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Tuesday, July 20, 2004

back from vacation

We just got back from our ten-day camping vacation at the beach. I know you are all (all, what, two of you who read this?) eagerly awaiting the details of all the stupid things I must have done in ten whole days. Well, I am not one to disappoint. I did two monumentally stupid things, and such is my Internet addiction that I was fully aware as I was doing said stupid things that they were going in my journal for you all to snort at. Unfortunately I forgot the second thing, I really did. But the first one makes up for it. Picture a BMX-style bicycle course, dirt made into bumps for riding over. Are you picturing? Now, picture me, freshly arrived in town with my family, stopping at the bicycle park before heading to the campground because we were too early for our site to be ready. Picture us parking in the dirt lot which is pretty much an extension of the bike area. (and now you totally just guessed what happened, didn't you). Picture the family deciding to ride their bikes straight to the park, while I drove the car. I don't think I even have to finish. I will just say, when you high-center a big old 1991 Buick Park Avenue on a packed dirt bump, so that you have to be pushed off backward, it makes a very interesting scraping noise. And lots and lots of laughter from onlookers (who, fortunately for me, were all related to me by blood or marriage). And lots of jokes at the driver's expense for the NEXT TEN DAYS.

I also did a lot of minor stupid things, like constantly (constantly!) hitting my head on the two lanterns in camp which were suspended in the air so that their bottoms were precisely five feet and eight inches off the ground, and don't tell me nobody did that on purpose, just for my five-foot-nine self, either. I also scrupulously used sunscreen every time we got out of bed for the first five days of our vacation, which was not the stupid thing; the stupid thing was behaving as if sunburn were a virus to which we had all become immune, and forgoing sunscreen for a few days, and getting myself burned just as badly as if I'd never used it in the first place. Fun.

While we're on the subject of camping, I'll explain something. What we do, according to my husband, is not actually camping. We "camp" at a level campground with fence partitions, clean bathrooms, hot showers, and a little store. This campground is between Highway 1 and the ocean, well within easy reach of such things as pizzerias and fish and chip shops and grocery stores and libraries. We even (ssshhh) sleep on an inflatable air mattress in our tent. I have, seriously, slept in EconoLodges that were less accommodating. No, if you're going to call it camping, it has to involve backpacks and extremely light sleeping bags, and tiny little one-person tents (or no tents at all), and water purification tablets and dehydrated food and, if possible, at least a few injuries requiring trailside first aid, bonus points for use of parachute cord in binding open wounds shut. You must hike to a place inaccessible by cars or even trail motorcycles, and brave bears and snakes and poison oak and emerge from the woods after a few days, filthy and triumphant, grunting like Marines in boot camp. This is camping. I never, ever, ever do this. Ever. I like my hot shower and at least a water spigot at my campsite with potable water. This is why for the first few years of our marriage, T and I did not camp together. He would do his manly hiking-in routine with his buddies once a year, and I would stay home and try not to think about rattlesnakes and mountain lions. Finally we reached a compromise. He'll camp my way; he just prefers to think of it as staying in a very inexpensive motel.

We had a great time, but it was so good to get home. We missed our cats (who didn't demolish the house as badly as we feared while we were gone); the kids missed their toys; I missed having my own toilet within fifteen feet of my bed. I never realize how many times I get up in the night for the bathroom until I spend a few days having to put on sandals and walk twenty yards through the cold foggy night to get to one.

I could keep going, but instead I'll just post a few billion pictures for the benefit of those few souls still in the Dial-Up Dark Ages.


the kids and their daddy in the ocean


C, just too cool for her training wheels, which she shed before the end of our trip (so did both of her cousins)


LT, also looking very cool


The infamous bicycle bumps. This isn't the one I drove onto.


We went to a GREAT rummage sale and got a ton of things (because it was just so easy to pack ten days' worth of our lives on the way there; we wanted a little more excitement. Or not). One thing we got was a shoebox full of Playmobil and Lego stuff for a dollar. C made this diorama of Ma, Pa, and Carrie in their covered wagon. And if you don't know who Ma, Pa, and Carrie are, I feel very sorry for you.


We hiked up this smallish hill where we got a great view of the surrounding area. This is Morro Rock with the power plant (which we actually like, it says vacation to us as loud as the rock does) with a fog coming in from the ocean. Worth the hike. My SIL and I decided that the top of the mountain, with its not-quite-accidental-looking dirt, rocks, and shrubs, looked like a set from a TV show; we kept expecting Hoss and Little Joe to show up and fight some bad guys or something.


Me in the Bonanza set.


Minas Tirith made of sand


I usually would take a book and sit at the laundromat while I waited for my laundry to finish. C was copying me, and then her cousin came along and they were looking at the book (another rummage sale find) together. Too too cute.