*Subtitle: This can't be your vacation. I refuse to believe it.

Tuesday began with more of the same: a whole lot of nothing. We slept in, we lounged on the couch, we went out for lattes. We wandered aimlessly for a few hours (which is my way of saying I've been dragging my feet for so long I've forgotten all the details) before the day's only real event.

The blood drive! I know, my life is so much more fabulous than Snakehead's! The Red Cross was doing their more or less quarterly blood drive in one of the conference rooms at a nearby hotel from 11:30 to 5:30. I started donating just after 9-11 and I've kept it up sort of consistently ever since. I would love to go to every blood drive, but I'm a little hesitant to push my luck by asking Pointy Bearded Boss for time off that I don't really need. But this time I was on vacation, so I had no excuse for skipping out.

I've tried to mix things up by arriving at different times, hoping to find that one magic time they're not busy. Well, I've seen the pattern and now I know. The least busy time is always one hour after I arrive. This latest visit was no exception. I know they accept appointments, but that only seems to save about 20 minutes, and I never seem to be able to get there when I expect anyway.

So I arrived and saw the three kilometer line snaking out the door. I'd blame this on The Curse of Riddick, but this was more or less normal for my blood drive visits. I walked in, signed in, and took the bundle of "required" reading papers the volunteers were handing out.

I took my seat and paged through the forms. Like most corporate forms, there's a document revision date printed in one of the corners. Every one of them is 2002 or older. I've read these, many times. I pretended to read, handed them back in, and lined up in the queue for the two month wait.

After forty minutes of musical chairs, one of the nurses finally took my vitals and went over the medical questionnaire. I showed her my blood donor card. She made an approving noise and told me to make sure I showed my card to the cookie lady at the end.

After another two months in yet another line, I finally got to a cot. And then we began our usual dance. The nurse looked at my arm and said, "My, what great veins you have!"

"Umm… thanks?"

"You should really be in one of the other chairs for the double red cell donation," she says.

"No thank you, I prefer a traditional donation."

"But why? It's so simple!"

"I'm comfortable with this donation. I know exactly how it's going to affect me and I can plan for that. And even your own handouts say the double donation will take twice as long. And I've already been here for an hour and a half."

"Oh, it's not that much longer."

"I prefer a traditional donation, thanks."

And at this point the nurse working the "other" chairs pipes up. "What's this? Why aren't you over here?"

"Because I don't want to be, dumbass. Now close your mouth and sit down. Oh, and pink scrubs make you look fat."

Ok, I didn't say that. Instead, I patiently explained again. "My" nurse made a sour face and continued her prep work. She jabbed me with that steel garden hose and we were off.

I've got this part down. I was finished in less time than it took to go through the medical questionnaire. Should I be alarmed that I "bleed out" so quickly? The nurse was putting on my band-aid when a supervisor type sauntered over.

"Finished already?" he says. "You should be in one of the other chairs."

GAH! "Hey, Baldy, I know I'm supposed to avoid strenuous activity, so try not to fight back when I'm beating your ass!"

Didn't say that. Wanted to. Said nothing. Hoped bald man would leave. Bald man stayed.

The bald man asked, "Do you know about the double red cell donation?"

GAH! Again! I explained, yet again. He looked disappointed as he wandered away. A moment later I was finished and off to the waiting area for cookies and cola. I showed my donor card to the cookie lady. She gave me a confused look. I explained that the one of the nurses told me to show her, but never explained why. This created a small flurry of consultation. Volunteers consulted nurses and each other. Nurses passed my card around until it found its way to the nurse who started the whole thing. She looked at the cookie lady and said simply, "Eighth donation." She handed back my card and went about her work.

The cookie lady brightened considerably and began rooting around in a plastic tub. A moment later she returned with my card, a certificate, and a lapel pin. This was my eighth donation. I'm now a member of the gallon club.

I had no idea there was a gallon club. But now I'm a member. And I have the "hey, my name is misspelled" certificate to prove it.

