, I couldn’t find our parking slip, which was kinda interesting, cuz they wouldn’t let us out of the lot. I searched and searched (how could I have lost it in such a short time?). Finally, the security guy asked to see my car registration and driver’s license. Hm. Fascinating. So, it was all about making sure I wasn’t stealing someone’s car. Cool.

Since we’d missed our appointment with tanning by the pool on Saturday, Sunday was to be The Day. Only…the fog rolled in, so we headed down to Las Rocas for breakfast/lunch instead. Then…oh, what the hell…we drove further down the coast (past Puerto Nuevo) to La Fonda. La Fonda is one of the first spots I ever visited along this stretch of Baja, and it holds a precious spot in my heart. A few years ago, I got worried when they moved it (long story—interesting, but confusing and long) and I got even more worried when it sold to a new owner, but rest assured, all is well at La Fonda again. They’ve even added two new patio levels below the original. AND (how cute is this) a Mexican blanket was draped over each chair at each table…in case it got chilly. (Loved that.)

Wish I’d had my camera with me (well, I did, but the battery had run down) to take pictures there. The beach is miles below, and it’s one of the widest ones I’ve ever seen. Long and wide enough for ultra-light planes to take off and land (which they did—yeah, we thought about finding out how much it was to go up, but not for very long). A couple margaritas came our way again, and then we even struck up a nice conversation with a couple from San Diego who bought us all a round of Tequila shots (not my favorite, but I didn’t wanna be impolite, y’know).

Then we drove back home (early! I Swear! It was early! Still daylight even!) and hit the Jacuzzi again. That night, we munched on all that stuff we brought down, watched TV, and…well, dozed off. Guess our ages finally caught up with us.

In the morning, we walked up the block to a taco stand on the corner and had something amazing called queseron. Sort of a Mexican wrap with spicy shrimp. Mmmm. Instead of tipping the security guys back at the condo, Ann brought them tacos and water—she’s sooo thoughtful!

Nothing left to do but load up the car, and soon we were on our way back to the U.S.

Well, almost.

Ann had discovered a broken earring, so we stopped in town to track down the vendor for a quick-fix. Uh-uh. The quick-fix turned into another hour-and-a-half. More buying. A couple beers. We even got matching ankle bracelets. And neither one of us even LIKES ankle bracelets.

At last, we headed up the coast toward Tijuana, hoping for a relatively brief stay at the border. Yeah, right. We got in line at 1:15 and passed through about an hour later. Which was really, really handy since ANN WASN’T FINISHED SHOPPING YET. Yep. There she was, window rolled down, hanging half-in-half-out, yelling in patented Ann-style: “Excuse me! Uh, EXCUSE ME!” One lace tablecloth and giant pink-and-white piggy bank later, we finally left the vendors behind and made our escape into the U.S.

So that’s it. That’s our four-day trip to Rosarito for my birthday. Can’t wait to do it again.

My Bad

Got to thinking and realized I neglected to describe the place we stayed in Rosarito. It's a small (26 units I believe) building just south of Rosarito Beach in the "furniture" neighborhood (which means the streets are lined with joints selling all manor of tile, sculpture, ceramics, etc.). Anyway, it's called Las Olas ("The Waves") and as y'all recall, I rented a 3-bedroom/3 bath condo there last March; this time it was a 2-bedroom/2 bath. All the units are decorated and furnished with top-notch appliances and amenities, and everything you could need in a kitchen (ya know, like especially a blender). The staff and security are friendly and helpful; and the entire place is totally secure with a big ol' wrought iron gate and 24-hour guard. I love the intimacy and serenity of Las Olas--no underage American partiers to mar your peaceful vacation...so, if you're interested, go here for more pics and info...and be sure to tell Rich I said, "hola."



Infinity Pool At Las Olas

Ah, Calafia...my favorite way to start off a birthday weekend! (That's Anni on the left; me on the right--don't know what the hell I did with my hair here.)

Polly wanna cracker? Er, how about a tortilla chip?

Room with a view--or more precisely, 2-bedroom condo with a view!

Pool view

View to the left...um...see the shape that cliff's starting to take? Ya think the people living in that house are safe???

View to the north--that's the Rosarito Beach Pier

Can you picture what I'm holding in my hand as I watch the setting sun? (Nope, not a margarita--a mudslide)

View from pool

Anni in the jacuzzi

Me in the jacuzzi

Shopping. Lots and lots of shopping. Don't be surprised when some of this turns into future contest prizes.

Um...it's sand and I'm leaning over the edge of the jacuzzi to take the picture. Safe, huh?

So Much To Blog, So Little Time

What can I say? Viva Mexico!! It's just such a shame that the drive takes sooooo long. Anyway, back to real life, real work, and real editing.

Okay, what's up with blogger??? Just tried to upload pictures--the "go to" when I don't have time for blogging--and it's not working. Grrrr.

Keep checking back. I'm off to Plan B.