Over the weekend we again went to San Diego for a mini-vacation — to please Sam, we chose a less Mexican part of town. We stayed at the Embassy Suites San Diego Bay, near to Seaport Village, sort of near to the Gaslamp Quarter. It was the best compromise I could find between a potential flophouse and the fucking Ivy.

I have to admit, I was gratified at how kid-friendly the place turned out to be. The desk clerk wisely put us on the 12th floor, at the very top of the hotel, and all three of them adored zooming up and down the atrium wall in the glass elevators. There is an indoor pool, which impressed them, and the hot tub was relaxingly full of parents and kids rather than yuppies sipping cognac. The evening manager’s reception (happy hour) and the morning full breakfast, both of which are complimentary, were enough of a free-for-all that no one paid much attention to my little darlings.

The biggest challenge of the weekend was helping Boolie to navigate. The hotel and Horton Plaza were full of sights that boggled her little mind, and she walked around with her head in a swivet the entire time. What she forgot was to face forward while walking, with the result that she walked smack into a number of people and things. The worst of these was a solid palm tree trunk in Horton Plaza; I narrowly steered her away from a nasty-looking metal signpost just before she made painful contact.

The main purpose of the weekend, really, was to meet up with an old undergrad friend of mine I hadn’t seen in upward of 30 years. And not just any undergrad friend, either; he was one of my classmates in the Freshman Honors Program at the University of Delaware, an experiment in what would happen if you took a bunch of propellerheads out of high school a year early, plopped them together in a rarefied university setting away from home, and fed them a diet of all-honors courses and colloquia. (The answer to this was Lots of partying, allnighters and sex, but it’s also true that many lifelong interests and friendships were formed in the process.)

(Editor’s knote: For those of you who may be wondering, the classmate in question was one Philip Stanley. Take a bow, darlin’.)

Anyway, it was a fun reunion. I don’t go to school reunions, and when you’re seeing a classmate you haven’t seen in 30 years, you’re understandably nervous, hoping they don’t think you’re too decrepit or too much of a fuck-up or that your kids are fucking obnoxious. Philip was — is — a dear friend, and therefore not prone to the sort of snark that infests most reunion situations. Either way, he seemed to like my kids and hit it off with Ben, and there was none of that long-pause awkwardness that can happen when two reuniting old friends discover they don’t really have much of anything to say. True to FHP tradition, we stayed up way too late drinking white wine, and duly felt like walking dogshit the next morning.

But the true highlight of the weekend — sorry, Embassy Suites and sorry, Philip — was the she-crab soup. I have already had on about this on Facebook, but like anyone with a new love, I’m over the moon and must speak and speak of it. There are very few foods you want to eat in a dark room with your eyes closed; much of the time, I really don’t like food all that much. It is messy and time-consuming and often not worth the trouble. This stuff, though, rocked my world. I had it at the Harbor House restaurant at Seaport Village, and I’m eternally grateful to my Southern friends for tipping me off that such a thing exists, and that it is probably the food they serve in Heaven.

I’ve spent a few hours in the ensuing days Googling and Googling until my fingers are sore to find a place in Orange County which serves the stuff. The best I’ve been able to do is a fish market on the Redondo Beach pier which sells not the soup, but actual she-crabs, according to rumor. You probably don’t want to imagine the spectacle of me struggling with any crab more complex than a king crab leg; substantial swearing and cut fingers are involved in the process, with very little actual meat as the reward. Still, it may come to that. Honest to God, if you haven’t had the stuff, go out and correct this mistake immediately. You’ll thank me.

So today it’s back to reality, the boys back to school and me to my loads of laundry and neglected housework. Our next getaway isn’t until Sequoia National Park right after summer vacation starts, and now that we’re getting the family travel thing down to a science (and have time on our hands due to our unemployed and/or disabled states), it’s hard to stay home. Plus I’m such a lazy bitch that the prospect of having people make the beds and pick up the towels is really, really appealing. Either way, it was a good weekend, and I imagine we’ll be back. If only for the she-crab soup.

As many of you know, my husband had open-heart surgery today, and let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve paced around a room for 7 hours with the knowledge that your beloved has had his heart and breathing stopped and been placed on a heart-lung machine while a surgeon, whom you devoutly hope is a good one who didn’t overindulge in Scotch over the weekend, plays dicey games with the organ that keeps your husband living. I think he did a good job; my husband is, according to the CVICU, now off the respirator and sleeping with the help of some good drugs. Let’s hear it for good drugs!

The bad news is that he’s gone for the week, and in the 9 years we’ve been married, we’ve never been separated for more than overnight. I’ll see him every day, of course, but I miss him like crazy; he wasn’t awake when they let me briefly inside the CVICU after his surgery, and I haven’t heard his voice since 7:30 this morning when, under the influence of the first in a series of many good drugs, I listened to him hold forth to the anesthesiologist about the demise of President William McKinley, who was assassinated — more specifically, he died of gangrene in his gunshot wounds after an assassination attempt. (Leave it to my Ben to give a historical and medical discourse when schnockered. The anesthesiologist assured me he’d never remember a word of what he said.)

