Celebrity Encounters: A Star-Studded Issue

The High and Exalted Grandson at Five, Rocking His Paper Jam

Herein, a star-studded report of our travels to Southern California and back again, admitting right off that we did not take our camera because we haven't got the sense gawd gave a goat. Not even combined. The trip will not go uncommemorated, however, because I believe the San Diego Highway Patrol got several good shots of our rental vehicle and will be sending a ticket proofs shortly by mail.

San Diego is broke, as evidenced by the ubiquitous potholes. It's sad, but they still have KPBS and they have their Red Light Photo Safety program, which saves them money overall and is responsible for my dread of mail delivery today.



You see, Your Honor, we were driving below the speed limit on a stretch of Aero Drive near the SDPD station, dodging potholes and approaching a yellow light while listening to the radio, when KPBS reported a short segment on the discovery of differences in regional goat accents, claiming that goats, like people, learn their particular bleats rather than acquiring them by instinct. We were fairly riveted by this news. They played three different goats' bleats for our comparison. We were listening so intently that Mr. Mature failed to notice that the light had turned red before he entered the intersection and we still couldn't tell one regional goat accent from another. We plead innocent, Your Honor, because who ever heard of a PhD in Goat Linguistics?

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Aztec Woman of Tehuantec by sculptor Donal Hord
in front of The Prado Restaurant, Balboa Park

We had a blogger meet-up with Tom of Sightings At Sixty, from New York, at the coffee kiosk by the Prado restaurant in Balboa Park. Tom's post on his San Diego visit reports that he met no celebrities, but I can testify that Tom is a most attractive gentleman who could pass for a celebrity and he tells me he was approached by U.S. News & World Reports to write a piece, so that surely counts as fame even if they didn't pay him. And Tom can testify that I am, quite possibly, demented, and that Mr. Mature is probably a saint.

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The reason for our trip was our grandson's, Liam's, fifth birthday. His parents are party-giving superheroes and the most funnest parents I could ever imagine. The theme was Knights and Princesses, with a giant jumperoo castle, a crown and shield decorating table, a search for dragon eggs, the covered patio turned into a grand stone hall with banners and fiery sconces, and a glorious feast for all with a coat-of-arms cake for Sir Liam's Knighthood Ceremony.

The next day, Sunday, we headed up I-8 toward L.A. in killer traffic for an afternoon at Medieval Times. Liam was thrilled by the knights and had to be reassured that no one was actually being hurt, but were acting their battles and injuries. I was thrilled by the horses and their dressage, particularly a long series with one particularly splendid superstar Andalusian, which included the capriole, the pièce de résistance of airs above the ground.

I simply couldn't think why all of I-8's lanes should be packed nose-to-tail at 75 mph both going and coming on a Sunday afternoon and evening until we arrived back at our motel and turned on the news to learn of Whitney Houston's death and to be reminded of the Grammy Awards that same evening in Los Angeles.

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We've never made one of our frequent trips to SoCal without scouring Craigslist or wearing out a realtor in our search for a house or condo we could afford. In fact, it was the frustration of our desire to make the move from the East Coast to the West that prompted the creation of Mature Landscaping originally. After two further attempts to sell our house here in an ever-downward-spiraling market, we are resigned to radical DIY redo's to try to bring it up to HGTV standards for another attempt when the housing market might be declared officially bottomed out and on its way back up. 

So I suppressed my Del Mar house-hunting itch for this trip and confined it to my dreams, literally. I dreamt that we'd bought a spacious and decidedly odd house (with potential) that was in foreclosure in Solana Beach at a steal of a price. There was a cavernous garage--more like a warehouse, really--with dozens and dozens of randomly spaced dressmaker's forms fixed into the concrete floor. These dummies were splotched all about with fist-sized globs of dried, shredded green vegetable matter and the workers we'd hired to help us clear them out were speculating with me on what the shizzle their function might have been. The helpers' collective consensus was that we'd bought ourselves a grass skirt factory but I was entirely convinced that we'd purchased a cudball shooting gallery. 

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Mad Men, Episode 8, The Hobo Code

I found myself suffering from a certain, um--evacuative profligacy--toward the end of the trip, which made for an exciting flight home. Fortunately, we flew the rare, wide-body 767 from San Diego to Atlanta; they have extra water closets and Hartsfield Airport is no slouch in that department either. I believe I visited all of them between Terminals A and D. The tough part was the little 68 seat puddle jumper from Atlanta to Wilmington, a short but bumpy ride that really never lent itself to time out of the seat belt. 

Upon landing, I made a blind rush to the ladies loo at the Wilmington airport. They had those neurotic self-flushers that erupt steadily every five seconds; very off-putting to the nervous of sphincter, but not a problem for me on this occasion and I was ever so grateful for the sound camouflage, as I'd detected an occupant in the adjoining cubby. 

When I came out to wash my hands, I commented to said occupant at the sink beside mine that they had rather silly toilets here and received a cheerful agreement. I glanced up to meet this face next to mine in the mirror. 

Rosemarie DeWitt. Click for filmography.

I'd forgotten they make movies in Wilmington. My cousin told me later that Colin Firth is currently making one there, too. I shudder to think how easily, in my mad hurry and unfamiliarity with Wilmington's airport, it might have been Colin in the adjoining cubby.