Apparently my crabbitude has extended beyond the walls of my basement fortress, as I am being forced by the "higher ups" to take a minimum of three consecutive days off from work sometime in the next 3 weeks. Forcing me to "take time off" and "take a well-earned break." How dare they?! If I lose my crabby edge, there will be hell to pay. DO YOU HEAR ME?! HELL! TOUPEE!
Actually, when I think about it, I haven't taken time off work since the old lady and I dumped the kids with Gramma & Grampa and flew to Portland for a week. That was in August. No wonder I'm cranky.
So, I was trying to figure out where to go. The old lady and the kiddies can't come, because they have their dumb old "school." So I'll have to go it alone. At first, I was thinking, perhaps, a trip to New York might be fun. Do some shopping, eat some good food, spend what little savings I have, freak out from all the fucking people everywhere, get lost, get pushed in front of a subway car, die.
That could be fun.
Or, I could go someplace where I could kick back, relax, breathe in some crisp, fresh air, live off the fat of the land, do some hiking, stumble into a small-town bar, have a Miller Hi-Life, get the shit kicked out of me for being a "jew-boy."
That's right -- I'm going to Bozeman, Montana.
I have a friend who moved out there a few years back who is just the greatest guy ever. Funny, smart, mellow, musical, and he's out there with his old lady and their daughter. In fact, I'm just remembering that I know another guy who recently moved out there with his family from California who is just like the guy I'll be staying with. Salt of the earth fellows, I must say.
I'm pert with excitement. I've gotta get me some hiking boots and, I don't know, a canteen and some pemmican. What is pemmican? I think you eat it. I'm gonna get me some pemmican. Sounds like a cop on some 70s TV show. "Hello, ma'am. I'm Pemmican. Frank Pemmican."
Yeah, I need a fucking break.
Oh, one quick Mr. Z nugget. We took the kidlets to "Twisty's," for ice cream after dinner tonight. I don't think it's really called "Twisty's" but it's something like that. "Coney's"? "Ice Creamy's"? No. What the fuck?! It doesn't matter.
So, Mr. Z got a slushie (after taking about a 1/2 hour to decide). We sat outside and ate for awhile and then piled back in the car. Both the old lady and I warned Mr. Z not to spill his Slushie if he was going to take it in the car. Why? Because we knew he was going to fucking spill it.
And he did. He didn't really freak out too much, though. He just said something like, "Oh no! I just spilled my Slushie!"
The old lady and I replied, at the exact same time, "There's a surprise." [Harsh, I know, but I need a vacation. I don't know what the old lady's excuse is.]
But the greatest part is that Mr. Z shot back, completely deadpan, I might add, "I love sarcasm."
The kid kills me.