I can’t wait to see him tomorrow, when he’s conscious and hopefully lacking many of the scary tubes running in and out of him. I can’t wait to tell him how Matt’s male Monsters vs. Aliens Happy Meal toy tried to hit on Julia’s female one over dinner at McDonald’s. That’s the sort of detail that makes a dad like Ben smile. And tonight I’m very thankful that my kids have a dad.

Around the middle of last week, I had a sudden inspiration for the family to take a weekend getaway. It all started with a conversation wherein I mentioned to Matt that he was made in San Diego. More specifically, he was made at the Hacienda Inn in Old Town San Diego, where Ben and I stayed for two nights with 9-month-old Sam while Ben was in town to take depositions. Old Town is quite picturesque and historical, with state-sanctioned California Historical Landmarks every 50 yards or so, and the highest concentration of Mexican restaurants I have ever seen in my life. Shopping is plentiful, with the same blankets, ceramics and Baja hoodies available across the border in Tijuana.

There was nothing for it but to hit several of the Mexican restaurants in search of the ultimate margarita. I’m not sure we found it, but we certainly had a hell of a good time trying. The kids were fairly burned out on flan and tortilla chips with salsa by Saturday afternoon, so I suggested we drive up to La Jolla and hit the mall. Sam narrowed his eyes at me. Is it a MEXICAN mall? he asked, warily. I assured him it was not, and he seemed relieved. Good, he said. Because this place is a little too Mexican for me. He had a point.

The mall wasn’t a big hit, mostly because there were no toy stores. (Whatever happened to toy stores? They used to be everywhere, and now they’re all out of business.) We wound up driving into downtown San Diego, ending up in the Gaslamp Quarter, home to more restaurants per square mile than anywhere I’ve ever seen in my life. Still, the kids enjoyed some dessert at the Rock Bottom Brewery, Ben and I tasted a couple more margaritas, and we probably completely ruined the evening of a couple of hapless tourists to whom we gave completely erroneous directions to Horton Plaza.

This morning we drove back home through a blinding downpour of rain, and are now ensconced in that strange Sunday malaise that comes from having been away from home the whole weekend and knowing the alarm will ring at six-thirty the next morning. I’ve got laundry to catch up, kids to bathe, and the dogs, who are annoyed with me for leaving them, to placate. Still, it was nice to do margarita research and hang out with the kids, and with every margarita we toasted Matt, who finally got to see the place where he was made. He was impressed; Sam wasn’t. Big deal. You and Dad came here and had sex, he said darkly. Childhood isn’t what it used to be.

As everyone knows, this economy stinks. Ben and I know it better than most people, perhaps; we have both been laid off from our jobs, and despite being generally spoiled, we are facing the realities of tightening our belts. No more happy hours at the Yard House with ahi poke appetizers and Thai pizza. No more outlet shopping, spending money on shoes we really don’t need whatsoever. No more toys for the kids, except on birthdays and Christmas.

Which means I had to take a serious look at my Diet Coke habit. I’m a well-known Diet Cokehead and can easily go through a 12-pack in a day. We’ve long since gone from good California zinfandel and craft brews to Yellow Tail shiraz and Bud Lite, but the Diet Coke habit needed looking at, too. So one day I went to my left-hand pantry and beheld: Tea.

I buy tea the way some women buy shoes or bath salts. I can’t go to Cost Plus or any other specialty store without being seduced by some interesting or exotic tea. So half of our left-hand pantry — fully one-quarter of our available dry-foods storage space — is packed with myriad packages of tea. So I’ve resolved to ease up on the Diet Coke, which I have to buy, and explore the teas, which I already have, instead.

It rocks. Yesterday I had a cup of oolong, a cup of brown rice green tea, a cup of green tea with coconut, lemongrass and ginger, and some just good old plain black tea from England. This morning it’s black tea with peach, and up next I’m pondering either rooibos or perhaps some white tea with jasmine or with pear (I have both, of course). Quite apart from the antioxidant benefits, which they say are considerable (who are THEY and why do they care about my tea?), I’m having a hell of a time just enjoying the pleasures of drinking tea, which I’d quite forgotten.

Ben laughed yesterday and said that these are the pleasures of old age — you come to appreciate tea, you start to really savor hot soup. So be it. But if you need a comfort in tough times, break out the tea, put your feet up, and breathe in the steam. It really works, and it’s so much cheaper and cleaner than psychoanalysis, drug abuse, whoremongering or a messy breakdown.

The kids today at the local pumpkin patch.

You can’t make up shit like this. Purchased today at our local Asian market:

This week I went to have some more x-rays to further investigate my bad back at the local hospital in Newport Beach, Hoag Memorial Hospital Presbyterian. And dudes? This place is plush.

