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I speak in the metaphorical sense, insofar as that I’m not actually in Vacationland right now — although I was earlier today. Nevertheless, today marks the 60% completion point of my first full week off in… uh… three years. So I’d better start enjoying this, because I’m probably not getting another one until August/September, 2010.

So. How has your week been thus far? That’s nice. Mine was just like that, only with less work. A brief recap:

MONDAY
8:15am: Kick kids out the car door at daycare. Go to dump. Do 3 weeks’ worth of recycling. Cut finger on a can of soup I ate while TheWife was in Nevada. Mmm… blood.

Now that’s what I call a vacation! Boo-ya!

8:45am: Swing back home, grab TheWife, and head off on daytrip #1 — Destination: Woodstock, Vermont. One of the most idyllic (and heavily touristed) towns in New England, and a place where we’d spent several long weekends… you know, back before we had kids and died. We haven’t been there in years. This is very exciting.

The sky is blue! The sun is shining! The stereo is blasting happy songs, and we’re on the road… on a weekday! Without kids! Yeeeee-haw!

10:15am: I’m staring at the tail lights of about 200 cars in front of me, stretching as far as I can see up the hill. The right lane of I-89 in western New Hampshire is closed for construction, reducing this interstate to a single lane… and it’s. Stopped. As. Dead. As. My. Capacity. For. Joy. These people, this construction… they are standing (or parking) between me and potential happiness. I am seething with rage. My teeth are grinding to nubs. I think my head is going to explode. Vacation fucking sucks.

11:40am: We have successfully arrived in our destination region. Before hitting Woodstock, we’ve stopped in nearby Queechee for lunch at Simon Pearce. We have no reservations at this very popular spot, and when we walk in we see a line of retirees all waiting to get in at the opening gun, claim all the sweet seats, and start talking about golf and finances. Whatever… we’re here.

Miraculously, as we’re led into the restaurant, I spy a single open table for two against the wall of windows. Even more miraculously, that’s exactly where they lead us — a perfect seat literally perched over the junction where the Ottauquechee River goes over the falls… probably the single most beautiful place I’ve ever sat in a restaurant.

Great food. A nice glass of pinot. A heart-stoppingly gorgeous view. Not bad.

1:00pm: We explore every artsy-craftsy shop in Woodstock. All of them. TheWife enjoys their wares, while I… uh… get really bored. Whatever — it’s still not work.

1:20pm: Hey, look — this place has pottery. Why don’t we check it out?

1:40pm: Wow, that was hand-weaved by a local artisan? You don’t say. How fascinating.

1:55pm: I start to wonder what’s going on at work.

2:25pm: We’re sitting along the edge of the Ottauquechee River at the Long Trail Brewery, enjoying a fresh pint and the sensation of not sitting under artificial lights. And then suddenly, it occurs to us: we have children. And we have to pick them up. 160 miles away. Soon.

Fuck.

TUESDAY
7:00am: I’m on my hands and knees, disassembling a crib with an allen wrench. Today’s the day the twins are getting their big girl beds delivered to our house, and we’ve been informed by the recorded voice of Barry from Jordan’s Furniture that they’ll be by “between 7 and 11 on Tuesday morning” with the goods. Given that the girls were sleeping in these cribs until about 5:45am, I’m just hoping I have time to get them disassembled and moved out before the new beds arrive. It’s a logistical issue: it’s a small bedroom with a small doorway. I can’t roll the cribs out (they won’t fit), and I’m not sure if they’ll have enough room to put the new beds together if there’s even a single crib left. Two cribs… forget it. Not an option.

7:25am: I finish disassembling the first crib, and move all the parts out of the room.

7:30am: As I help TheWife load the kids into the truck so she can take them to daycare… the Jordan’s delivery truck arrives.

Fuck.

10:00am: The beds have been assembled, the cribs have been disassembled, I’ve made about 200 trips from the top floor to our basement and back (usually carrying furniture or heavy boxes… this is also, apparently, the perfect time for me to put some other heavy things into storage), and I’m now drenched in sweat. I beg TheWife for 10 minutes to shower and have some water, as I’ve had neither yet this morning. She fixes me with a steely gaze.

“Are we having fun yet?” I ask.

11:30am: Hey, whaddya know… it’s beer’o’clock already. Imagine that.

