Nice way to spend a Saturday night

Last weekend, my cousin Cristina got married. It was an awesome wedding--very sweet, happy, and full of family.

The wedding took place in Dana Point, and was officiated by a very funny priest, who described the ceremony as "awesome." He really stressed the importance of love and communication.

This became evident a little ways into the ceremony when he asked Cristina and Brad to join their right hands together. The couple, facing each other, reached out and locked their hands in a straight line--his right, her left. 

"Your RIGHT hands," the priest reiterated. They dropped hands, and tried again, grabbing the hands straight across again, but closest to the congregation--this time, his left and her right hands.

The priest reminded them "Right hands!" one last time, and as everybody laughed, the realized their mistake, and crossed their hand overs, finally holding their right hands together. It was a sweet and funny moment, which the priest concluded by reminding the couple, "See, I told you communication is an important skill!"

The cantor was also very good--she had a powerful voice. But not all of us understand her words correctly--as she was belting out "Hosana," my niece Gabi whispered, "I thought she was saying 'Lasagna.'" Mark whispered back, "I thought she was saying 'Osama'," and I realized maybe these two need a little more time in church.

The reception was about 15 minutes south, in San Clemente. We stood on the patio, drinking wine, watching the sun set over the beach 50 yards away. It was gorgeous.

I took a nice shot of my dad and future sister-in-law, Shanda. This pic cracked me up because it looks like a giant fire ball is about to consume my dad.

 

There was an indoor hall attached to the courtyard, and my nephew Grant was guarding the door. I asked him why.

"They're giving stuff away!" he shouted, all excited. 

"What kind of stuff?" I asked, and he answered, "Food!" 

Just then, a server appeared with a try of appetizers, and I laughed. Of course Grant was waiting for food, that kid's always hungry!

Later on, he enlisted his cousin Lauren to help him stake out the servers. Grant was posted at one doorway, Lauren at the other, so no servers could pass them by. But even that wasn't close enough--I walked by a little later, and they had staked out the kitchen door! 

I was about to tell them the servers would be around again with more food, when suddenly, the kitchen door opened. A waiter appeared, handing Lauren and Grant some food and napkins, then immediately shut the door again. Apparently, their plan worked! The kids ran off, laughing happily, shoving baby beef Wellington and crab cakes into their mouths.

Dinner was served in a big, round casino, which confused the kids--they were looking around for slot machines. There weren't any, but we hit the jackpot anyway--amazing food in a beautiful room.

I was just happy to sit at the adult's table this time. As my snotty niece Hannah pointed out, it wasn't that my behavior improved so much as the fact there were no kid's tables this time, but I didn't care. I got to sit with my parents, my cousin Michael, and his family. There were no candy favors on the table this time, but the kids immediately went to work trying to beat open some whole almonds with their silverware. Michael and my dad chided them, pointing out that these almonds were tough, and required the blunt end of the butter knives. Pretty soon, my whole table was pounding almonds with very nice silverware, and I wondered how I got the bad behavior rap in the family!

Cristina and her groom Brad came by to say hi. Brad's very tall--6' 7"--which the kids loved. They goaded their uncle, who's a good foot shorter, into taking a picture with the groom, and proved that no matter what, my brother will always be Little Brad.

Mark had a blast. He tried to push me on to the dance floor when the DJ called for all the single ladies, but I refused. (I just giggled, thinking of the hilarious scene in "Sex and the City," when the bridal bouquet was tossed and landed on the floor next to all the SATC ladies, who just shrugged and went off for Cosmos.)

And though I was reluctant, Mark was not. He joined the much-bigger single men on the floor for the garter toss, even though he had no chance of catching that thing (and would have been mortified if he had caught it.)

Mark also wanted to take lots of pictures. When the cake cutting started, he grabbed my phone and ran right on up to Cristina and Brad, wedging himself into a good position. He got so close up, I had to call him back, because I was afraid he was going to end up in all the official wedding photos!

It was a really fun night. We ate, we laughed, we had a great time with our family. Mark had a blast with his cousins, and I had a blast with all mine. It was a lovely reminder of how great family really is, and how much fun weddings can be.

The razor's edge

Mark showed me a picture of a hilarious beanie that he wanted for Christmas. The funny thing was, I'd already bought it for him (we have the same sense of humor).

He LOVED it. It really is funny, but less so when Mark and his cousin Nic went running into a store, both of them screeching and laughing, all hopped up on Diet Coke. I angrily explained he couldn't do that--go running into a store wearing a mask--unless he wanted to get shot by a nervous shopkeeper mistaking him for a robber.

But it is funny to walk down the street while he's wearing the beanie. He looks like a dwarf hillbilly with that giant beard, and people tend to stare and point at him.

The best thing about the mask is using it to play pranks on our friends. I whispered to my friend Vic that Mark is starting to grow a little facial hair, and that he's kind of sensitive about it.

"I LOVE IT!" Vic said, clapping her hands. She thought facial hair on a baby face was just the cutest thing ever.

And then Mark walked in to the room, with his Duck Dynasty beard on. Vic erupted into laughter.

