Palm Frond Fanned Flames and Spiraled Scads of Buffalo Poo

Me posing last Saturday as a "real" mountain hiker at the foot of Mt. Orizaba or was it Mt. Blackjack? I sported my cousin's heavy backpack for a split second so he could take a picture of me, again, "acting." In reality I wore a regular school backpack.

Like a few of you who have called me in the last 24 hours, I too wonder where I've been. The past week was a radioactive cloud of activity - Thanksgiving (hangover), my first competitive run (I'm a 5K wuss), house guests (they cooked and cleaned more than me because I slack hard) and a few mile hike to and around the highest point on Santa Catalina Island (I carried the lightest backpack and whined about back pain).


Dan, me and Mare arrive at Avalon Harbor, Catalina Island, Channel Islands, California. My cousins might kill me for posting their pics without asking.

I'm supposed to be back on the blogging track, back in my domestic slacking routine. So far, I'm still in my black silk jammies with a cold cup of coffee in my dry hand.

Pigtail Sprite, my 2-year-old and my only girl, has a cough that sounds like she's smoked a pack a day since birth and Moody Cheeks McGee, my cranky meister 3-year-old, has preschool in a little more than an hour. My 5-year-old just rushed out the door with his hyper-white-blonde hair still wet on his way to kindergarten with the hubster. BTW, I heard from a little birdy that they're listening to Adam Corrolla on the drive to school again (no time to check the shock jock's name spelling, sorry). Eegads.

What I'm struggling in a morning wake-up fog to get at is that I hope to get Pigtail Sprite down for a nap while her two big brothers are in school and enter a travel journal of sorts here for your perusal, including a few pics of the endless ocean views of Catalina Island. No, I'll spare you the photos of spiraled buffalo poop that littered our camp site and just about every other step we took.

In the meantime, I'm off to shower and attempt to look put-together for the other mothers/teachers/passers by at my son's preschool. If we dressed for ourselves, would we ever drag a comb through our greasy heads? Really?

Think of me picking cactus pear glochids (spikes) from my fingers, even desperately scraping them from my catcus juice stained digits with pointy rocks (much to my cousins' amusement) . I just couldn't keep away from the radish-red cactus fruits. Thankfully I'm through picking cactus prickles from my all too curious tongue. Ouch yet still yummy, and I'd eat them all over again.

Until naptime ... Cross your fingers she even naps in the first place ...