Lord of The Rings update: Yeah, remember the last time, when we were almost half way through Two Towers? We made it through another five minutes before she fell asleep. Five minutes, honest.

*Subtitle: Dude, seriously… this is your vacation?

I can't believe I forgot about this. There's a key part of the last post that I completely forgot. About a month before our vacation, Girlfriend said something like "Since we'll have all that time, I should finally get around to watching Lord of The Rings with you." I couldn't believe she'd said that.

I'd tried unsuccessfully to get her to go with me to the theater when the movies were new. When the first movie came out, she said she didn't want to wait years for the rest of the story. And when the other two movies came out, she didn't want to see them because she hadn't seen the first. Once I had all three DVDs, I tried several times to get her to watch them with me. Like a trooper, she tried to tough it out once or twice, but never seemed to stay awake past the first half hour. Sitting on the couch knowing that a gigantic fantasy epic lay before her turns out to be a powerful sleep aid.

But anyway, we agreed we'd watch it on our vacation. She promptly forgot about this conversation, but I did not. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Lord of The Rings nut, but it is a damn good movie, and I knew she'd like it if she'd gave it the chance.

That first Sunday night of our vacation was when we began the great movie odyssey of 2005. We made it through about two-thirds of the first movie. Pretty impressive, given that she'd never made it past the first half hour before.

**********

Monday morning involved a whole lot more nothing. As this rate, I just might break the record for least amount of calories burned over a ten day period. Somebody call Guinness.

Monday afternoon we went out for lunch and then went to get haircuts for me and The Kid. (The excitement is overwhelming, isn't it?) The Kid was just about to start school, so we figured this would be a perfect time to tame that unruly mop of his. Since he's still not on speaking terms with Messrs. Brush and Comb, the only real solution is to keep his hair short.

Plus, I wanted a new haircut so I looked my best for my next adventure… the Department of Motor Vehicles! (I know, my life is so much more fabulous than yours!) I dropped Girlfriend and The Kid off at home and went to the DMV office to renew my soon-to-expire driver's license.

It's been seven years since my last license renewal, so they were at a brand new office now. The place is huge compared to the old one, which now sits abandoned on the other end of the parking lot. There were a few dozen cars parked outside, but I wasn't concerned. After all, this place was huge. They've got to have way more service windows than the two they had at the old place, right?

Right! I walked in to find a glorious six service windows. Two of them were actually staffed. And the entire population of a small city was waiting in line. I swear, the place looked like a refugee camp. There was a family cooking over a camp stove in the corner. People were building shanties out of DMV brochures. There was a sign over the wastebasket reading "No diapers in this trash receptacle." The quiet implication was "If you've brought small children, you'll be changing them five times while you're here."

Right inside the door was a large sign advising me to take a number. I took the little arrow-shaped scrap of paper. My number was 89. The little sign on the wall gleefully proclaimed "Now serving: 46."

Fuuuuucckk. I sure was glad I took the time to fill out the paperwork at home, so I'd be ready for instant service when I got there. I looked around for a seat. Naturally, there were none. Cue the heavy sigh.

I didn't really have a place in line, and I did have my number, so I went back to the car. I dug around behind the seats until I found my prize: a pair of headphones. I rarely go anywhere without my pda, so now I had music to pass the time. I went back inside to find the happy little sign still reading "Now serving: 46."

I stood against the wall to wait. My nostrils filled with the scent of the refugees cooking fires. (Was that a cat on their spit?). The minutes ticked by in slow motion. 47. 48. 49. 48. 47. That's not a typo. The number occasionally went backwards, just to spite me.

I did the math in my head. "They've been open since 8 a.m. It's now 2 p.m. They've served 46 people today. That's six hours to get half way to my number. They close at 5 p.m., and they should be getting to my number at about 8 p.m. Fuuuuucckk."

I was going to be standing in this cramped, hot office for the rest of my vacation. And the only thing worse than waiting in a crowded DMV office is standing and waiting in a crowded DMV office. I needed one of those seats. Needed one.