It was a good joke...until I found it was actually kinda true. Mark actually IS growing facial hair!

It's nowhere near the size of the beard, just a fuzzy little mustache barely clinging to his upper lip. I didn't even notice it at first.

When I did, what I saw was a mess. I'm pretty sure it didn't grow in that way, sparse in some areas and thicker in others.

"Are you growing a mustache?" I asked, holding his chin delicately in my hand.

He wiggled away and said, "Yeah..."

"Why's it growing in funny like that?" I asked, trying to get hold of him.

He wriggled away again. "Because I'm pulling it out."

I stopped. "You're...what?"

"I was pulling it out," he clarified, using his hand to demonstrate plucking the mustache by hand. "But that didn't work very well."

Oh, God. I knew immediately what that meant.

"You..." I started. I already knew the answer, but my mouth would not stop. "Um. You...haven't been using MY razor to shave it off, have you?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling like he's the world's best problem solver. Seriously. The kid has no sense of boundaries whatsoever!

And suddenly, I realized why my razor seems so dull lately, why I was changing the blade every few days, and why my legs felt all shredded after using it.

I banged my head into my open palm, and shouted a thousand silent d'oh!s. I took a deep breath.

"Don't use mine anymore, okay? I'll buy you your own razor," I told him. "And we'll have Uncle Brad teach you how to shave."

"I already know how," he said. "You just go up."

I gasped at the mental image of Mark shaving off large portions of his face. The number of things Mark insists he knows how to do without formal training grows (and grows more dangerous) every day. 

He also doesn't recognize the boundaries between what's mine and what's his, and that some things aren't meant to be shared. As a result, I live in constant fear of what he'll reveal he's been borrowing next.

Sigh...remind me never to leave my car keys lying about again. Because if I do, I'm pretty sure Mark take it as an invitation to teach himself how to drive.

Without me.

I'm doomed...

Call of the wild

I love kids, and I love my friends' kids even more, because I can spoil them and prank their parents at the same time.

Well, turns out karma has a good memory--she came knocking when I got Mark. Some people, like my friend Nichole, couldn't fully repay my jokes. (I once gave her son a chocolate house and permission to eat it all--Nichole was bitterly disappointed to learn my son has diabetes.)

I also loved riling up Gillen, then returning him to his mom, my friend Jill, who never fully appreciated my efforts.

Jill appreciated my Christmas gifts even less. Her least favorite was the harmonica I gave Gillen when he was 4 or 5. I was wavering between the harmonica and a drum, but realized the harmonica was portable--Gillen could put it in his pocket and irritate his mom almost anywhere. To this day, just the word "harmonica" turns Jill into an angry, growling mess.

But Jill finally got her revenge this year. She bought Mark a duck call for Christmas.

Mark looooooved it. He immediately started blowing it all throughout the house. (Did he think ducks were hiding inside?) The reactions were swift and age-based.

I immediately clapped my hands over my ears and screamed.

Our older cat Frankie ran away in terror and hid.

Our enormous kitten Fernando was drawn to the noise, and came running toward Mark, who laughed with glee at the deranged sounds he was producing.

Even after I set down an "outside only" rule, Mark continued to blow that damned call in the house. He experimented with it, pursing his lips or blowing full throttle to make different sounds come out.

I figured the only way to beat him was to join him. So last weekend, we rode our bikes to a nearby park with a big duck-filled lake.

I wasn't sure what would happen, but I thought figured there were two likely scenarios. In the first, ducks would respond positively to the call, thinking there was a prospective mate in the area. Or, they would respond the exact opposite: arrive angry, territorial, ready to defend their homes or ducklings.

Either way would be funny, I reasoned, from a safe distance. 

I sent Mark to the lake's edge, where he started up his call. 

There were all sorts of birds around us--ducks, seagulls, a pelican and even a couple great blue herons. They remained completely uninterested.

So Mark switched tactics. He approached a large flock of birds (mullets?) grazing on land. They didn't respond to the call, but they did respond to Mark, gradually walking farther and farther away from him.

Mark was disappointed. He stuffed the duck call into his pocket and we rode home.

I thought that was the end of the duck call fiasco, but boy, was I wrong. The next night I ordered Mark into the shower.

"Just a quick one," I told him. "We have to leave in 20 minutes, so get in, and get out."

"OK," Mark agreed.

I heard the shower go on. He'd been in there about five minutes when suddenly, out of nowhere, the damned duck call went off. Instead of showering like I'd asked, Mark was in the bathroom goofing around with the duck call!

I pounded on the door, which Mark opened.

"Yes?" he asked, peeking around the door.

"Are you SERIOUS?" I yelled. "Stop playing with that damn duck call and GET IN THE SHOWER!"

"OK," Mark huffed. "Geez..."

He shut the door, then muttered just loud enough for me to hear, "It doesn't even work, anyway."

And that is where I begged to differ. Because yes, in fact, it does work. It may not call ducks, but it raises my blood pressure and annoys the crap out of me every time I hear it.

