Vacation, all I ever wanted

"I need a vacation. Just a little one," I sighed heavily last night while getting ready for bed.

"Uh-huh," Brett replied, not really paying attention.

"I'd love to go back to that Westin hotel... you know the one we stayed at on our honeymoon."

"Oh, yeah?" Brett's ears perked up.

"Yup. Remember that awesome bed? It was huge and piled high with pillows and fluffy down comforters and it had the softest sheets EVER. I wonder what the threadcount on those sheets was..."

"I have no idea about the threadcount, but you can bet that I remember that bed..."

"Well, here's what I would do for my vacation...I'd check in as early as possible, go upstairs to the room, hang the 'do not disturb' sign on the door..."

"Go on..." I had Brett's full attention now.

"Then I'd hop into that big ol' bed and I think that within 5 seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I'd be fast asleep. I'd stay asleep until 11:00 the next morning, at which time I would phone the front desk and let them know I'll be staying another night. No need to make up the room. Then I'd go back to sleep until check out the next day."

"Oh."

"You're welcome to join me on my vacation, if you want. You just can't make any noise or flop around in the bed or kick your feet or anything like that. I also don't want to hear any whining about you being hungry or going into a diabetic coma or anything like that. This isn't an eating vacation. It's a sleeping vacation. I also don't want you complaining about being bored. If you can't sleep the whole time (it's a rare gift I have) then you can watch TV. Softly. I love you that much."

"Platypus?"

"Yes?"

"You're a cracksmoker."

"I know, honey. I know."

It really was a beautiful sweater

Brett and I spent the day in San Francisco last year while we were getting passports in preparation for our trip to Mexico. No, you don't normally have to go all the way to San Francisco for a passport. Yes, we could have sent away for them. But there were some technical difficulties which led us to believe they wouldn't arrive on time and we didn't want to take that chance.

Aaaaanyway, it was a blustery day in San Fran and we didn't realize that we would be spending a great deal of time in the out-of-doors while waiting in line to get into the building for our appointment. Not only that, but after we'd parked the car, we didn't want to move it, so we spent most of the day wandering the streets in the cold, cold wind.

We ducked into a men's clothing shop to warm our toes for a bit and Brett discovered a leather jacket which fit him perfectly. To our surprise, it was on sale and after the discount it was a steal. We bought it with the rationalization that Brett had neglected to bring his coat and it was far too cold for him to be without one that day. Also, he'd always wanted a leather jacket.

I wasn't really too cold, especially now that I had a big hunk of leather-wrapped man to nuzzle my face into. But Brett felt I needed something more substantial than my windbreaker, so we kept an eye out for an inexpensive jacket or sweater for me.

I'm not sure what area of the city we were in, but there were a million stores to shop in. Some were very reasonably priced, like where we bought Brett's jacket. Some were very, very high-end. At one point, we went into an upscale necktie shop. There were maybe 30 ties on display, which is not very many considering that's all the merchandise they had. After extolling the virtues of Italian silk neckties and ascots, the salesman asked Brett to select his favorite.

"Oooohhhh," he cooed with delight at Brett's choice. "An excellent decision. You can wear with many different earth-tones and will look also very sophisticated with black. Shall I wrap it up for you?"

"No, no," we laughed. "We're just poking around the city, trying to get out of the wind. Brett has lots and lots of ties."

"But, everyone must have at least one Italian silk necktie!" he cried in a passionate Italian way. "It last forever and your selection never go out of style! I give you a special price because I like you. You are nice young couple. I do you a favor. Today only $395.00."

I snorted. Brett politely considered the offer for about 3 seconds and then we hightailed it out of there. Like I said, Brett has lots of ties and we'd rather KEEP OUR HOUSE than pay hundreds of dollars for a fashion accessory (even if the salesperson did keep calling it an "accoutrement").

We moseyed down the street a little further when Brett stopped short. He gasped. "Okay, that's the sweater I want you to get. That's the most awesome sweater I've ever seen. I don't care how much it is. It's too cold for you not to buy that sweater and wow, I've just never seen anything so beautiful."

The sweater was gorgeous. It was a rich peacock-blue hue with a subtle green and purple design woven in at the edges and cuffs. It looked soft and warm and oh-so-inviting.

"Go in and try it on," he urged. I protested, telling him that I was sure it would be very expensive and that a shop like that wouldn't carry my size anyway. "It won't hurt just to try it on," he insisted, "You might be surprised. I'm going into the shop next door. Buy it if you like it, even if it is a little expensive." He shoved me toward the door and took off.

An small tinkling bell announced my arrival in the shop and summoned the most elegant woman I have ever seen. From tip to toe, she was flawless. Her hair was immaculately styled, her makeup enhanced her exotic features, and her four-inch heels sunk deep into the plush carpet on the shop floor.

"Good afternoon," she smiled warmly. "Is there something I can show you?" Her voice carried just a hint of a Slavic accent.

The thick silence of the shop was deafening after the cacophony of the noisy street corner outside. I was suddenly conscious of my wind-whipped hair, watery eyes, and touristy capri pants. She didn't seem to notice. I had her full attention and she never once gave me a look of disapproval.

"I....uh... My husband really liked the sweater in the window. Can you show me where it is?"

