California dreaming…

As I write this on Thursday afternoon, my husband is passed out on the hotel room bed. His shoes still are on. My girl is face down on the couch. Shoes still on too. She’s not totally asleep, but rather hypnotized by some cartoon where one character sounds like Gilbert Gottfried.

Me? I’m too tired to sleep.

It is how I know it’s time to get home. That, and my pants are too tight. One can indulge in California wine, margaritas and fish tacos only for so long.

We have traveled from the quiet loveliness of Sonoma County up north to the surfer lands of San Diego down south. We have stayed with old friends kind enough to provide shelter and laughter. We also have visited with friends we haven’t known long, but will long adore. Marta, over at My Big Fat Cuban Family, and her awesome brood showed us gems in Orange County (who knew?) and in the surf at La Jolla.

I keep wanting to pronounce La Jolla as it is spelled, English rather than Spanish, and my California-born husband is ready to ask me never to say the words “La Jolla” again. And, I expect Marta soon will write about what a total wienie I am that I refuse to dunk my body in waters any less than 88 degrees. We don’t do wet suits in Miami or in Tennessee creeks, for that matter.

And while we have rejoiced in this lack of humidity, sea lions on the surf and seaside vistas, we’re all ready to get home.

My shrinking pantalones are too.