Which is precisely what my friend Jill was going for. So yes, Mark, it does work. It may not call ducks, but it works exactly how Jill intended it to--it drives me insane.

Well played, Jill. Well played.

OMG, I'm OLD

That's right, I'm officially old. And it has nothing to do with milestone birthdays, major life changes or any other obvious signs. I'm just old, and I just noticed. (This may not be news to you, but it certainly was to me.)

Back in the day (see, only old people start stories with "Back in the day..."), my Friday nights actually started on THURSDAY night, and ended Sunday morning. Now, sadly, I most look forward to Friday nights as "out to dinner" night. It's the end of the week, and I don't have to make dinner. Woop, woop, party on!

This past Friday night, however, I was invited to a party. An awesome party, in fact. It had all the trappings of a great party--it was a theme party (multiple themes, in fact--birthday, surprise, and 80s party). It had a DJ (Richard Blade!), good food, dancing, and lots of friends. There were even free drinks, and I had a designated driver (my friend Michelle). Mark was at a sleepover with his cousin, which meant I didn't have a curfew. It was gonna be a great night.

"I'm gonna party all night long!" I told Michelle, all giddy. "I'm gonna stay out until AT LEAST 10:30!"

It was definitely a fun night. Michelle and I had a blast, dancing and laughing with the birthday girl. We ate, we drank a couple beers, we took pictures with Richard Blade. 

Yes, he's still wearing a "Frankie says relax" t-shirt.

 And then, a couple hours later, we were ready to go. 

Not home, mind you--we were two mommies on a rare night out. We just decided to head closer to home, somewhere we could enjoy more drinks and leave the car overnight if need be. 

But Michelle missed the turn--she accidentally turned on to my street, heading for my home. 

"The bar's that way!" I said, pointing in the opposite direction. 

"Ahhh!" Michelle said. No worries, she could pull a U-turn and get our party back on track.

Except...then I yawned. And Michelle yelled at me, because it made her yawn, too. (Yawns are contagious.)

"Do you just want to go home and drink wine in our pajamas?" she asked.

I was about to get all mad (I have no kid tonight! I've got money in my pocket! The bar is still open and the night's just beginning! I...yawn!) when I realized this sounded like a great idea. 

"Heck yeah, I do!" I said. We got home two minutes later, exactly at 10:30 p.m., as Michelle helpfully pointed out.

And that's how we ended our night. We put on our pajamas, drank wine, and watched my favorite new T.V. show--Best Funeral Ever. (They buried a guy in a coffin shaped like a barbecue smoker! They raised a rib to him in heaven! PLEASE make this into a weekly series!) We talked and laughed and when we finally went to bed, we we very excited because we'd get to sleep in late (no squirrelly little boys waking us early!) and not be hung over. It. Was. AWESOME.

So yes, I realize that whole night was perfect, and great, and pathetic, all at once. And I don't even care--how sad is that? (Further proof I'm old.) I'm old, and a great night now includes a party, and then pajamas, wine, and bad T.V. with my best friend. No more wild nights out at the bar, or drunken dramas, or being incapacitated the next day with a raging hangover.

That's right, I'm old, and I just realized it. 

And, it turns out, it's not nearly as bad as the twenty-something Heather imagined it.

California Dreamin' part 3

Read about the first and second parts of our trip...

On our second day in San Francisco, Mark and I wanted nothing more than to sleep in late. But I was too productive for that; I'd pre-purchased tickets to the first Alcatraz tour of the day, so I dragged poor Mark kicking and screaming from bed to get there on time. (I may have even yelled the words "Suck it up!" which I'm pretty sure goes against the whole idea of vacationing.)

Fisherman's Wharf was full of tourists the day before, but early morning was a whole different story. The only ones on the streets now were homeless people and delivery people re-stocking the restaurants. 

It was another gorgeous sunny day--I couldn't believe our luck. It was pretty dang cold (40s), but the weather report before we left called for rain every other day of our trip, and the only rain we'd seen was on our way out of Los Angeles. So we were stoked at the sunshine.

The boat ride to Alcatraz took about 15 minutes. A National Park ranger waited on the dock for us, giving a brief history of the island. Then he dismissed the mob of tourists, who slowly walked uphill to look at the prison. 

But we had other plans. Another park ranger was giving a live tour, so we joined her group instead. She took us around the entire island, showing off the amazing views of the city and Golden Gate Bridge. She told us the history of the island, how the prison came to be, and how it switched hands from a military prison to a federal prison for the most dangerous criminals. She told us  how they fed the prisoners a fatty diet and only allowed them two hours of exercise a week, and how they only let them shower in hot water, never cold. All these measures kept the prisoners out of shape and unable to acclimate to cold waters, making escape attempts nearly impossible.

We also learned about the Native American Indians who took over Alcatraz for a couple years, forming their own sovereign nation. The government eventually froze them out, forcing them back to the mainland by refusing to deliver supplies. But many changes came about because of this rebellious act, and you had to respect the Indians for that.

