amused

So...while working at a hotel in San Diego last week (I'm in Oxnard as of last night...which probably deserves its very own post on odd place names and mental images that life would be better without...), the buzz all around was that Playboy would be doing a photo shoot in the hotel. You can imagine the grins of anticipation on the faces of the male hotel staff, not to mention the crew of assorted rowdies I work with.

I was...indifferent, really. Not that I am blind to attractive women, far from it... a fact that I know my beautiful wife would readily attest to, and I am truly grateful that she remains unthreatened by that and that we can share our respective opinions on the topic without causing harm to each other or to Us.

But I just find the whole Southern California ethos to be generally unimpressive. As an example, I picked up a copy of San Diego's local weekly paper (similar to the Willamette Week) and I'd be willing to bet that some 75% of the ads in it were related to the sole pursuit of looking good: diets, cosmetic surgery, gyms, liposuction, chic clothing, cosmetic dentistry, spa treatments, hair styling, hair restoration, hair removal...ad nauseum. Oh, and a plethora of "get your medical marijuana card here" ads as well.

So all this time and effort (and money) spent on an eternal search for youth and beauty by selfish, self-obsessed, empty, plastic people... and that's the lifestyle. Apparently augmented with copious amounts of reefer.

Whatever.

And, having been born there, all that causes me to wonder who I'd be if I'd remained in Southern California. Thank God I left early.

Monday night, a couple of big buses and several large vans enter the parking lot of the Mission Valley Sheraton Hotel. Out of the front of the vans come the roadie-looking guys, with backstage-looking passes hanging from lanyards around their necks, and out of the back they unload what must amount to tons of lighting and equipment.

Tuesday morning the girls start showing up. One early trip in the elevator I was alone with a woman wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt proclaiming, "I posed for Playboy today." I asked her if it was fun. She gushed, "Yeah, it was...but it was also nerve-wracking and I've never done anything like this before." I wished her luck, and she thanked me.

The more experienced Bunnies seemed to show up later, and by noon the lower portion of the hotel was packed with women (girls?), most of them wearing high heels and short silk robes with probably (kinda obviously) nothing more than a thong on underneath.

California, condensed.

I don't want to sound too harsh...they really are beautiful women, strikingly so. But they are just sooooo not my type that I found it difficult to be anything other than impressed by the utter vacuousness of the entire extravaganza, and amazed (and amused) by the reactions it created.

Last elevator ride of the day, headed out after finishing the job, having showered and packed for the train ride from San Diego to Oxnard (there's that name again...). My boss and I get on the elevator at the 8th floor with two of the previously described scantily clad lovelies who have obviously come down from the scene shoot going on in a suite on the 14th floor.

As the door closes, I look at my boss, and he's...twitterpated. Then I notice the very powerful scent of perfume permeating the elevator air. I comment, "It smells verrrrry girlie in here." They giggle. One of them responds, "But that's a good thing, right?" I say, "Compared to riding the elevator with six sweaty, smelly guys all day, you bet it is!" Then she says, "Six smelly guys crowded into this elevator, that doesn't sound like any fun at all...but it'd be kinda fun if it broke down right now..."

I think I just got flirted with by a Playboy Bunny.

And I remain...amused.

girls at home

While Rick is off working in California, the girls are holding down the fort. So to speak. We've had rain (4" so far for November), raccoons in the yard, frost in the garden, coyotes singing under the full moon, school, work, and some sleepless nights.

Yesterday, Becca got to see the doctor, who diagnosed strep throat even after the quick test came back negative. He seemed convinced by the lovely pus in the back of her throat. It was quite impressive - I saw it. Penicillin seems to be helping already, and she is feeling better today. Kristen and I have been trying not to get breathed on - so far, so good.

Missy came over for a minute, dinner and a hug. And Nichole called to say she would come for Thanksgiving.

But for tonight, we venture over to the girls' art school for a play. Metamorphoses: from the myths of Ovid.

Of course the Utah/San Diego game is at 5:00 p.m. One more game to hope for a win before the final red-and-blue. Perhaps the Seattle clans should come down to watch...

Sherri

later that same day (update)

Worst sportscaster joke of the day: During the UNM/CSU football game, the announcer says "The receiver is hit by Karaoka." The other announcer says, "At least he isn't hit by karaoke. Then it would be Hit Me With Your Best Shot." Oy.

not in washington anymore, toto

Rick not only sent me a text today (xoxox - i love you), he also sent a picture. A monumental feat of modern technology and personal achievement, this from the man who refused to even own a cellphone for forever.

And if you can't tell from the skyline, he's not anywhere near our lovely home - San Diego for a week, and then Oxnard until Thanksgiving.

Here at home, it's cheese soup and toast, and the at-home girls are dying their hair, perhaps in early anticipation of the upcoming Hale family photo next month. Talk about a monumental achievement - the Hales have increased to a staggering crowd. Papa definitely has his basketball team now, although its players seem a bit spread in skill and age. We will collectively test the cat-herding skills of some poor photographer.

Expecting more rain tonight. Other than missing my darling husband (already after one day), all is well on the homefront.

Sherri