My husband and I escaped last week (I know, be jealous, and yes, I am most-assuredly bragging). I am a ginormous fan of the business trip, esp. when it lands us in gorgeous San Diego child- and dog-free and I have absolutely no responsibilities other than being a Lady of Leisure. Obviously, it was wonderful–got to do lots of surreal things like sleep in until 4:45am (remember we were on PST) and go on tons of walks without yanking on a leash every 1.5 seconds. Pure bliss. And it was beyond funny when we decided to go out to a “real” restaurant (read: no large mechanic mice singing and dancing in the background, no visible indoor play area, very few, if any, latex balloons tied to the backs of chairs, and–check this out–waiters actually brought the food to your table vs. you having to order it at a counter!). Forgetting the minuteness of portion sizes in such fancy establishments, we decided to just split a couple of appetizers. Watching my husband try to drink a shot of tomato soup (literally, it came in a porcelin shot glass with a minature handle) without looking like a dainty princess is so something I wish I would have captured on film.
In any case it was awesome. Per usual, like every time we leave CA, I translate this blissful vacation experience into what it would be like to live there permanently and I start to cry and make desperate pleas to move there immediately (yes, here is where you pity my poor husband). This time however, when I broke down, I refused to let my husband go to sleep until he promised we would seriously consider the idea of becoming West Coast residents (at some unspecified future point). His reluctant agreement (so we could just go to bed for pity’s sake) naturally equated in my very reasonable mind as “we are officially moving there within the few months.” Ergo, forgoing the minor hiccups of having neither job nor home, the Spidels are now Cali-bound! New address forthcoming soon.