  

The tour was awesome--we learned a lot, and saw a lot. The ranger released us in the exercise yard, and from there, we entered the prison. Everyone else was wearing headphones, but we'd just taken an hour and a half tour, and Mark was all listened out. 

"I just want to explore," he told me. "I don't want to learn anything else." Fair enough!

Come on, Mark, make a break for it!

Our return boat landed us back in the city at lunch time. We dined at the Franciscan Crab, which had ceiling to floor windows and a spectacular view of Alcatraz. (We just couldn't get enough of the prison that day!) Mark went crazy, ordering crab fondue and a giant clam chowder bread bowl. I had a crab sandwich, which was tasty.

"Isn't San Francisco fun?" I asked Mark.

"Yes," he answered, face planted nearly inside his bread bowl. "And delicious, too!"

I asked Mark what he wanted to do after lunch, and he answered, "Nap." I explained this was our last day in the city, and didn't he want to see the sights?

"No," he said. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

I compromised by buying bus tour tickets. I figured once on the bus, he'd see interesting places and get off to see them. But Mark wasn't kidding around about the nap--ten minutes in to the bus ride, he fell asleep. And stayed asleep for 2 1/2 hours, the entire tour. He finally woke up when the bus hit the last stop, and asked me, "What'd I miss?"

"Um, everything," I said. "The entire city." 

I realized maybe I've turned into the one thing I always accuse Tim of being--a vacation Nazi. I'd literally run my kid into the ground with exhaustion.
  
The next day dawned bright and sunny again, but still cold. After a quick breakfast and a slow drive down Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, we headed south to Monterey, to see our dear friend Vicki.

Vic had to work that day, but Tim, Kim and the kids were still on vacation. So they met up with us in Monterey for another day of fun. (I really loved all the good times we spent with them this vacation, and this year!)

Nic and Mark hit the beach in search of...whatever 12-year-old boys search for. 

Hannah and I scanned the ocean for sea life--Hannah's got sharp eyes and immediately spotted seals and otters. It was awesome--we saw otters every day on our vacation.

We drove over to Fisherman's Wharf for ice cream, which sounded yummy at the time. But the sun was already setting, the temperature was dropping fast, and suddenly, eating ice cream in 40 degree weather didn't seem like such a good idea after all. (The kids didn't mind!)

Dusk was gorgeous. We couldn't actually see the sun setting, but the colors all around were amazing.

We bid our family farewell, which made us sad. But on the other end of that sadness was a whole lotta happiness, because we got to see Vic! 

Vic is Monterey's newest citizen. She moved up there a month ago after landing a job with the aquarium. It was so great to see her fabulous new apartment, and have her show us around town.

Vic was also working Friday, so Mark and I went to the aquarium. I was super bummed that the otter exhibit was closed, but Mark still managed to get up close to one.

The sea horse exhibit was cool, and I loved the jellyfish.

I also dug the little room with the splashing wave simulator. You sat in the little glass room admiring the view, when suddenly the waves came crashing over you. It was cool, and a little unnerving all at the same time.

Saturday was our best day in Monterey, because we got to hang out with Vic. She took us to a monarch butterfly habitat, where we fared batter than in Santa Cruz. We actually saw a large group of butterflies clinging to the branches--they looked like dead leaves. 

We also found a cool butterfly bench. Of course I had to sit in it.

Our last stop was Castroville. Its claim to fame is that it grows 80% of the country's artichokes, and Mark loooooooooves artichokes. I'm not a fan, but I do love big things, and Castroville was also home to a giant 15-foot artichoke.

The artichoke was at a produce stand and restaurant aptly named the Giant Artichoke. The veggie stand cracked me up, because each display was a replica of the fruit it displayed. It looked like a giant plastic fruit salad in there!

 

We'd promised Mark lunch there, but the restaurant was not quite what we expected--it was less diner and more truck stop. There was also a sketchy little craft fair going on in the restaurant, featuring items such as plastic flowers in beer bottle "vases" (seriously--they didn't even take the labels off the bottles!). I'm no food snob, but it was...sketchy. I couldn't even look at Vic because I knew she was thinking the same thing. Eye contact would have sent us into uncontrollable fits of laughter, and there was no way we would recover in any polite sort of way. 

Then it was back on the road for us. We had one final stop, in Buellton, gateway to Ostrichland and Solvang, our last stops. I was stoked to find the Firestone Brewery and restaurant just around the corner from our hotel that night. Dinner was AWESOME!

Our plans changed the next morning when we awoke to rain. Mark was grumpy and tired, we were both a little homesick and ready to leave. I stopped briefly in Solvang for some Danishes, and I was only moderately bummed to see that Ostrichland was closed due to rain. Between Christmas and this vacation, we'd only spent two of the last 16 days at home. We missed our cats and our beds, and Mark didn't argue when I suggested we head home early.

So all in all, we had a fantastic Christmas and winter vacation. We put 1,200 miles on the car, and we saw a whole lotta California. I'm grateful to live in such a beautiful place, and I feel so lucky Mark and I had so much time and fun together. I was thankful to Tim, Kim, Hannah and Nic for joining us so much along the way, and to the late, great Huell Howser for inspiring us in the first place.