50. 51. 52. Slowly, a plan formed. 53. 54. 55. I was standing next to a row of chairs. I looked down at the man on my right. 56. He was sitting with his arms folded. 57. In his hand was his paperwork and his number: 66. I grinned. I had my idea.

I took the pda from my belt and sifted through my available songs. 58. I selected a song. 59. I began to sing, quietly at first, then a little louder. 60. I started to dance. 61. Everyone was watching. 62. Keep in mind, I'm very white. What I call "dancing," other people often call "seizures." 63. I looked down at Mr. 66, a thin balding man in his 50s who was trying very hard to not look at me. I serenaded him with my sweet rendition of 50 Cent's "In Da Club." "My flow, my show brought me the dough, that bought me all my fancy things…" I turned around and did a little booty shake just for him.

Then I turned back and asked, "Can I have your seat?" He jumped up like he was sitting on a spring. Heh. Perfect. 64. I had my seat, and Mr. 66 would only have to stand for a few minutes.

I sat down triumphantly. I could not contain my grin. The young woman to my right said something to me. I couldn't hear her over my music, but she had a sour look on her face. I turned up my volume just a bit. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you." She frowned and said something else. "What? The music's too loud, I can't hear you." She frowned again, almost a comically large expression.

She grabbed her purse from between her feet and got up. She walked across the room… and sat in one of the dozen or so empty seats on the other side of the brochure rack. D'oh!

I glanced up at the happy little counter (Now serving: 65) and then buried myself in an eBook while pretending I was the only one in the room. Make an ass of myself? No, what are you talking about? I'd never do that. Everyone staring at me? No, of course not. I'm just sitting here reading a novel, waiting quietly.

I retreated into my own little world, glancing up at the happy little now serving sign occasionally. When my time neared, I turned off my music and waited quietly. Finally my number was called and I bolted up to the counter. I waited about two hours and was finished in about three minutes. My form was filled out correctly, I knew the fee and had exact change, and I flew through the cursory eye exam.

I had to wait for a few minutes to get a new photo, but I was still out less than ten minutes after my number was called. The only downside was that dreadful photo. I have short hair, but the light in the photo booth is up high. My new license photo shows the shadows of my ears and makes me look like I have a mullet.

<sigh /> I'm stuck with a mullet picture until 2012. The Curse of Riddick strikes again. At least he left my crotch alone today.

Lord of The Rings update: Monday night we finished Fellowship and made it almost half way through Towers. She actually reached the point where she started getting interested in the story. But when I started disk one of Towers she noticed the menu and asked, "Does that say 'Extended Edition?' If there's a shorter version, why in God's name aren't we watching that??"

*Subtitle: I know, my life is so much more fabulous than yours!

Sunday was a perfectly boring day. We slept as late as a five year old child would allow, then spent vast amounts of time doing as little as possible. Which is a stark contrast to my previous two chapters, I know. But we were completely and totally unmotivated. We made vague plans for later in the week, but mostly we had a real "Sunday morning lazy" kind of thing happening. Which very quickly turned into a "Sunday afternoon lazy" kind of thing.

We tried to pass the time with simple, homebound pursuits. Like, say, napping on the couch. But The Kid's boundless energy would not be subdued so easily. Eventually he was able to drag us out of the house by the hems of our shirts and we found ourselves at the playground, skateboards in hand.

We passed on the skate park this time. With its ramps and rails, the skate park is mostly for those who already know how to skate. Instead, we chose the wide open paved spaces of the basketball courts at the elementary school around the corner.

The Kid tired of skating almost immediately and left Girlfriend and I to practice while he romped on the playground equipment. We're both starting to get pretty good. And by "pretty good" I mean "we can almost go in a straight line without falling off."

We zipped back and forth, practicing our turning and our balance. Girlfriend has a distinct advantage over me with both of these. She doesn't have her own board, so she uses The Kid's nice skate shop board. I still use my crappy ten dollar Wal-Mart board. There's more of a difference than you might think. When I use the expensive board, my skills improve instantly and dramatically.

