Well, we are just having more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
We've only been in Southern California for 48 hours, and I've already done or seen the following:
- Walked down Rodeo Drive, confirming, once and for all, my affection for the clearance rack at Old Navy.
- Watched from the 12th row as Beckham actually bended it like….well, you know.
- Watched my husband have way too much fun navigating the LA freeways while alternately humming the CHiPs theme song and reciting, "THIS IS A.C. AND I HAVE O.J. IN THE CAR."
- Saw the former homes of Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable and Gene Kelly.
- Thought many thankful thoughts about the cost of real estate and gasoline in Oklahoma.
- Watched my sons body surf in the Pacific Ocean.
- Saw a store which, according to a sign in its window, sells underpants for squirrels.
- Put my hands in Julie Andrews' handprints at the Walk Of Fame.
- Drove past a lights-flashing, guns-pulled arrest scene…twice.
- Felt an earthquake. Okay, not really; it was actually just the air conditioner coming on. But for a second there, it was dicey.
- Saw the actual Hotel California, and there was not, in fact, plenty of room. (It's kind of crowded here.)
- Sat on a boardwalk and ate frozen, chocolate-covered cheesecake on a stick while my children downed some salt-water taffy (and realized that most of our best family vacation memories seem to involve dessert).
- Got stuck in a traffic jam on a nine-lane freeway behind a lavendar suburban.
- Drove past a packed Sunday-morning crowd at the Fellowship Of Self-Actualization.
In other words, we're not in Oklahoma anymore. But we're having a ball.