Viva California!

California Dreamin' part 2

Read about the first part of our trip...

New Year's Eve started off with an auld acquaintance--breakfast with my college roommate Andrea, who was also visiting family in San Jose. It was fun to catch up, although we made a quick escape when the waiters started celebrating everyone's birthdays with a bass drum and tequila shots.

Afterwards, Tim, Kim and I loaded the kids into the minivan and drove to Santa Cruz. I've been to the nearby mountains, but never to the town. We started at Natural Bridges state park, so named for the giant bridge-shaped rock formation on the beach (there were originally three bridges, but two of them have eroded).

 

We ambled down a tree-lined boardwalk to look at a monarch butterfly habitat, but it was too cold--there were no butterflies. Instead, we headed to the beach, which was teeming with people.

The beach held all sorts of fun activities--climbing rocks, tide pools, and pristine sand for writing on with a big stick. Hannah took over that job, first drawing 2013 in the sand, then enveloping it in a heart, and finally, drawing 2013 and "Dinsdales" next to it. I was about to photograph her artwork when a twenty-something girl interrupted us. She'd been cuddling with her boyfriend about five feet away when she spontaneously shouted, "Cartwheel time!" and rushed right next to us, nearly ruining Hannah's sand drawing. 

"I hate the general public," Hannah observed, and I kinda had to agree with her.

The boys had set up a soccer game. They put up goal posts, shredded up the sand to distinguish the playing field, and went to town. I was surprised how many people walked right through their game, and then glared at them when they almost got hit by the soccer ball. One family even set up a photo shoot right next to them, and I kept waiting for the ball to smack someone. Then, a little kid walked by, grabbed one of the stick goal posts, and dragged it down the beach. It was all very amusing to watch, especially when Mark scored a goal, tore off his shirt Beckham style, and danced, eventually morphing into Gangnam Style.

We left long enough to grab some snacks, but were drawn back to the beach for the sunset. It was the last one of the year, and I can't say I was sad to see 2012 go. It was a rough year for me personally (spent most of the year with limited mobility and a jacked up knee, plus I lost my beloved cat) and for Tim's family, who also lost their wonderful dog Sunshine. As the sun set (literally and figuratively, Hannah!), we all breathed one huge sigh of relief, and hoped 2013 might shine a little brighter for us all.

The whole gang was excited to ring in the New Year. We brought it Parisian-style, with dinner at a French restaurant. Brave Nicholas ordered escargot, knowing full well it was snails. Hannah refused to try them, but Mark ate half a snail. He declared it "OK, not great." (I've had them before--didn't have anything to prove tonight!)

We were back home before double digits. The kids hunkered down, ready to watch the ball drop. They actually lasted longer than the adults--Kim went to bed around 10:30 and I lasted until 11. Tim stayed up with the kids, and I could hear them celebrating wildly at midnight. Mark then woke me up to tell me he had his first low blood sugar of the year. Party on!

The best thing about not getting wild on New Year's Eve was how great we all felt the next morning. The kids were sleep-deprived, and for once, I was the first person awake. But I was really excited to spend New Year's Day--also known as National Take a Hike Day--at John Muir Woods.

The park was already crowded by the time we got there at 11. Tim was driving very slowly through the parking lot when a deer suddenly jumped in front of his car. He stopped and we all watched it prance away. That had to be a good sign!

We ended up parking about a mile away from the park entrance, so our hike started off right away. It was sure pretty, even along the side of the road.

But the real beauty was inside the gates. We walked under a thick canopy of giant redwoods, whose height and thickness left us speechless. These were some seriously old trees. 

The farther into the woods we hiked, the quieter and darker it got. Hannah loved the little pieces of sunshine she found along the way.

The boys loved everything about the woods--they climbed every tree they could. They scrambled off ahead of us, Sasquatch calls echoing loudly behind them. I'm sure they freaked out more than a couple of hikers. 

We hiked for a good while, eventually covering 6 miles in about 2 1/2 hours. It was so serene and peaceful out there. I really loved it, and thought it was a perfect way to start off the new year right.

After our hike, we headed into our next destination, San Francisco. Mark and I checked into our hotel then met up with Tim, Kim and the kids for a late lunch on the wharf. Everybody was exhausted, and we ate our lunch in an unusual silence.

"I'm ready to go home and take a nap," Kim said, and her kids nodded in agreement.

"But honey, we still have a lot to do," Tim said. He rattled off all the things they usually do when they come in to the city. "We have to go to the arcade, walk down Fisherman's wharf, get Irish coffees at the Buena Vista, and ice cream sundaes at Ghiradelli."

Kim looked like she was gonna cry. "Really?" she asked and he just laughed.

"I'm joking," he said. But honestly, we ended up doing ALL of those things, and they didn't leave until four hours later!

So, we got to explore the best of NorCal all in a day--the beautiful mountains, the impressive city. Mark and I returned to the hotel, ready for bed, but happy, and ready for the next day's adventure.

In memory of Huell Howser...

