I hope my autobiographer will be so kind as to gloss over the boring parts of my life, for I don't want to be remembered by the three people who will proof-read the book as a dull boy. Prefaced that way our last three-day weekend as unencumbered, childless, nearly-carefree middle-aged adults was far from thrilling, and hopefully not defining. It was a weekend filled with an exercise in building patience, stamina enriching events, a life-sized game of Tetris, some homemade pizza, and a wee bit of sloth.

We decided to segregate our vacation into stages (three stages, if you have been keeping up). The third stage was our actual anniversary, and for that we got away from everyone, including our little kitties. Thursday, the anniversary of the wedding rehearsal (if anyone were fool enough to celebrate that agonizing day), we drove back from California, unpacked, and spent a night in our own bed. Friday we packed light, one duffle bag which Holly managed to stuff so full it weighed something on the order of a metric ton (well, fifty pounds anyway). By comparison I could have packed all I needed in the pockets of my shorts (cargo shorts but still, only 6 pockets).

The doc came back with a solid, but unwanted answer: my father-in-law has pneumonia. It's in his lower left lobe of his lung, which if I'm not terribly mistaken was the same place I had it many years ago (more than 10 so I've stopped counting; I refuse to accept I'm getting that old already). On doctor's orders he is supposed to be down for 10-14 days; this translated into two low-key days, which suited me just fine; this also meant we were not to go to the coast, which had the rest of the family a little bummed. We had also entertained the idea of inviting some of Holly's old school chums over for a BBQ, but since the friends in question all had little kids (one under a year old) we figured exposure to pneumonia wouldn't be good social form.

“Big” is a funny word; its a comparative word, although its cousins “Bigger” and “Biggest” are most known for their comparison. Nevertheless you can't have “Big” on its own because without some thing small to compare it to it'll go unknown. You'll forgive me, then, if I say we had a “Big” weekend at the Ranch, for our “Big” might very well be “Small” or “Moderate” or even “Normal”.

The Drive

The big drive down to The Ranch was blessedly shorter than our usual trip to California, but only by about an hour. It took us nine hours to drive from our house to The Ranch, a driving distance of about 430 miles. Traffic was actually light most of the way, and we didn't get into any construction until we got onto Highway 101 (I guess it was jealous that I-5 was getting all the construction attention). We split the driving duties, but not by choice, per se.

"Vacation (vay KAY shun) noun: 1. An infinitesimally short period of time one waits all year for only to stress about accommodations, activities, and budget. 2. The most stressful time of a year. 3. A break from work so fraught with peril as to make work preferable. 4. The time when your immune system decides to embrace a 'good-will' policy toward all infections, bacteria, and virii allowing them to run rampant." (New Pessimist Dictionary of Seth)

The pressure has been slowly building over the last couple of months; our one week off in July was growing ever close and we'd need something to do with it (or so conventional wisdom says). It's a simple fact: vacations cost money. Money seems hard to come buy these days, and thus vacations seem hard to take. Sure, you might get time off from work, but can you afford to do anything other than lounge around your house all day playing video games, reading books, and winking suggestively? As much fun as that may sound were I to try that tactic I'd only have a pair of cats to wink at, and that's just no good. Time for plan B.