After yesterday’s discussion about Tijuana, we’ve decided to stay put in San Diego and have been trying to whittle down the list of things we want to do.

The San Diego Zoo, wildlife park and SeaWorld top the list. We have time to do more than that, though. The question is what should we do with it?

I’m guessing the kids wouldn’t be into shopping, shopping and more shopping, so…

How fun is Legoland?

What’s the best stuff to see at Balboa Park?

Are there any other attractions that we need to see?

While I was wondering aloud whether it’s worth $200+ to get the kids passports for a couple hours in Tijuana, my editor mentioned he’d just read an article about how tourism in the once popular destination has dropped 90 percent because of gang violence.

I found Richard Marosi’s article in the Los Angeles Times and am now thinking my decision probably shouldn’t be based on passport fees.

Living in Hawaii, I’m used to hearing about revitalization efforts and attempts to clear unsavory elements out of targeted areas. At first, the article reminded me of a VERY extreme version of the Waikiki makeover:

The tourism collapse is especially sad, many merchants and tourists say, because people may not be aware that recent beautification projects and police crackdowns have left the area safer and spiffier than it has been in years.

Tree-lined promenades feature repaved sidewalks and roadways. Police sweeps have cleared out the drug addicts. Gone too are most of the beggars and hookers. At the balcony bars, club owners have turned down the ear-splitting volume.

Many stores showcase high-quality products: silver from Taxco, Talavera pottery from Michoacan, handcrafted stained-glass and leather products. The Cuban cigars at the business association-approved stores are authentic, and tourists can get custom-made furniture and pinatas at the historic arts and crafts market.

Sounds pretty nice, huh?

I was thinking that the merchants could use some support until I got a few paragraphs further in:

Since Jan. 1, more than 50 people have been killed across the city, some in wild shootouts that terrified bystanders. Last month, police discovered an organized-crime hide-out near downtown that they said included a training center for hit men complete with a soundproofed basement shooting range.

Recently, the upscale restaurant Hacienda Cien Años, which once drew tourists, was identified by U.S. authorities as a front for money laundering.

Downtown has been flooded with police and has been largely free of the violence. No bystanders have been killed in the shootouts. A crackdown on corrupt transit cops has resulted in fewer reports of extortion, and merchants immediately report officers who stop tourists without reason, according to police.

That’s not very comforting.

Since my son had come up with the Mexico idea, I wasn’t looking forward to trying to talk him out of it, but I didn’t have to.

He read over my shoulder for a bit, then settled the issue:

“You didn’t already pay to go to Mexico, did you?” he asked.

When I said I hadn’t, he made it simple: “Don’t.”

Phew.

My daughter’s class apparently had a visit from the dentist yesterday and one thing she took away from the experience was that “You don’t want Mr. Plaque having a party in your mouth!”

For the life of me, I can’t remember how I was taught dental hygiene at school, but I don’t remember plaque being represented as a party animal.

It’s kind of cool.

For one night, at least, my daughter refused to eat sugar.

“I hate Mr. Plaque,” she said. “He’s a little mean.”

Works for me.

I sometimes wonder if my mother thinks my lack of culinary confidence reflects poorly on her.

Other times, I suspect she just wants to pass the spatula and can’t understand why my hands are always too full of takeout containers to grab it.

Every once in a while, she does manage to make me think that maybe — just maybe — my life would be easier if cooking was as natural to me as swiping my debit card.

Take the other night for example. As I prepared some macaroni and cheese for my daughter’s preschool potluck, I told my mom that I was going to pick up some hummus on the way to a grown-up potluck affair that evening.

She was appalled that I couldn’t be bothered to make such an easy dip on my own. As she listed off the ingredients, I peered into my pot of water and willed it to boil.

“I’m making macaroni and cheese,” I protested, blocking the instant (but organic!) mac-n-cheese boxes from view.

It took her just a few beats to realize that I wasn’t making homemade cheesy goodness, but rather shaking powdered cheese onto Arthur-shaped macaroni. “At least you’re boiling water,” she said as she rummaged around in the cupboards.