Mark's a pretty well-seasoned traveler, but he hasn't seen much of California. (Completely my fault--I live all my California adventures when he's at summer camp!)

So over winter break, I decided to fix that. I asked myself WWHHD (what would Huell Howser do?) and then I planned our trip accordingly. (Sidenote: I was soooooo sad to learn that just days after returning from our Huell-inspired trip, the man himself passed away. Tear drop.)

We packed up the car and headed north. Our first stop was Morro Bay, and Mark was completely unimpressed. 

"What is there to see in this town?" he asked, dubiously.

"A giant rock!" I said. "Ta da!"

"Seriously?" he asked. He looked around. There really wasn't much else to see. 

"Seriously," I said. "Let's go check it out."

We stopped on the way over for a photo op, where Mark learned his first lesson about Central and Northern California--it's much colder than Southern California! It was freezing--he refused to even get out of the car. (OK, it wasn't literally freezing--it was actually about 50 degrees, but that's damn cold for us thin-blooded SoCal people. And Mark was wearing shorts--he didn't believe me when I said it would be cold.)

I parked the car just below the Rock, and then insisted he get out. We trailed the edge of the cliff, about 20 feet above the water, where I pointed out a couple otters bobbing in the surf. 

Mark saw a dog darting out of the waves and asked if he could go down to the beach. I told him to go for it, and suddenly, Morro Rock became a lot more fun.

Mark dumped his big jacket on a rock and took off. I walked behind him, enjoying the gorgeous day, when I spied something in the sand. It was a sand dollar!

I couldn't believe it! It was unbroken, perfect, and lolling in the waves. I've never seen an actual sand dollar on the beach before, and I called Mark over to look. 

We kept on walking. Suddenly, three feet over, I saw another sand dollar. Then another, and another, and even more. The tide was washing them on to the beach with each tiny wave. We collected about 50 of them and placed them in the sand to take a picture. As we watched the waves reclaim them, I couldn't stop smiling. It was so cool!

Mark was all over the place. He found a little river that was just big enough to jump over, so he spent a good 15 minutes working off the energy he'd pent up during the 4-hour drive.

We watched the sun set over the rock, and felt the temperature dip 10 degrees when it left. That was our signal to go home!

After a big dinner, we turned in. We had a big day ahead of us.

It was even colder when we got up--in the 30s--but the sun was shining. It was another clear, California day as we snaked through the hills and up the coast. 

Our first stop was Hearst Castle. I remember coming up here numerous times as a kid, and gasping over how big the castle was. I remember the ketchup bottles on the fancy dining table, the enormous swimming pools, and the herd of zebras grazing freely on the property.

It was all still there--the ketchup, the pools and even the zebras, which we spotted at the end of the tour, on our way back to the car!

Mark was really impressed with the castle. I was equally impressed with the view. Because it was so clear and sunny, you could literally see for miles in either direction, all the way up and down the vast ocean and the coastline. 

"I'd be a horrible bus driver," I told Mark during the 15-minute ride up the steep, winding road. "I'd totally be distracted by these amazing views and crash the bus." He agreed.

We took the grand rooms tour, then spent an hour meandering around the property on our own. Then we jumped back on the bus to the visitor center to watch a movie about William Randolph Hearst's life. I could've another couple hours there, easily, but we had places to be. We'll be back again, I'm sure.

We made a right turn onto the famous Highway 1, heading North. Three miles later, we pulled off the road to join the throngs of other tourists parking at the beach. But these families weren't there for swimming or relaxing--they were there to see the other creatures sunning themselves on the beach. The humongous elephant seals.

Most of them were females who'd arrived to give birth. There were new pups all over he beach. You could tell the older pups by their golden fur, and the newborn pups, by their skinny little black bodies. And I am talking literally newborn--one little guy still had his umbilical cord attached! 

We could've turned back on the 1 and taken it to the 101 freeway to our next destination, San Jose. But it was such a nice day, we opted to continue on the 1, up the coast through Big Sur.

It was an awesome decision for about an hour. We saw whale spouts, and sheer cliffs. We saw amazing bridges and islands far out in the sea. We saw the ocean change from blue to green, and we saw the sun shimmering on the waves like a thousand sparkly lights. We wound through the mountains, through pine trees and then redwoods, and we inhaled at all the beauty surrounding us.

And then we were bummed to realize there was no cut off point where we could turn inland and speed things up. But I realized maybe that was really the whole point--to enjoy the amazing scenery, to understand there was nowhere we had to be, and to just take it all in. So I did (although I faltered for a moment when I realized Mark had only packed two snacks and we were in the middle of nowhere. Next lesson: Roadtrip food, and the importance of good choices). 

I pointed out all the gorgeous things to Mark, who made a great effort of sounding interested, even though the windy roads were lulling him to sleep. 

It took about 3 hours to drive the 84 miles of coastline. I congratulated Mark at the end, telling him he is a real Californian now that he's taken the 1 up the coast to Northern California. 

It was dark by the time we reached San Jose, but our family was there, which made it all better. They had a hot dinner waiting, a fire in the fireplace, and a two-hour marathon of Finding Bigfoot. Life was good, and it was only the first weekend of our adventure.