After putzing around for an hour or so, Girlfriend got a little bored and went to play with The Kid. I had the nice board all to myself for a while. I was feeling a little confident, so I decided to practice sharper turns. Big mistake.

I should have remembered that the curse of The Chronicles of Riddick was still in effect. See, the problem here is that I haven't yet purchased any pads. I'd prefer to have a helmet, elbow pads, knee pads, wrist guards, and a nut cup. And a bullet proof vest. But no… never got around to buying all that. I have only a helmet.

My natural inclination is of course to not fall. And that's amplified quite a bit by the fact that my shorts and tshirt will offer no protection. Oh, and I'm zooming around rather quickly. Maybe you can see where this is going.

So I was practicing turning when I suddenly lost balance. I didn't fall, but I came pretty close. Falling might have been preferable. No, I lost balance and steadied myself by planting one foot on the pavement. The other foot was planted firmly on that non-slip sandpaperish coating on the skateboard.

And I did the splits. Not just any split. I did a rolling split. My left foot was stuck to the board, which was still moving. So when my feet were as far apart as they could go, the momentum of the board began to drag me. This must've looked wicked funny, because Girlfriend laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd seen in a year. Or at least the funniest thing that didn't involve Ben Stiller.

I found it considerably less entertaining. That tearing muscle sensation in my groin kind of got me down. Don't get me wrong, I pull my groin all the time. But my way is usually a lot more pleasant.

I'm pretty sure that damn movie is to blame. I curse you Riddick! It's all your fault.

*Subtitle: Shut up, I'm keeping the lame title.

So anyway, my Friday passed simply and quietly. I did more or less absolutely nothing all day Saturday, so let's just pretend I spent my time nursing the soft and swishies I'd damaged by watching The Chronicles of Riddick the night before.

Saturday night, Girlfriend went out to have a little screensaver with a few friends. A little girls night out sort of thing. I stayed home, and did so quite contentedly. Nearly every man I know gets their underwear in a twist at the thought of their lady getting dressed up and going out to get smashed without them. I don't get like that. I take an entirely different view.

There are a few simple reasons people go out for a night of drinking and dancing. One of them is to see the opposite sex. Another is to be seen by the opposite sex. Girlfriend's favorite reason for going out is the second: to have men look at her.

I suspect you might be getting the wrong impression about that. She's not "that" kind of woman. But be honest. You're just like her. No matter where you are, no matter what you're doing, seeing someone check you out is a huge ego boost. Everyone likes to know they are desired. Girlfriend is no different.

She goes out with her friends or her sisters and they drink and laugh and dance and maybe flirt a little bit. And then she comes back home. And if she received a few appreciative glances (which she always does), she comes home in… ummm… a really good mood. This is why it doesn't bother me in the slightest when she goes out without me. We have a great time going out together, as we often do, but she gets far less attention when she's on my arm than when she's alone.

Some men would spend the entire time their lady is gone worrying those foolish little things we all worry about far too much. Chiefly, "what is she doing without me around to keep an eye on her?" I used to worry things like this in the early days of our relationship, but not anymore. We've been together for years, and I trust her completely. Instead of worrying, I prefer to focus on making sure she wants to come home.

WARNING: If your blog nickname begins with "S" and ends with "ister," or if you in any other way happen to be my little sister, you should skip ahead a bit. Your therapist will thank you.

While she's gone, I'll do things like cleaning, or laundry. I know, this sounds weird, but trust me guys… this is foreplay. Forget about Spanish fly and oysters and the rest of that crap. A basket of folded towels is the most powerful aphrodisiac I have ever seen.

That night I spent the time she was away cleaning the living room while watching a History Channel DVD set on ancient Rome. (I know! My life is so much more fabulous than yours!)

So anyway, Girlfriend came home more than a little drunk, which of course makes her very uninhibited. A few guys tried to flirt with her, which of course makes her feel very desirable. And the living room was spotless, which of course makes her feel more turned on than any of the rest of it.

