Currently I am slouching, droopy-eyed and overly-caffeinated on a flight home from San Diego. It seems only appropriate I would recap what I learned this weekend while in SD.
1. Flotation devices are not provided, but strongly suggested.
No, I do not mean on the flight. Last I checked I could still use my seat cushion – however, no matter how often or how many times that is explained to me, I will never fully know how to implement said system until an actual emergency.
Rather, while in San Diego I guarantee you will see a plethora of overly-priced floaties. That’s right friends, San Diego is the unofficial silicone capital of the world. You are racking, pun intended, your brain for a city you have visited that also had massive fake ta-ta’s – LA, New York…well good luck. It’s too bad that the producers on Bravo have yet to tap into the Housewife drama that could be in San Diego with implants like these.
“Why aren’t mine that round?!” Well, simply put: because they’re not. And unless I am hanging upside down, my hood ornaments are also not defying gravity – even at my young, perky age. Even with a push-up bra.
2. Tattoos are required upon entry.
Though it’s not publically advertised, I would say it’s a general rule upon moving to SD that your second stop (first is the plastic surgeons office for a consultation) is a tattoo parlor. Whether it be a large tramp-stamp or less welcoming fire breath dragon on your forearm, it seems that tatts are all the rage. Paired with the deep brown color of a beach lifer’s skin, it’s the norm on the beach. San Diego is one blow-out away from being the Jersey Shore.
3. Mexican food is available. All. The. Time.
It’s a wonder to me that the girls are as anorexic looking as they are, because it seems that in my two day stay I had Mexican food with four out of six meals – two of those being after midnight. Yes, our late night regiment may have influence those two ‘fourth meals,’ if you will, however the fact that it was readily available and willing to play on my undeniable munchies is just….annoying. I would have been happy with a lousy plate of homemade nachos…yet, that sketchy taco stand seemed so appealing.
Also, not that I got food poisoning, but I am willing to bank on a low-sanitation level and a great defense of “it’s probably just a hangover” to any post-burrito nauseousness that has likely happened on more than one occasion. I just wish they served late night Margaritas to wash it all down with.
4. Smile, nod, then walk away.
The beach community of scum is prevalent. As much as I enjoy attention, I can tell you that I am only happy I was in my right mind to not only remember, but was also able to fully enjoy the ridiculous line I was fed while conversing with my weekend Partner in Crime. After multiple, shameless walk-by’s we found ourselves cornered, separately, by what I can only assume was the result of eight too many shots of Jager. Insert vomit noise here. Lesson I learned? My brother is somewhere in the bar – and I have to find him, immediately. If you don’t know that means I not only want to get away from you, but am also hoping I just instilled a hint of fear into your creepy self than you are a bigger idiot than I originally believed. And according to Darwin, you probably won’t survive.
5. Sun – Screen = Burn
Duh, right? Well, I really have no defense here. Especially since I grew up in a pro-sunscreen household and only discovered the magic of tanning oil in my late, late teens. I can only blame myself for falling asleep on my stomach without an ounce of block on me. Something (read: everything) tells me I have two options for my next encounter with my mother: avoid her entirely or dress like a 16-year old masking a hickie. (Note: maybe she won’t read this blog?) Regardless, I will most likely be wearing leggings and loose pants over jeans this week. Thanks, wind chill for tricking me into believing I wasn’t leaving my vulnerable, whiteness unprotected against ::gasp:: the sun. I am so accustomed to living under a shelter of clouds that I didn’t realize that the big yellow thing could harm me. It seemed so friendly – I had to invite in all that Vitamin-D without protection.
I am not sure if California plans on making a new set of commercials anytime soon but I am hoping after Arnold’s political run, he’ll tatt up, get the wifey a set of inflatable Shamu’s and spend the majority of his time hitting on 20-somethings with the rest of the San Diego bar scum. All of which I will witness during my next trip to the Whale’s Who-Ha.