Resolutions

On his first day back from winter break, I asked Mark about his day. He said they'd set New Year's resolutions in class.

"Mine is to stop talking so much," he said. "I need to listen more in class."
 
"Good for you," I praised. I paused for a moment, then asked, "Did you choose that resolution, or did the teacher?"

"I did," he answered.

"I'm proud of you," I said. "Do you...think it'll be hard to do?"

Mark scoffed. "No," he said. "I'm an awesome multi-tasker."

"You're what?" I asked.

"I can do lots of things at once. For example, I finished all my homework today while listening to a video about castles at the same time." He smiled, quite proud of himself.

"What did you learn about castles?" I asked.

"They're big," he said. "You know...they're castles."

While I was pondering that, Mark told me, "Oh, and my resolution will be easy because I'm good at talking and listening at the same time, too."

"You're good at--" I started, but Mark interrupted with, "Yeah, I do it all the time with you--I can talk to you AND listen to you."

"You never list--" I said, but he cut me off again.

"I'm really talented," he said.

I paused. The irony of this entire conversation was lost on Mark. 

I took another tact. "So...what were some of the other resolutions? What are the other kids gonna work on?"

"I dunno," Mark shrugged. "I didn't ask."

"Oh," I said. "Did you tell them yours?"

"Of course," he said, sarcastically.

I looked at him and repeated what he'd just said. "Your resolution is to talk less and listen more? Then you told the entire class that, but didn't ask anybody else about their resolutions. Is that correct?"

The little light suddenly came on in his head.

"Oops," he said, giggling.

"Don't worry," I told my awesome little multi-tasker. "You've got a whole year to work on it."

Mark just sighed. Neither of us is sure he'll even make it past the first week.

Santa's WHAT?!?!

My poor sister-in-law Mary was not feeling well over Christmas. She slept wrong one night, resulting in a kinked neck. Nothing she did helped it, and she couldn't sleep because of it.

In addition to no sleep, she was also juggling a hectic work schedule, a visiting mother, and all the chaos of a large family over Christmas.

But she took her small moments when she could find them. One was with her son Grant, who's 8. They were wrapping presents together when Grant spied a present that troubled him. It was a gift for his sister Gabi, from Santa. And it was two days BEFORE Christmas.

"Grant saw the present, Auntie Heather," my nephew Nic told me, very concerned. "And I think Aunt Mary told him the truth."

I stopped in my tracks when he said that.

"I know!" he said. "I hope she didn't, but I think she did. I didn't wanna tell him...I just couldn't do that to a little kid." He was so sweet and earnest, I had to hug him.

I completely forgot about the story until a few hours later. I had all the boys in my car and I asked what Santa was going to bring them.

Grant answered before anyone else. In the smallest, saddest voice I've ever heard, he said, "Santa's dead. But his spirit still delivers presents to us."

The car immediately went silent. I realized the story Mary had probably told him--about the real-life Saint Nicholas--and how he'd misinterpreted that story. I felt Mark and Nic both go rigid in their seats. I tensed up pretty good, too.

Mark nudged me from the passenger seat and whispered urgently, "Mom, there's something important I have to tell you later."

I knew it was the story about Grant seeing the present, so I whispered back, "I already know."

"No," Mark insisted. "It's important!"

I waved my hand at Mark in an "I got this" motion, although it was the farthest thing from the truth. I cleared my throat, stalled a moment, and asked in my best non-committal therapist voice, "Uhhhh...how do you feel about that?"

"Sad!" Grant cried, and I mentally slapped myself. Idiot!

"Me too!" I said. The car was still tense; there was an 8-year-old who thought Santa was dead, and the 12-year-olds were silently freaking out. I had to do something, fast.

"I don't believe it," I said, firmly. "I believe Santa's coming tonight--of course he is!! I believe in Santa!"

"Me too!" Nic shouted.

"I do, too!" Mark yelled. "I TOTALLY believe in Santa!"

I was grateful to them, and proud of them. They shouted so many Santa affirmations Grant couldn't help but smile.
 
"I believe in Santa, too!" he cried, and we all made a lot of whooping noises for Santa and his imminent arrival. I just sighed...whew, crisis (narrowly) averted!

When Mary got home, I told her the story. She yelped and turned bright red, covering her face in her hands. She said, "I told him about Saint Nicholas, and how he gave gifts, and how that tradition carried on after he died."

"That's what I figured," I said. "But that's not the message he took away..."

"I was just so tired!" she said. "And he caught me off guard...I didn't know what to tell him!"

Mary, Nathalie and I caused quite a ruckus from laughing so loud. Someone knocked on the door, and we immediately shut up. Tim slowly opened the door, poked his head in, looked at Mary and said in an accusatory tone, "DEAD?" Then he shut the door again and left without another word.

We erupted into a whole new fit of laughter.

My dad thought the story was hilarious, but my mom fretted about it.

"Oh no!" she cried. "Santa died at my house." 

She worried that would be Grant's only memory of his 8th Christmas.

