So many stories so little time

There I was whining on facebook about how my husband would rather stay home and potty train Thomas than go on vacation with his week off work (over our anniversary!) and with the support of 300 of my closest friends I planned a vacation anyway. That was 3 weeks ago.

That's why we are in San Diego right now. Thank goodness for facebook!

Unless you're a stalker a creepo or a robber, then we are already home from San Diego. Or we haven't left yet. And we have a pit bull. Besides, based on the amount of stuff we have with us we there's nothing in our house anyway.

But the thing about going on vacation is that before we even got here there were at least 29 stories so funny they couldn't be left off the blog.

Like the one where we told Tommy we were going on vacation and he saw me packing his swimsuit so he started begging to go to the "ay-cay-shun-poo!" (vacation pool) and I promised him we would. And the look the face of the people in the Fillmore Carl's Jr. when he asked if we were at the ay-cay-shun-poo now.

Or the one where one or more adults in the vehicle had a tiny meltdown about a Jim Gill song wherein everybody "yodles".

Or the one where we told Tommy that we really were going on vacation but we had to go to Stinky Vegas first and he and Johnny got in a hysterical laughing fit about "Stinky Vegas" repeating it at least as many times as we listened to Jim Gill try to yodle.

Or the one where we got lost in Vegas and walked around for what felt like 10 hours in what felt like 900 degree temperatures at bedtime only to learn that M&M World was 7 miles away and our hotel was on top of some kind of awesome twilight zone where Mr. T. and Mario/Luigi are across the street neighbors and only one of them charges you to take their picture.

Or the one where Tommy (who we often call Mr. T. you know....T for Tommy. Pitty the fool. It's clever.) and I got a picture with Mr. T. in Vegas.

Or the one where we stopped at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere to change a diaper and there were no changing stations so we changed all the diapers straight on my lap (naked bums on my lap. ew.) and an old lady with a dog made Johnny cry.

Or the one where we set "nakie TOMMY!" (he's apparently a superhero whose super power is posing like Buzz Lightyear before taking off running into busy streets.) loose at the St. George splash pad because it was too hot to keep driving.

Or the one where we FINALLY landed in our Vegas hotel room (dingiest yuckiest dirtiest place on the planet. I still do not heart Vegas.) and Tommy immediately ran to the bed, put on Josh's sunglasses and jumped up and down like a maniac chanting "Vegas! Vegas! Vegas!"

Or the one where the hotel (which I chose partly because they said they had a crib) didn't have a crib available for John so I went shopping all by myself in the middle (ok early part) of the night in a strange city where the (male) cashier's nails were long and pointy and he spoke with a creepy vampire lisp and asked if I wanted him to paint my fingernails because "that's such a pretty color". #iambrave #iambrave #iambrave

Or the one where we found the perfect place for dinner and a walk along some kind of marina and a park with the ocean and Tommy chased the birds and threw the rocks and everybody came home smelling like ocean. (Except for Tommy because he rode home in his bare nakeds which was only the 2nd funniest thing ever because he had just finished throwing rocks in the OOOOOOO-SHIN MOM.)

See? So many stories. So very very little time. Probably at some point there will be a ridiculous number of photos about this trip on the blog.

In the meantime instragram is proving to be quite lovely for my obsessive photo documentation needs.