END OF WARNING: You can start reading again here, Sister.

So, umm… about 90 minutes later, we're laying about the living room when she tells me how hungry she is. I check the refrigerator and find it's well stocked with the usual fare. And by "usual fare" I mean "a vast array of condiments, beverages, and leftovers with mold on them."

She hints around about french fries, so I grab my shoes and wallet and make the grand trek to McDonald's. And by "made the grand trek" I mean "drove four blocks." Girlfriend got home around one o'clock, which means that it's now about 2:30. Bar closing time.

Dammit. The line at the drive through stretches all the way out of the parking lot and into the street. I'm pretty sure by the time I get to the speaker box, I'll be able to order from the breakfast menu.

A few minutes after I arrived, I saw a taxi in my rear view mirror. I watched as the cab pulled to the curb and saw a young man climb out of the back. The cab pulled away and the man crossed the street to stand in line behind my car. He was on foot, walking through the drive through at 2:30 in the morning.

I stared at the man for a few minutes as he stood there looking uncomfortable. He shifted from foot to foot with his hands in his pockets. After three or four minutes of him standing, and me quietly staring, a car got in line behind him.

The new car waited a few minutes and then slowly pulled up along side the man. A young woman was driving. She was smoking and had the window open. They talked for a moment, smiling at each other a bit.

The man walked around the front of her car and got in the passenger seat. Judging by their body language, they did not know each other. I deduced that she was being kind and offering to drive him through the drive through along with her.

I watched more in my rear view. I heard nothing, but I saw their faces. I watched their lips move. They chatted idly for about a minute when he reached out his hand. They shook hands while saying something short. Introductions. They were not acquainted before now.

They talked and I stared. I realized I recognized this young woman. I'd seen her at my favorite bar many times. In fact, I see her at my favorite bar nearly every time. She's always there, dancing suggestively, drinking too much, and generally looking like she's looking for a man.

There's certainly nothing wrong with looking for a man, but making it known that you're looking for a man just kind of makes you a target. A young woman with "that look" about her is all too often a target for cads, unscrupulous men who would take advantage of a lonely woman.

So I watched this woman in my rear view and I tried to imagine what her night was like. She looked very drunk, probably far too drunk to drive, but she seemed to be managing her little manual transmission compact well. Her eyes looked heavy-lidded. Was she tired? Sad? Just drunk? A little of all of them?

I watched silently. They talked and smiled and laughed. They grew serious for a moment. He leaned in to kiss her. She kissed him back, very enthusiastically. Their kiss lasted nearly a minute. I idly wondered if she was sober enough to also focus on keeping the clutch and brake pedals depressed, or if she'd soon dart forward into my back bumper.

They separated. He looked aroused, focused now, encouraged at her reaction to him. She looked sad, depressed even. I watched them in the rear view and wondered about their thoughts. I imagine his were pretty simple. He looked completely focused on getting this woman into bed. She looked considerably more complex.

She looked like she would cry. She looked like so many thoughts were flying behind her eyes. I can't even begin to decipher them all. But it was easy to see she looked deeply unhappy. She collected herself. I watched as they continued to talk.

There were more smiling, more laughing. The sorrow never quite left her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her again. Again they parted. Again he looked encouraged. Again she looked like she would cry. Again she composed herself. Our cars crept forward a few feet at a time.

They talked. They smiled. They laughed. I watched. This time it was she who leaned in to kiss him. I could see their hands creep above the dash, touching shoulders, breasts, hair. When they parted, he looked the same as before. She no longer looked sad.

I then began to assume that what I interpreted as sadness was actually conflict. She was lost then, but not so much now. She had been wrestling with a question, and now she had her answer. Decision reached, she held her chin a little higher now. The man looked the same as he had since just before their first kiss. She looked more composed, more serene, than I'd yet seen her that night.