But the kids were determined to right the situation. I put on the movie "Elf," which has a scene where one elf tells another, "Some kids don't believe in Santa--they think its their parents, but how can a parent deliver that many gifts in one night?"

All five of the big kids, who'd now heard the "Santa's dead" story, started yelling at the TV.

"It's not parents!" "I believe in Santa!" "Santa's REAL!" they shouted, and Grant happily shouted along with them.

But Grant's sad little proclamation lived on...we spent the rest of the holiday week whispering, "Santa's dead," and bursting into laughter afterwards. Poor Mary--she really has the best heart, and the most sincere intentions in the entire family, but those good intentions sometimes miss the mark. 

And so yes, Grant, no matter what your mom says...there really IS a Santa Claus. And he's not dead!

Christmas 2012

Christmas 2012 was an awesome experience at the Dinsdale San Diego homestead. It was everything you'd imagine when you think of a big family: meals around a giant table, laughter, bickering, kids running rampant, and a house so full, it seem ready to burst at the seams (as the family joke goes, we brought everyone but the chickens).

The only people we missed were my brother Smed and his fiancé Shanda, and our little buddy Johnny. They would've completed the whole picture, but Smed had to work. :-(

The crowd arrived on Saturday, filling every nook and cranny. This drives my poor mom crazy; she lives for putting everything in its proper place, but with 14 people, there's no place for order. We try to be considerate, but there's just so much stuff. Duffel bags and sleeping bags are stuffed behind the couches, suitcases have exploded in the bedrooms, and the bathrooms are a jumble of toiletry bags and random toothbrushes.

The rooms were equally filled with people. It was impossible to walk into any room and have a quiet moment, but hey, we're Dinsdales, we thrive on cacophony. 

Well, most of us, anyway; my mom proclaimed that next year, she's skipping Christmas and going on a cruise. I pointed out that a hectic Christmas is actually my parents' own fault since they always encouraged our family members to be close. I pointed out that not all families engage in a Christmas marathon; some people only spend one or two evenings together during the holidays. Tim said, "What? Not all families spend 144 hours together??"

On top of all that, Dinsdales are also very social. We have a lot of friends, and we like to see them. So, at any given moment, in addition to Dinsdales, the rooms were filled with our non-biological family--Roppés (two different groups of them!), Fera-Schanes', and anyone else who happens to be in town and has a few free moments to stop by and say hi. I went out a couple times with some other friends, which was also nice.

But hey, all that chaos is what makes it feel like a real family Christmas. :-)

It was really nice to just hang with the family. The kids are all teens or pre-teens now, so they don't want to run off to the park any more. Scott transformed half the garage into a teen cave for them, complete with a Wii and a stereo. They LOVED that, and spent most of their waking time out there. 

We also made sure the kids got lots of outside time. On Sunday, we drove to Coronado. You know it's a San Diego Christmas when the snowmen are made of beach sand, and the ice skating rink is melting in the sun. 

Oh, and there are palm trees surrounding the skating rink. 

Monday was Christmas Eve. We almost got seats in the real church this year--unfortunately, there was only room for five of us. We decided it was more important to be together than it was to be in the big church, so we tromped off together and celebrated in the bingo hall. I found out later that it didn't matter where we were, the only one really paying any attention was Grant. He perked up when the priest talked about the "son of Mary."

"Hey, I'M the son of Mary!" Grant exclaimed, and indeed he is, just not that Mary. But we couldn't help giggling at his enthusiasm.

We returned home after Mass for a wonderful dinner, gifts for the kids (just one!), and a photo shoot of all the families.

Kim, Tim, Nic (12), Hannah (14--but 15 the next day), and my parents

Scott, Gabi (12), Mary, Grant (8), Nathalie (14), and Mary's mom Fran

Me and Mark (12)

Christmas dawned bright and early--around 5 a.m. I know because I was sleeping on the couch in the living room, and was awakened by two very giggly 12-year-olds. (Neither one was mine--he's not even a morning person on Christmas.)

I kicked them out and told them not to come back for two hours, but they never listen. They slipped back in an hour later and asked if they could just look at the presents. 

"Look but don't touch," I relented, which was immediately followed by shaking sounds. 

Finally, we gathered the family together. Most of the kids were as excited as...well, kids on Christmas morning. (And notice I said most of the kids--with one exception!)

Mark was excited to receive this particular gift, though.

It went well with his Bigfoot shirt and his Duck Dynasty DVD. Mark was happy happy happy.

Nic was also excited about his gift from Hannah. (And I was equally amused at Hannah's story of carrying the gorilla through the store, and making it wave at people from the car on the way home.)

 

Nic promptly named the giant gorilla Jeffrey. Turns out Jeffrey is a fun guy, as evidenced by his visit to the breakfast table.

 

It was a fabulous holiday. Mark had a blast hanging out with all his cousins, and I had just as much fun hanging out with the grownups. Any time I get to spend with my family is a good time, even if it is crowded and crazy. But hey, that's what Christmas is to me. 

And although my mom might disagree, I wouldn't have it any other way.