Amy After The Fact: California...here we come

I had never been to the West Coast but after extensive research watching a Katie Perry video, I surmised that it would be hot and expensive. Brad and I negotiated and settled on one checked bag which I promptly filled with Sparkling Ice coconut-pineapple water (Tell me again why I am NOT their official spokesperson?), Poptarts, gummi bears. Jolly Ranchers, and chocolate almond Hershey Bars. "What are you doing," Brad asked in low-level exasperation (He would go through several stages of exasperation over the course of this trip) as I stuffed a box of lotion-infused Kleenex into our suitcase. "California is costly," I explained, tucking my robe as a cushion around my liquids while considering whether I should add string cheese to my inventory. "It's cold in the cargo hold, right," I said as he blocked my way to our refrigerator while simultaneously zipping up our suitcase. "Your mother has lost her mind," Brad told Savannah as she arrived from Connecticut. "Say that when you are wiping your nose on one of my silky, lotion-infused Kleenexes rather than the sandpaper provided by our cheap hotel," I yelled from the other room.

No Pepsi here...but points for freshly-squeezed California
orange juice and Syd loved her individually-sized creamer

Hindsight would prove me (mostly) right. The lotion-infused Kleenexes were a delight. The Jolly Ranchers were a big hit although Sydney's lips may be stained permanently blue because they were her favorite and she hoarded them like a gold miner protecting his claim. The gummi bears proved surprisingly useful during a stomach-churning sunrise (more on that later) but, should I be given the chance to go back in time, I would have replaced the chocolate bars with the more-durable-to- California-climate-Twizzlers. Those Hershey bars went through the crucible of melting and re-solidifying to the point where all the almonds slid down to the south end of each now-warped bar. Sydney, the most dedicated processed food eater of all the Mosimans, used the wrapper as a funnel at one point and another time, I caught her eating her Hershey bar like a Go-Gurt.

Toward the end of the trip, when exhaustion sets in and patience takes a hike, Brad was unloading our bags from the car and removed what looked like a brown squished travel pillow from Sydney's seat. The package of Hershey bars had molded to the curvature of Sydney's...rear window. Words were said. Horrible words. Sydney refused to accept accountability for this awful crime. Blame. Denial. Grief. Unable to accept this great loss, Brad tossed what he now referred to as The Butt Bars into the hotel mini-fridge and we all hoped...

No Pepsi here.

This was also the day where I could no longer hide my hostility that California was a red state. "Do you serve Pepsi?" I asked, day after day, only to be offered Coke instead. Savannah's beverage was almost hurled off the edge at Glacier Point when it squirreled itself into a photograph. "I will NOT provide free advertisement for that product," I yelled as I attempted to wrestle the bottle from her hands. We agreed that, for the environment's sake, I could Photoshop it later. So...while we were breathlessly waiting about the outcome of our Butt Bars, I called in for a pizza delivery. "Do you serve Pepsi," I asked, enunciating carefully. "Yeah...sure," the guy said. "It has a blue label," I clarified, "Pepsi." "Yeah, we have Pepsi," he answered. Forty-five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I spotted a pizza box and a two-liter of soda with a RED label. "Pepsi is NOT synonymous with Coke," I screamed, lunging at the delivery guy. Brad tackled me while Savannah tipped the man. I howled at the injustice of it all. California. How DARE you call yourself a state?