The fish taco, and other delights.

That's what would cheer me up right now. A couple of juicy fish tacos, dripping with sauce.

And something needs to cheer me up. Because I'm ready to call the suicide hotline. And why is that? Well, it's because I've gone from 70 degrees and sunny to 39 degrees and raining. From roses and bird of paradise and jasmine and citrus trees in bloom to a few scraggly-looking snow drops and a lot of mud. From a beautiful hotel with room service, turn-down service, daily maid service and no clutter to a house with a dire need for not one but two post-construction projects-worth of cleaning, decluttering, and organizing. And who's wearing the maid's uniform? That's right. I am.

And on top of that, I find that Friday's lunch, the fish tacos cited above, are actually not so much a variety of foodstuff as they are a euphemism for the female genitalia, or poontang. I found this out via your comments.*

This means that while I thought I was treating my reader to an enjoyable travelogue, I was actually getting all smutty, blathering away about eating pussy.

And so, to cheer myself up, I'm going to go do a Google search for "fish taco." I may even make it a Google image search, I haven't decided yet. It's a little early in the day for dirty pictures, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

* In my comment box. BOX, get it?

Malibooooooo ... Malibu swingers!

This is what I like best about vacationing in L.A.: nobody expects you to find your way around the subway/Metro/tube.

No, they expect you to get in your goddamned rental car and drive somewhere. So we did.

After we got our bottles of spring water. You know--in case we were threatened with hydration.

We drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. It was picturesque!

Then we got coffee and did a little shopping. My husband bought sunglasses at Becker's surf shop. The sales associates were all hunky, tanned, and blond. It was like Gidget was in the dressing room trying on bikinis. I bought a few things for my son.

Then we went to Duke's for lunch.


Duke's is a chain, and the Malibu location is its easternmost location. Most of the rest of the restaurants are in Hawaii. Surfing decor abounds.

Look, either you get compound, complex sentence structure or you get pictures. You don't get both. Deal with it.

We had fish tacos. They were good, she added, feeling Hemingway-esque. Before the tacos we had panko-fried calamari and macademia nut, cream cheese, and shrimp-filled fried wontons drizzled with plum sauce. They were amazing.

I had two Mai Tais. We looked right out over the water. I killed brain cells

in a terse, monosyllabic way. Lunch was great. What can I say? The bartender floated a LOT of dark rum on top of those Mai Tais.

Then we drove home a different scenic route: over the mountains to Mulholland Drive.


See how far away we are from the ocean?

Here are some mountains.



It was amazing. You know people spend $60 for a day at Disneyland where they wait in line to go on a ride called "Mullholland Drive." When the real thing is out there, ready to be driven on FOR FREE.

Then we headed back into the city, through some interesting neighborhoods. Sherman Oaks seemed to have great antiques/consignment/thrift/head shops.


What a chance to pick up a new bong--but the kids were in the back of the car. And so back to our hotel.

Where I decided to take a bawth.



Because who could resist a tub like that?

Sarah O Tagged Me.

But I've already done the six-word meme. I even used a six-word title, which was so clever that no one noticed.

Sheesh! What's the point of blogging every day if no one reads you?

I mean, honestly, now I'm feeling all existential and shit. Whatever "existential" means. I don't really know. I just sort of vaguely remember something about 1950s French authors who used simple language to express deep thoughts, and thus, were perfect fodder for high school French classes. And high school was a long time ago. But here goes--a deep thought for you:

If a tree falls down in the forest, and no one sees it, should I blog about it?

What We Did On Our Spring Vacation

Hung around our hotel room and took this test.

It's to determine whether we're autistic or just garden variety geeks.

My husband got a 27 and I got a 25. We're not clinically-significant, but you probably don't want to invite us to your parties, because he'll end up in a corner scribbling physics equations on a cocktail napkin, and I'll sneak off somewhere and live-blog it.

From A to B and everything in between.

That's Anaheim to Beverly Hills, for you literalists.

First we checked out of the Hotel California. Note my son's snappy little Trilby. It has skull-and-crossbones going around the band. He thinks he's cool. Goth, even. (I didn't tell him that he bought it in a store devoted to girls' fashions.)


You will have already noticed the California Bungalow/Mission/Arts and Crafts vibe. This place is like a Bungalow on steroids. The Bunganator. It has it all: quarter-sawn oak, mica lampshades, beams, rocks, dark wood all over the place. A lot of art pottery:


which is so hideous I figure it has to be worth a mint of money.