I finally reached the window. I paid for my fries and sandwiches and stole one last glance in the rear view. They were laughing as I drove away. I returned home.

Girlfriend and I ate on the couch, watched television, went to bed. Through it all, I thought of the lonely young woman. I wondered about her question. I wondered about her answer. I wondered how she ended her night. Regardless of what happened with the man in her car, I suspect she was alone.

[It's vacation + shenanigans. I know, it needs work. Shut up. Stop picking on me.]

*Subtitle: You call that a vacation?
 

As you all noticed (hopefully) I was just on vacation and I filled the dead air created by my absence with contributed posts. (By the way, thanks again everyone.) My vacation was pretty bland as far as that sort of thing goes. I didn't wake up on a Mexican beach with two coeds and a hangover. I didn't lose eight grand in Atlantic City. I didn't try to learn hang gliding. No, my vacation was mostly spent at home, and mostly consisted of doing nothing. And then doing some more nothing.

But as most of my regular readers have figured out by now, I'm really good at talking endlessly about nothing. Sometimes I can even make nothing seem mildly interesting. Yesterday I took some notes about all the boring, mundane things that happened while I was away. I realized that once I add a healthy dose of Pops-style smoke and mirrors (which I prefer to think of as "my unique and humorous perspective, thank you very much), I've got enough material for several posts. A small series, even.

Oh, come on! Don't roll your eyes at me like that. It's not like I need a new series to give my blog some temporary vision in the post-FIB era. That's not it at all. I'm doing it all for you, my adoring (or at least only moderately despising) readers. I'm trying to help you come down from your FIB addictions in a gradual, controlled, safe manner. Because I'm all about you, you know. Doing it for you. That's the kind of guy I am. Caring. Supportive. Full of shit.

Ahem. Now that the introductories are all out of the way, I present to you the first installment of Vacanigans.

**********

I consider my vacation to have begun the very instant I punched out at work on Friday afternoon. I don't mean "punched out" in the literal since because: Why my boss is better than yours, reason #2 - no time clock. Anyway, I left work and raced home. And by "raced home," I really mean drove slowly and safely home, all the while cursing all the other people who really were "racing" home.

So I went home and grabbed The Kid to go out and fill the gas tank ($1256.74 a gallon for regular, in case you were wondering) and get some tacos. After that, the day's real excitement came when we went to… wait for it… ready?… the video store!

Can you believe it? Can you even imagine? My life is so much more fabulous than yours, I know! But I'll make you a deal. I won't rub it in if you promise to not get all jealous. Deal? Right on.

The Kid and I wandered aimlessly about the video store for nearly a half hour while making our selections. Well, I wandered. He made his choice in less than a minute and then followed me around while asking "Dad, are you ready to go yet?" every 45 seconds.

But of course I couldn't rush things. This is the first night of vacay. My selections had to be just right. My long and arduous screening process finally produced two prize-winners: "H," which I won't talk about now because I hope to write a full fledged Half Assed Entertainment Review about it, and "The Chronicles of Riddick."

Do you remember your college/high school writing classes? That last sentence there is "foreshadowing." Meaning that I just might be telling you that I cursed myself by renting the dumbest movie I've seen all year right at the start of my vacation.

And you know, I deserve to be cursed. I'd heard that Riddick was really bad. But I wanted to see it anyway. I know, I know… I don't understand it either. It was a lot like saying, "I'm pretty sure that hitting myself in the nuts with this ball peen hammer will really hurt… but I better make sure."

Well, now I'm sure. It turns out that Riddick was slightly less fun than a ball peen hammer to the nuts. Wait! Strike that. I really want to share this sensation with all of you. If you haven't seen Riddick, you really need to go rent it. I promise, it won't hurt your naughty bits. Honest. Pinky swear.

**********

Hey, can you believe that? I had a ten day vacation (including Friday night) and I burned through an entire post talking about one insignificant event on the first day! Fantastic! We're well on the way to whipping my your FIB addiction. At this rate we'll be in recoveryville in no time.