I decided to take it as a compliment, since it was more than I did for my son’s last potluck, when my mom ended up in charge of chili preparation because my son refused to let me experiment with a fundraiser dish.

I don’t blame him. I’ve never made chili. I’ve never even heated it from a can. As I tried to remember if I’d ever made anything with beans in it, my mom mentioned that the organic garbanzo beans were bigger than the regular ones.

“Are you making hummus?” I asked incredulously.

She was, and she finished it in less time than it took me to turn my macaroni orange. Go figure.

As she handed me the container of hummus — with instructions to keep it cold — she gave me permission to pass the dip off as my own.

In my heart of hearts, I’d like to be like my friend B.J., who makes a dreamy peanut butter pie and is eager for everyone to try it. I always marvel at the way friends are able to throw together barbecues and dinner parties like it’s nothing.

Honestly, I’d like to be able to make a tossed salad without worrying that I chopped the lettuce wrong.

Don’t get me wrong. I can cook for sustenance. It’s cooking for presentation that makes me sweat. I figure it’s easier to save myself the stress and let someone else do the cooking.

I’m not one of those people who orders in and tries to pass it off as homemade. I don’t put store bought dishes into pots and pretend that I’ve been slaving away. I’m completely up front about the fact that I’m not much of a cook and I’m usually not embarrassed about it.

Still, it was impossible not to feel a little silly as I handed over the hummus and admitted, “My mommy made it for me.”

I have to admit I was kind of happy when it started raining Sunday morning.

The Stephen King book I was reading had finally started getting interesting, I had a mountain of laundry to do and most importantly, I really didn’t want to go to the zoo.

That was wishful thinking on my part. My four-year-old had been agitating for a zoo field trip for a few days and she knew it was her last chance to go before another long week of school and work.

“Don’t worry, Mommy,” she said. “I have my boots.”

I thought maybe it was only raining on the Windward side, but a call to a townie co-conspirator confirmed that it was raining in Waikiki, too. While my daughter was out of hearing, we decided to pretend we were going to the zoo, planning all the while to cancel the outing because of rain.

Fat chance. If you tell a four-year-old you’re taking her to the zoo, you’re taking her to the zoo, rain or no rain. We stalled through lunch at a Waikiki restaurant, but from our table next to a plate glass window we could all see that it wasn’t raining hard enough to call off our plans. As soon as the rain let up, she got up, ready to go.

She insisted that that all she wanted to do was visit the Galapagos tortoises and see Berani, the tiger who walked out of his cage a few days ago.

I didn’t really believe her, but I was hopeful until she ran off to the playground near the tiger cage. Then it was too the Keiki Zoo, where it started raining while she played with Duplo toys in the “farmhouse.”

It was just sprinkling, really, so we decided to see the hippos, because she’d talked about seeing the real ones when we passed the statues near the front.

It was there that I realized there are advantages to visiting the zoo in the rain.

The hippos were out and about. Usually we’re lucky if they raise their entire heads from their murky pond and I’m pretty sure yesterday was the first time my daughter saw a full hippo. Even my 11-year-old, who wasn’t thrilled to be slogging around the zoo in the rain was impressed. It had been years since we’d seen them really active.

By time they slid back into the water, it was pouring out, so we decided it was time for us to go – except I couldn’t leave without saying “Hi” to our friends Rusti and Violet. We were treated there, too, since the two orangutans were waiting out the rain in full view.

Since the orangutan enclosure is near the reptile house, we slipped inside to see if the rain would let up. It didn’t, but while we waited, we got to watch a monitor lizard frantically try to scale his glass cage, which was entertaining enough for me to get over my lizard-phobia to cheer on its unsuccessful effort.

Well, I sort of got over my lizard-phobia. As I was contemplating the nightmares I would have in which the lizard actually escaped, the lemurs or gibbons started screaming, and, well, so did I. It was better than Stephen King!

Eventually, we made it out, soaked and happy and willing to consider another rainy day visit… although next time I might actually grab some umbrellas from the car.