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A Trip to Carmel Valley, Part 1

Ever not realize until perhaps almost too late that you need to get away?  That’s kind of where I was earlier this month. I needed to go somewhere and not think about long term projects looming over my head. So I headed to Carmel Valley for the first time in at least 16 years. My mother and step father were stationed in Ft. Ord in the late 1980s. And then my mother lived in Salinas for 17 years. So I’m quite familiar (or was) and have quite a few memories of the area.

So…it was a beautiful few days….and while there were a few places long gone that I missed (the paper store in Carmel-by-the-Sea was the first place I ever bought blank books back when I was 16), I embraced the new and the newly rediscovered.

My companions and I had a lovely time exploring Holman Ranch. How could we not? Beautiful weather, beautiful walking.

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And wine tasting. Oh my goodness. Is there anything better than drinking wine in the middle of a week day afternoon? The height of decadence really. Here’s Nick at Holman Ranch offering up some of their finest.

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Here we are in the Holman Ranch wine cave. We did eventually leave the cave but I was happy there. Taking notes on which ones we liked so we could hit the tasting room on Carmel Valley Road on the way out.

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Apparently the state’s oldest swimming pool. Six feet in the shallow end. I liked to think about how Charlie Chaplin used to hang here frequently.

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And then I fell in love with the Hacienda on the premises and just wanted to stay forever and re-read A Hundred Years of Solitude in a corner with wine. Perhaps some coffee and chocolate. No wait. Mole. On everything. I’m a sucker for inner courtyards.

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and yes, I know I’m not Catholic anymore. (Catholic free? Well one is never really Catholic free) but the hacienda at Holman’s Ranch was exquisitely beautiful and peaceful.

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…and more wine. It’s estate wine  you know—grapes used are strictly just what grows on the property itself.

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At long last we settled into our rooms. And yes. I have a thing for tile. Can I live in the shower, please?

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Holman Ranch just had an amazing relaxing effect on me. I savored and enjoyed every minute of it.  I loved knowing that silent film stars used to roam about the grounds. As anyone who knows me knows—I’m all about the silent film era–well vintage everything really. Part of me just wants fashion to end at about 1964. Glad I also was able to break out the new bathing suit, retro in itself , to hang out at the Holman Ranch.

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It goes without saying that I want to come back. Holman Ranch guest cabins and rooms are available through either joining their wine club or by hosting and attending a private or corporate event. So please. Someone have something there again soon and invite me. Just deliciously relaxing.

Do I have to come home?

#LLBlogNotaConf

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After the throw…

It took me awhile to figure out just what throwing chanclas should be. At first I thought parenting parody but perhaps the joke would be far too on the inside. Also. There’s other places for that.

But then I thought I’m looking at things all wrong. I always responded to the chancla as a kid. That is um ducking and hoping the wrath of my mother went to my brother’s ass instead. But hey, I’m a parent. And I love my chanclas. I also love my peace and quiet when those little cochinos are in their rooms or outside. Hmmm…

So instead? I dedicate this site Throwing Chanclas to the moment after it’s thrown. No regret. Everyone out of the house and I can watch my endless Project Runway episodes in peace and if one of those horrible whiners make fashion week? Well I’ll throw a chancla at the screen (actually I won’t–I love that screen).

It’s that moment when they just ate all your food and it’s better than your mother-in-laws but those *&^%$ kids didn’t throw the trash or unload the dishwasher and no shame they didn’t even say thank you. So throw the shoe. Get them out of there. Clean up listening to whatever band you like and not what your daughter is forcing you to listen to.

In the peace of that moment is time for the mother of the house. It’s the time when I dress for me. It’s the time when I put on lipstick because I want it on. The husband comes home. Who is all this gussying up for? Me, damn it. It’s for me.

Because I might be 47? But I don’t want to look like I gave up, because I haven’t. And why should any of us? I mean we Gen Xers are squeezed out as it is.

So I re-dedicate Throwing Chanclas to all those moms who are still rocking their look and don’t care if they embarrass their kids by doing their own thing.