I think it’s time for a little game…what do the following statements have in common?

“I don’t kiss and tell”
“I never come to Buckhead”
“It’s my first time”
“I love you/I love you too”
“NO they don’t make you look fat”
“It never rains in Southern California”

OH!! (Hand raised, waving around like that annoying pest in your third grade class that always wanted to scream out the answer), I KNOW! I KNOW!

Big fat lies.

I’ll leave the first five to be discussed at another time, another place, and will now tackle the last. Um, I call bullshit.

It didn’t just rain when we were in San Diego. It poured. I’m talking big, fat, drenching rain that soaks you to the bone when running across the street from the nasty sushi restaurant to the only cab in sight. I’m talking the type of rain that permeates your soul, and catches you off-guard when all you have brought with a hood is the top of your ghetto fabulous velour outfit. I’m discussing the type of rain that drenches even your spirits despite the fun, frolicsome debauchery that involves Sunday night salsa dancing and a Hummer Limo. Trust me, it was THAT type of rain.

Nary a ray of sun was seen after Sunday. No sunburns were received, no natural lightening of my hair was experienced, and basically, the only way that it could even be thrown in the quasi-vacation category was that I ate a lot of food.

You know how the news is talking about “Winter Blizzard 2003” and the “Storm of the Century” for the big fat snowstorm that is currently stranding my Dad and my favorite late-night-caller (and his roommate who uses expensive hair products) in the DC area? it was one of those, only rain. Apparently, San Diego hadn’t had any precipitation since December and looks like Mother Nature was making up for it. It even sabotaged our (discussed) trip to Tijuana since even the hovels on the hills that add to its colorful culture were collapsing in mudslides. No, this wasn’t the 90210-esque scene that I imagined — no Brenda surfing with Dylan, no shopping with Kelly up in LA at Rodeo Drive, and dammit, no bartering with Mexicans.

It was as grey as my GF (Ghetto-fabu) outfit. It was as soggy as my spirts. It was as big of a letdown as was last week’s Joe Millionaire. It was, in essence, the “When Animals Attack” version of a vacation, a added bonus turned sour.

That said, it wasn’t Atlanta, and I got a $400 voucher on Delta to boot. Hmm, I think perhaps I’ll save that Zoloft for even bigger tragedies, like if Trista doesn’t pick Charlie…

PS: For all of you who wanted to see my “Friday Futility” article, it’s password protected but very generically and lightly so. Email me if you can’t figure out the simple prompts, and it’s all in lowercase…