Does the football player come with the beach front property?

WANTED: A blogger. Formerly known as Ghetto Barbie. If seen, don't bother asking about a blog update. It won't work. Rather, try giving aforementioned Barbie an encouraging hug. Only after said hug has been given, may you proceed with past due blog update harassment. Thank you kindly.

Summer is supposed to be a time of relaxation, beach combing, and sun screen slathering.

Check.

Check.

Check.

I've done all of those things. Often.

Read.

Blog.

Do my hair.

All things I have not done this summer. At. All.

So much for my grand prize from the library as a reward for all of my summer reading.

Or my photo-shoot with the fashion editors of Vanity Fair for the cover of the October issue. Though if the look for fall is pony tails....

I digress.

I'm 30. I went to Disneyland with some girl friends. I blogged about it.

Then I stopped. Halfway through our trip.

Un. Acceptable.

After a 16 1/2 hour day at Disneyland, I iced my feet, took four Ibruprofen, and hit the hay.

And seven hours later, we were back at it. Back in the van headed for home.

I kid. I kid.

We were beach bound. Huntington Beach bound.





Football players on the beach.

God. Bless. America.

I was in vacation heaven.


After a day at the beach, we got ourselves gussied up and went out on the town. And by "out on the town", I mean we went out for dinner.







Our waiter was such a stud muffin. I could've stuck him in my purse and taken him home.

And home we were 36 hours later.

My own bed never slept so good.

And now I want to go back. There were no worries in California. None.

Unless who consider the possibility of not getting a picture with Mickey Mouse a worry. Then it's the most worrisome place on earth.