San Diego: The Land of Implants

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.

These Shoes Were Made for Stalking

For the past three weeks I have been shamelessly stalking a pair of shoes. Yes, shoes. These aren’t just any old pair of shoes – these are marigold, platform wedges that do not cost an entire paycheck. They are faux (I don’t see you buying Jimmy Choos. And if you are, really? Never feel like buying a house, huh?) and come from the most magical place on earth.

(Don’t act like you don’t know that I am talking about Target. If you didn’t, either you are my mother and way behind on my blogs or you clearly are not getting my e-mail updates. Look to the left, genius, and sign up. It’s way easier, I promise.)

I first layed my eyes on these adorable, economically responsible calf-lengtheners in Real Simple, another one of my guilty pleasures. Though I may be single female living roommate-to-roommate, I have the same nesting desires as a woman living in a house too big for her husband, 2.5 kids and Golden Retriever. I want to be organized. (Dream on.) I want to know the proper way to scrub my bathtub. (Also, faster!) I want to successfully cook a meal in under an hour. (Rachel Ray lies.) Somewhere between learning to read and access to my first debit card, I missed the desire to subscribe to Cosmo and preferred home and lifestyle essentials.

Lucky for me I try to pick roommates that enjoy reading about 32-ways to Please in Under an Hour and Sixty Things to Drive Your Man Wild (Which means: How to Contort Yourself Until You’re Stuck.)

Anyway, after seeing Miss Sample Size in the April Real Simple wearing a floral-pattern dress and the gladiator-style wedges I mentioned earlier, I knew it was fate that both were from Target. Begin obsession.

The dress was easy; it was in my cart minutes after I set down the magazine.

But the shoes. Those pesky, popularly priced pavement pounders are IMPOSSIBLE to find. Where do I even begin telling you about my escapades?

After the initial disappointment of not being able to locate them immediately at my local Target, I knew that Al Gore’s Internet would come through for me. It had to. I needed those shoes. Even though there are plenty of Target’s within a 15-minutes driving distance of me, much like Starbucks, why waste my time going store to store when I could just get free shipping?

I booted up, clicked the browser icon and found them. Not available yet?! Ridiculous. Target teased my tootsies, and I was to wait another week before I would be able to ‘add to cart.’ Nobody likes a tease. (I think that article came from Maxim.)

Since their release, I have tried four Targets in two states. On opposite ends of the country. All were miserable disappointments.

I found flats in marigold. And the same desirable platform wedge in a brown. But no hybrid of the two. Don’t even get me started on the meager end cap dedicated to these ‘designed for Target’ masterpieces.

Desperation ensues.

Not to mention that they are sold out online. Somewhere out there, you’re stocking the shoes of my dreams. And I won’t sleep (lies. I love to sleep.) until my feet are safely nestled at an uncomfortable angle – making me three inches taller, and my legs that much longer.

If you work for Real Simple OR a Target warehouse, I wear an 8.5. Please e-mail me for my ship-to information.

Oh, and yes, I would like to freelance for you. Thank you for asking.