First: Location, location, location. Hoag is perched atop a bluff on Pacific Coast Highway, meaning that half the rooms overlook the Pacific Ocean. Julia was born there, and I grunted out that baby with a sea view. My dad died of cancer there, but at least one of the last things he saw was the ocean instead of some urban rooftop.

Second: Complimentary valet parking, baby. Both the E.R. entrance and the main entrance are manned by a staff of extremely professional parking attendants. I don’t mean the sort of parking attendants who grunt at you, scratch their asses and pee on your tires while you’re not looking. No, I mean the sort of valets who greet you “Welcome to Hoag!” and ask your name, then as they take away your car, “Thank you, Mrs. Crumpacker! Enjoy your stay!” What is this, a hospital or the Four Seasons Hotel?

Third: Greeter/guides at various posts throughout the hospital. There is a greeter just inside the front doors who will sunnily guide you to the reception desks (which are smack in front of your face anyway), then actually flush out an intake clerk for you, so you won’t have to stand in line. Once you’ve checked in and begin making your way to Radiology, there are other greeter/guides along the way. If you look the least bit like you don’t know where you’re going, they will solicitously inquire whether they can help you find your destination.

Fourth: Starbucks, baby. There are at least four Starbucks kiosks located inside and outside the hospital. Probably there are more I haven’t discovered yet. Care for a latte with your lumbar spine study? Hoag can give you that.

Fifth: Friendly techs. When your name is called, your radiology tech cheerfully approaches you with a “Hi, Mrs. Crumpacker, I’m Lauren. I’ll be your radiology technician today.”

Hoag is freakin’ awesome. It’s a first-class hospital with the air of a good hotel. Every time I go there, I’m impressed anew by the accommodations. Medical treatment and diagnostics are no fun, really, but if I’ve gotta do them, I’m glad I get to do them at Hoag.

Sam and Matt ended up having a good first day of school. Later in the afternoon, I brought them a bowl of Cheetos and a couple of Diet Cokes for us to share. Sam is going through a cootiephobia stage; no one else is allowed to touch his food or drink. Matt, you eat the Cheetos from that side of the bowl. This is my side, he said. And no drinking from my soda. You drink from Mom’s. He watched Matt like a hawk to ensure these rules were being followed.

Finally, exasperated, I said Jeez, Sam, don’t be such a picky-pants!

Immediately he pulled up his t-shirt to reveal his boxer briefs. No I’m not, he said. Do you see any pickies in there?

I have developed a strange new hobby for summer, which is this: Making homemade soup. After the success of my adventure with Old Bay Crab Soup a few weeks back, I’ve started experimenting with soupmaking. It rocks; it may be 85 degrees and swampy outside, but I tell myself I’m just warming up for wintertime, perfecting my technique.

Anyway. I devised the following soup today, which absolutely fucking rocks, and since there’s nothing else like it on the Internet that I can find, the recipe follows. It’s easy to make, too.

Surf & Turf Soup

Ingredients:

• 1 1/2 lb. cooked roast beef, chopped into 1/3″ cubes
• 1 lb. frozen medium to large scallops (available at Trader Joe’s)
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 32 oz. beef broth
• 1 small can tomato paste
• 3 cups water
• 2 cups shredded fresh cabbage
• 1 can diced tomatoes
• 1 lb. frozen mixed vegetables
• 2-3 medium potatoes, cubed
• Seasonings to taste: I used lots of garlic powder, celery flakes, Old Bay seasoning

Mix together seasonings, beef broth, tomato paste, water and onion. Bring to a boil. Add the tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage and mixed vegetables. Bring back to a boil. Add beef and scallops. Tweak seasonings to taste. Simmer uncovered for 1 hour. Share and enjoy.

(I had forgotten how much I love to cook. For the past seven years, cooking has meant maneuvering through a roomful of clamoring dogs and babies, and has not been much fun, and has too often involved frozen chicken nuggets. Today I spent a relaxing late afternoon making soup, sipping red wine and listening to Elvis Costello’s Get Happy!! (1980) which pairs very nicely with wine and tastes of soup. I highly recommend it. I don’t care if it’s August; crank up the AC and give it a go.)

Yesterday, after five years of searching, these shoes arrived in the mail. The style is Brilliant made by Hush Puppies, and they are the cutest shoes on earth. The photo doesn’t show the kitten heels, which are cute (although a bit of a bitch for driving, because they tend to catch on the floormat), and these shoes are way comfortable. I already owned them in a sort of dusty rose (disturbingly similar in color to the 1976 vintage carpeting in my upstairs) and a pale mossy green, but I have been coveting the black forever. And completely unable to find them in my size, despite scouring the Internet and every retail outlet I could get my hands on.

Until now, bitches. I feel positively postcoital. (Men’s eyes are glazing over, but girls know what I mean.)