She glided across the room and took my arm. "Certainly. Your husband has a wonderful eye for style. This is a very classic design. It looks wonderful on everyone and the colors are so vibrant."

She hung my purse out of the way and helped me slip off my tattered old windbreaker. "It's... uhhh... really windy today and... uhhh he wanted to get something to help me stay warm," I stammered.

"He must certainly love you, then. This sweater is a nice weight for days like today." She pulled the sweater up over my shoulders. "How does it feel?"

It felt like falling into a cloud in heaven. Fuzzy softness surrounded me from neck to knee. The chill evaporated from my bones and I could feel a rosy glow creeping up my cheeks.

"It looks beautiful on you," she said earnestly. "Step over here and look in the mirror."

She was right. It looked fantastic and felt great. I knew it would be pricey, but I also knew I would want to wear it every day and it would go with absolutely every piece of clothing I own, so it might be worth a splurge.

"Wow," I breathed.

"Yes," she agreed. She told me the designer's name and said he was well-known for his beautiful, classic outerwear designs.

"It's incredible. I've never owned anything like this before. How much is it?"

Without a crack in her porcelain demeanor, she replied, "Eight thousand five hundred and seventy-five dollars."

*gasp*

I'm sure she was not surprised when I regretfully declined to purchase it. "I understand," she said gently. "But maybe another day, you'll be back."

Brett was waiting for me on the noisy, windy street corner. "So," he shouted above the traffic, "You didn't like it?"

"No. It was perfect. Just too expensive."

"C'mon! It's freezing out here! We just spent over $100 on my jacket! You deserve it!"

No, I'm pretty sure I've done nothing in my life to merit an $8500 sweater. Really, though, has anyone?

Which begs the question: WHO ON EARTH COULD AFFORD SOMETHING LIKE THAT? Seriously, that's so far out of the realm of possibility for 99.9% of the people on the entire planet. That's like so far beyond even doctor-rich or CEO-rich. That's like heiress-rich or movie-star rich.

So, when I see Paris Hilton or Katie Holmes on the cover of People magazine, wearing my sweater, I'll be sure to let you know.

It's a dull world after all

Brett and I were discussing the awesomeness of (most) amusement parks the other day. The conversation drifted toward Disneyland and our friends who make a religious pilgrimage to "the happiest place on earth" every year. Without kids, it seems pointless for the two of us to go, so neither of us has been since we were kids ourselves.

Brett: Actually, I would be totally fine if we never took our kids to Disneyland.

Me: Really? Not even once? Just so they can say they've done it?

Brett: Yup. Our kids will grow up way cooler if they don't get started thinking that Disneyland is all that. Let's take them to amusement parks with really good rides instead.

Andrea: There's lots of good rides for little kids at Disneyland, though.

Brett: Yeah. I just don't want to perpetuate the myth that Disneyland is so much fun. It's not, really. It's like... beer...and coffee. No one really likes the taste of beer or coffee. It's just that society tells us it's great, so people drink it. Everyone thinks it tastes gross, but drink it anyway until they get used to it, just so they can fit in. No one really likes Disneyland, but people go in droves every year anyway just to say they've been there. Then they rave about how much fun it is and convince everyone else to go so they don't feel like they've wasted their money. It's just a genius marketing ploy. No one ever actually has any fun at Disneyland.

Andrea: So you have no interest in ever going?

Brett: None.

Andrea: Well, I might go with my mom when she takes my niece and nephew next October.

Brett: Ok, but don't let them have any fun.

Mexican Mormons?

My husband and I vacationed in Cabo San Lucas last year. We had quite a shock, thinking that Mexico would be a utopian wonderland of cheap food and jewelery. As the resort host succinctly stated: "This is not Mexico. This is CABO. Nothing is cheap in Cabo." Or as my husband put it: "It was like San Diego. Only more people spoke English."

All pesos aside, I still loved bartering with the locals. Every morning, a whole crew of grimey, leather-skinned locals would set up camp just outside the rope barrier which separated our side of the beach from their side of the beach. The unsuspecting resort guests (ourselves included) would wander down to check out their offerings and quickly be lured into a cat-and-mouse game which centered around the question of whether or not they were willing to pay $30 for earrings which were worth no more than $2.

As we haggled with Paco for sunglasses one blisteringly sunny afternoon, I noticed a collection of bongs discreetly displayed among his wares. I nudged my husband to check out a particular bong in the shape of a woman's torso with, well, "huge tracts of land." I knew our minds would run down the same road. Doesn't smoking pot decrease your amorousity? Why would a pot-head want a naked-lady bong?

Well, Paco caught my subtle elbow-jab in Brett's direction and this conversation followed:

Paco: Oh, ju smoke, amigos?

Brett: Uh, no. We just think that's funny.

Andrea: Yeah, we don't smoke. We're mormon!

Paco (looking back at his friends): Oh, yeah? Me and Antonio and Pablo we're mormons, too.

Brett: I doubt it.

Paco: Si, si. We're Mexican mormons. All the Mexican mormons smoke. We can't relax unless we have some weed every day.

Brett: Sounds like you need to repent. Go talk to your bishop.

Paco: We can't. He's smoking weed, too!

Andrea: Well, go to church. Jesus loves you.

I'm pretty sure I know where the $20 we paid for the sunglasses went. Into the bong shaped like a naked lady. Now that I think about it, it looked like it had already been used.