Dude

I've never been a fan of peace signs. Even in the '70s. They just seem so...cheesy. I'm even less fond of people forming the groovy 2-fingered one. Show me an oily Ashton Kutchner or a pretentious Olsen twin shooting one of those at the crowds of snapping cameras, and I know I'm capable of homicide.

That said, Friday was a rotten day for me. Various reasons. The final one? A flat tire. And even though AAA changed it, free of charge, and then the tire place fixed the tire, free of charge, the process had been the icing on the big ugly cake that was Friday.

In the evening, Scott offered me the distraction of a cool Mexican restaurant called Two Hippies Beach House. He'd been there a couple times for lunch, but I had yet to see it. A tiny little place, built just like a seaside shack where you walk up to the window and order and then head back to your blanket with your coconut smelling sunburn. Seating is outside under an awning, and running all around the seating area is a flower box, filled with plants which are intermingled with hundreds of little drink umbrellas AND the occasional vintage Matchbox car.

The food could've been hardtack soaked in raccoon urine, and I'd have been happy just because of the ambience. But the food was great. Big fat delicious tacos for $1.50 each. I got the vegetarian with beans, cheese, onions, tomatoes, cabbage, salsa, avocado and more salsa. Scott got the beef. We got 4 tacos, some chips and salsa, and split a bottle of water and it was TEN DOLLARS.

It was a very good distraction from my neon misery quotient that day. And even this hardened, peace-signs-are-lame chick had to go back for a cupcake. I only saw that the icing was pink. I didn't see the design until I left the place. First peace sign ever to make me happy. And then I chewed its face off.