How Calvin Klein Saved My Face in San Diego

No one ever said travel in Southern California is without danger.

There is the language barrier. Learning to use 'bro', 'man', 'rad', and 'duuuuuddeeee' in everyday conversation takes time and concentration. You will lose essential brain functions if you do it correctly as your entire left lobe shuts down with the effort. Childhood memories, directions to the airport, breathing all become secondary.

Then there are the impossibly beautiful people. Everywhere. All the time. In IHOP for f*ck's sake. Seriously, people, IHOP?? Who sucks down a full-stack and still fits into size 2 hip-huggers?

 If you had self-esteem issues before, you will need to schedule more therapy sessions upon your return. If you are dangerously close to a beauty-related psychological disorder STAY AWAY from La Jolla and Beverly Hills. You will not survive.

There is the real risk of immediate and permanent damage if you drive anything more than 2 social wrungs below the most recent version of a BMW, Lexus, Range Rover or Mercedes. People will move into your lane on the highway without looking because, really, you have no reason for living. They will think nothing of stealing your parking spot even though your blindingly expressive blinker clearly indicates possession.

And don't even try valet. The thorough disgust emanating from the tiny man in the little brass-plated jacket as his delicate hands make contact with your Hyundai will cause even the most self-assured person to engage in a walk of shame completely unassociated with bad sex and lost shoes. Your guests, if your pariah-like status has not sent them hiding behind bushes and little men in brass-plated jackes, will ask you why you are crying into their bottled table water.

Having said that, please keep in mind that I actually live in Southern California. And I love it. Even though I drive a Hyundai. And love it. The plastic people are limited to a relatively small part of the population, even if the per capita percentage is considerably higher than in other states.

The point (and by now you must be DYING - read *lost and wondering what the hell you are reading* - to discover the point) is that there are several dangers in So Cal aside from the occasional earthquake and sudden appearance of deadly undertows. And the EXTREMELY rare shark attack. (No discussion necessary about my snorkeling, swimming or scuba-diving habits. Mom.). And one can prepare for these dangers.Take them in stride. Have an amazing vacation if you're visiting us - or a great lifestyle if you're a resident. Nowhere is without cause for trepidation. Just ask Gulf Coast and Tornado Alley residents.

But no one warned me about the june bugs. If you do not know what a june bug is, look it up on google image. It is the drunk driver of the bumblebee family. It is big, about the size of a quarter, black, has a buzz akin to an Evanrude, and no navigational sense whatsoever. It will dip, dive, buzz and bend course without a care in the world or a thought about obstacles in its path.

And, like most giant bugs (and drunk people) it has an afinity for me. Today as I sat innocently on a bench outside of my hotel, enjoying the sun and a giant bottle of lemon Propel, I was attacked by something with the sound and determination of a Nazi aircraft. Dive after dive it dipped and changed trajectory, determined, I am convinced, to get my guard down long enough for a clear face-shot. I moved benches (read *ran wildly swinging my arms to the other end of the parking lot*). I took a 45 minute nap only to find it waiting for me at the pool. Colin Powell didn't have this kind of determination when searching for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq (please note and appreciate the political restraint here).

I was ready to go hide in the room (or closest in-door mall), and that's when I saw it. My over-sized Calvin Klein purse. It is beautiful. I bought this purse as a gift to myself when my grandfather passed away a few months ago. It has a smooth black leather exterior (no worries about smudges or dirty airplane carry-on spaces), and a nylon interior that is easily washed with water. And it is easily filled with a whole lot of heavy shit. I have case files, a hardcover novel, metal wallet and bottle of lemon propel in there, to name a few items. So, essentially, if you swing this thing it becomes a deadly weapon.

The next time the june bug seemed primed to dive-bomb my head, I picked up the bag, held it by the strap... waited... and SWUNG at that bitch.

I should've seen it coming. The bastard changed course at the last minute. I whiffed, fell out of my chair, no doubt permanently damaging a cell phone and a small muscle in my back. But you know what? If he can keep it coming, so can I (and, no, the fact that I have declared war on a BUG is not lost on me, but I am who I am. I make no apologies).

The next time I faked his ass out. I got up to leave, and as he swirled through the air towards my hair like a bat after half a keg of vodka, I took hold of my purse handle, turned, swung, and SMACK. It was like when Randy Johnson hit that bird but a whole lot less sad. Children stopped marco-polo cries to admire the wreckage. Other travellers applauded me. It seems they too had been stalked periodically throughout their stay.

But they didn't have my weapon. My Calvin Klein numbchuck. Suck it june bug. You had your shot.