San Diego was fabulous.  The only thing better than touring this:

 USS Midway 

or riding this

Ferry to Coronado Island (nice farmer tan, btw)

or lounging on this

Coronado Beach and Derrick’s feet

or strolling through this

Balboa Park 

or eating at cute places like this

Prado Restaurant (Balboa Park)

and this

 Lola’s 7-up Market and Deli (Carlsbad)  

Quick aside:  This was by far the coolest family-owned restaurant I’ve ever been to.  The woman with the white hair behind the counter was friendly and gorgeous.  I wanted to take a picture of her close-up but was too embarrassed.  She and Derrick talked over the counter for fifteen minutes and no, that is not him in the vest, because I draw the line at vests.  She told us all about her family’s legacy with the restaurant and was so enthusiastic about it; apparently one of the original owners had an affinity for 7-up soda, and thus the hybrid name.  She beamed the whole time we talked, and I wanted to stay all day.  Pictures of her family from generations back graced the restaurant, including this mural outside of her mother and aunts, which I loved.

I think I could pass as a sister, don’t you?

But back to my original train of thought.  As I was saying, the only thing better than visiting this

Mormon Battalion Historical Site (Old Town San Diego)

Or watching the fishermen on this

Oceanside Pier (Oceanside)

or watching the surfers on this

Oceanside Beach 

or cheering at this

 Padres game (Downtown San Diego)…

…is coming home to this.

We missed these little people so much.  Forgive the trite expression, but the best part about getting away truly is coming home.

Even if it means coming home to Kennewick Derrick.

(He’s really not so bad.)

 

Because we are in Southern California among the bronzed and beautiful, Derrick and I have decided that we should take this week to try out one of those meal-replacement plans—you know, when you replace one meal a day with a special drink or shake–to slim down and tone up.  After all, when in Rome, right? I mean, it was getting embarrassing, walking down the beach among the g-stringed set with nothing but our vast intelligence to announce us.

As you can imagine, a myriad of options presented themselves in our search for the perfect package of protein. We perused the lot, argued a little, went back and forth and back and forth, but in the end agreed that there was really only one meal replacement shake that would meet all of our prerequisites, and it could only be found at Cold Stone Creamery. Thus, we spent the week replacing heavy, fattening lunches for the light and cool refreshment of a Cold Stone shake, ice cream cone or, in some cases, a brownie smothered by both. Oh girlfriends, I cannot tell you how good it feels to just skip a meal and keep things light! Never again will I be a slave to my cravings.

So it was at lunchtime yesterday when, standing in front of the glass window while the petite young girl behind heaved the heavy silver mallets to mash up yet another “Chocolate Devotion” for Derrick, the following conversation ensued:[sociallocker id=”9134″]

Me: “This would be the worst job ever, scooping ice cream all day.”

Derrick: “Yeah.” (Solemn pause.) “Especially for the thin-wristed.”  He shook his head knowingly.  He was serious.

It was a compassionate observation. Hand mixing ice cream for the likes of me and Derrick would wreak havoc on the fine-boned set. His comment got me wondering what kind of labor laws were in place to avoid just this kind of exploitation. It also reminded me of an earlier conversation we’d had about this very topic. See, a few years ago, during one of his Weight Lifting Phases, Derrick had bragged to me one day about how thin wrists were all the rage among professional weightlifters.

“Really, Jen, it’s true. You want to have thin wrists and ankles so that when you build muscle, there’s a good contrast.”

“So you’re telling me that all these huge buff guys are actually just thin-wristed like you?”

“Yep.” He stuck out his wrist to show me, yet again, what would surely be his ticket to the top of world-class bodybuilding. I patted him on his (thin) wrist.

“Congratulations, honey. You’re halfway there.”

And now here we sat on Coronado Island, lapping up our ice cream and discussing where to eat next, since we’d skipped lunch and would obviously be starving by dinnertime. As we talked, I glanced down at my wrist to see if it was thin.  Hmm, not especially.  So much for my bodybuilding career.  But at least I’ve been succeeding on the meal-replacement plan. It’s taken a lot of discipline, but hey—I’m halfway there.  Between my protein shakes and Derrick’s thin wrists, we may just be gracing the next cover of Muscle and Fitness magazine as the industry’s latest power couple.  He may not qualify for ice cream scooping, but dangit if those thin wrists aren’t going to, one day, take Derrick P. Smith far.[/sociallocker]

It all happened so fast.  Last weekend, we left the kids at grandma’s and snuck down to sunny San Diego for a company convention, meaning we tacked on several extra days to our stay, turning Derrick’s “work” into our play.  The morning of our departure, as I was bent over the airport kiosk scribbling out a tag for our luggage, I felt Derrick turn toward me.  Looking up, I met his eye to find a luminous–and vaguely familiar–light in it.  Pupils dialated, he grinned [sociallocker id=”9134″]widely but said nothing.  I peered into his face, sure I’d seen his expression somewhere before, perhaps long ago and far away.  He was all aglow, bursting with a palpable energy that I feared might catapult him onto the conveyor belt a la Tom Cruise on Oprah’s couch.

“Honey?”  I asked.  “What is it?”  His smile broke open and he threw his arms around me, hugging me so hard it was almost desperate.

“It’s Vacation Derrick!  Vacation Derrick!  He’s back, Jen–I can feel him coming back!”

“Oh, honey.  I’m so happy for you.”

“For us–happy for us!”

See, Vacation Derrick is a Derrick with no responsibilities, no commitments, and no guilt for the forty-seven things he should be doing right now and just doesn’t have time to do.  Vacation Derrick is a Derrick on the run.  And we both love him.  Much more, in fact, than we do Kennewick Derrick.

Kennewick Derrick is Vacation Derrick’s nemesis.  Kennewick Derrick is constant and reliable;  Vacation Derrick, illustrious and fleeting.  Vacation Derrick comes out to play only once or twice a year, but when he does, life is good.  Especially for me.  But, like Mary Poppins and my size 6 pants after a month of no carbs, Vacation Derrick can never stay long.  All it takes is one ill-received email, one accidentally answered phone call, and Vacation Derrick crumples and wilts like the Wicked Witch of the West under a bucket of water.  Kennewick Derrick takes his place, and only a plane ticket, some palm trees, and a dead cell phone can bring Vacation Derrick back again.  So I’ve learned to enjoy him while I can.  This time I only had him for three days, but those three days felt a lot like this:

 (And I know you all saw this photo on facebook already, but when you have the bishop in this compromising of a position, you have to capitalize on it.  Think of it as my Vacation Derrick souvenir.)

Though we still have a few days of our trip left, they will now be peppered with work responsibilities that, though not unpleasant, remind Derrick of who he is and what he has to do.  And so I bid Vacation Derrick farewell.  For as George Canstanza once instructed, if Kennewick Derrick walks through the door, Vacation Derrick ceases to exist.  A Derrick divided against himself will not stand.

(But I still have the credit card.  And the car.  And he’s in classes all day.)

Hmm

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