I couldn't even get a good shot of this one. I think I was laughing too hard.

It's like a politically-correct remake of The Maltese Falcon--The Californian Puffin! starring Keanu Reeves in the Humphrey Bogart role, with Winona Ryder as a shoplifter. No Knights Templar, no wheezing fat guys, and no tiny Asian sidekicks.

OK, then we got on the road. That Stud Muffin I Married used his talking GPS. He likes the Australian woman's voice, but she kept telling us to get off the highway then get back on the highway fifty feet further along. It happened three times in a row. I decided she was cute but ditzy, that when she wasn't talking, she was snogging with Dr. Chase from House, M.D. and was getting too distracted to tell north from south.

We saw oil derricks. This close to Los Angeles!


Although gas prices being what they are, it makes sense.

We arrived on legendary Rodeo Drive.


Did you know that in addition to Versace, Chanel, Gucci, Bulgari, Tiffany and Barney's, they have a Target? For some reason they don't mention that.

We checked in to our hotel. There were many lovely cars in the porte-cochere. This is one of the moments in my life where I've felt vaguely chagrined to be driving what I'm driving. Except in this case it's a rental, so my self-esteem remains undamaged.

We checked into our room. They left us a fruit basket.


This is either Poppette auditioning for the role of Eve: Before the Fall or Poppette asking me to take her picture and striking a pose.

See what I mean about the bathroom?


I like to think I'm above snagging hotel toiletries. But I'm totally stealing these.

This is where I'm sitting right now, in superb blogging comfort.

Then it was off to the poolside restaurant for lunch. I am in love with the lemon trees.

Then a stroll through the grounds past the bungalows


Then we walked down Rodeo Drive. But not without a supply of designer water, in case we get dehydrated from the exertion. Because people, it is four full blocks.

At first it's completely residential. Oh my gosh, the landscaping is a DREAM. But the houses look like a remake of a spaghetti western. The good



the bad


and the Gaudi ugly


I didn't take any pictures of the retail district. First of all, because it's very reminiscent of the Mag Mile in Chicago, so why bother? But mostly because I'm a big enough dork to take pictures of bathrooms, and I'm a big enough dork to decide to bring home every bottle of bath gel in our bathroom, but I'm not standing out there in plain sight snapping pictures of where Cher went shopping in Clueless.

Of course, I'll probably get the movie from Netflix.

Again.

OK, I need to get ready to drive to Malibu, darlings. Later!

Not enough liquor in the world

People, there are vacations, and there are family trips.

And I am tripping out.

I just spent two days in Disneyland at the greatest Disney hotel ever. It's so great that there isn't a Mickey or Minnie anywhere in sight, unless you aspire to the level of Disney geekitude enjoyed by our friend Joke and his wife.* It's just a beautiful hotel, done up in California bungalow style, all dark wood and mica lampshades. It's not my favorite style, but they did it very well.

But oh, my lord, the crowds in the parks. On Wednesday morning we got there before the park opened and yet there was an hour wait for the Finding Nemo ride. Which was, after skipping breakfast to hurry to the park, waiting in line to enter, dashing to the ride, getting detoured around the Mattahorn, and waiting in line for that hour--pretty lame.

We got Fast Passes for the Indiana Jones ride, and tried to find something to do in the park that didn't involve spending another hour waiting in line. We rode the paddle boat and visited Tom Sawyer's Island. We ate breakfast, too. We stuck it out bravely until about 11:30 and then bagged it. On the way out of the park we stopped by the Indiana Jones ride and I gave our Fast Passes to a party of four that was waiting in line to get some. It was 11:30 and they would have had to wait until 7:30 to get on that ride.

People, that is just plain crazy.

And can you believe the Disney people got $240 from us for two rides and a chance to explore a man-made island?

Me neither.

So anyway, now we're in Beverly Hills, staying at the Single Nicest Hotel I've Ever Been In In My Entire Life. The landscaping alone is a dream of beauty. The valet parking guys are wearing pink polo shirts. The room is huge, and the bathroom is, in the words of Toddy in Victor/Victoria, "a religious experience." The toiletries are scented with gardenia, and the labels look like they were designed by Dorothy Draper. It's incredible.

But my daughter is being such a pain that I want to go hide in the bathroom (where I would play with the remote control Austrian blinds on the window.)

Or drink heavily.

So guess which I'm doing?

* Yes, we know about the hidden Mickeys in the doormats, so shut up.

Day 2 Disneyland: the Photographs