12:30pm: Hey, whaddya know… we’re seeing a movie! The Bourne Ultimatim. Turns out to be light on plot, and so overwhelming jump-cut-edited that it makes my skull throb. Still: it’s not work, and it’s not child care. Wheeeee!

3:30pm: Time to run home, furiously wash the new twin bedsheets we just bought, and have everything ready for the girls for the official “big girl bed unveiling” when they return home.

5:40pm: Rabbit: “I want my old bed! I want my old bed! AAAAAAAAAAAA…”

WEDNESDAY
8:40am: We’re on the road, headed to Maine. Freeport. Mecca.

10:10am: We pass through Portland, and officially leave touristy “Down East” Maine behind. The traffic grows much thinner. It starts to feel like the real deal (if only for a day). TheWife and I look at each other and smile. “I just realized we’re in Maine. I like Maine.” TheWife says. I know exactly what she means.

10:40am: We arrive, and are immediately draped in acres of fleece and flannel. Good lord, I’ve come home.

11:30am: Wow, bedding is really expensive. Are you sure the girls really need this?

12:00pm: We leave Bean’s, laden with goods. “Hey, look — a J. Crew outlet! And then Banana Republic, and…” TheWife starts feeling giddy. “That’s great,” I say. “I’m glad we came all the way up here so we could go to the exact same stores we see every day.”

“They’re outlets,” she explains. “They’re different.” Oh.

1:45pm: We’re sitting outside on the deck at Gritty McDuff’s. I’m midway through my first Hallowe’en Ale. TheWife is working her way through a beer sampler. The food is good. The sun in shining. The sky is blue. And I… relax.

Finally.

Ah. (That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.)

Did I mention that next week marks the first full-week-off-vacation that TheWife and I have had in 3 full years? True story. Where are we going? Nowhere, and we’re getting there fast.

To clarify: we didn’t have the cash back in Feb/March to rent a place up in Acadia (there were some other logistical issues that got in the way, as well), so instead we decided to do a week’s worth of save-our-marriage days — dumping the kids off at daycare each morning, and then speeding off to have as much R&R as we can squeeze into 9.5 hours. Maybe we’ll head up to the Woodstock, VT area for a day, or maybe we’ll go sea kayaking, or maybe we’ll just fucking sleep. I don’t know. All I know is that for 9.5 hours, Monday-Friday, I will not be a) providing child care or b) sitting under fluorescent lights being a productive citizen.

The really sad part is that I’m so burned out right now that I’m not even excited… I know intellectually that the week off will be a good thing, but I just don’t have the energy within me right now to feel that way that you’re supposed to feel about a vacation. I guess that’s what I’m hoping will come out of the week: a re-ignition of my pilot light.

Wish me luck.

This is so absurdly easy that I’m almost embarassed to post it. Then, I remember that I am a father of 3 and no longer capable of shame. Anyhow… courtesy of the Bible of Meat (1st Edition):

TIPSY CHICKEN

INGREDIENTS
1/3 cup bourbon (be generous)
2 TB maple syrup (the real stuff)
1 TB good dijon-style mustard
1 TB freshly-minced garlic

2 pairs’o’chicken breasts

2 TB extra virgin olive oil
2 Tsp kosher salt
1/2 tsp fresh-ground black pepper

DIRECTIONS
1. Clean and dry chicken breasts with a paper towel. Get a 1-gallon plastic ziploc bag, throw the chicken inside, then add the bourbon, maple syrup, mustard and garlic. Press out all the air, then seal the bag. Mush the marinade all together until it’s good and mixed. Put the bag in a bowl, and put in your fridge for 8-24 hours.

2. When ready to cook, remove the chicken from the bag and dry with paper towels. Brush with olive oil, then rub in salt & pepper.

3. Grill over medium/high heat.

4. Eat. Drink. Be merry.

1. Locking them in the basement. (Hey, I would leave a light on. I’m not a monster, you know.)

2. Setting up a series of tests of physical strength and cunning to determine which one of them will be voted off the island my property.

3. Taking them down to the Cape for a little swim.

4. Bringing them into my office so I can catch up on everything I’m not going to have time to do this week, while they destroy everything in Sporty’s cube. (No, I’m not bitter she’s on vacation this week. Why do you ask?)

5. Teaching them how to “get daddy a beer,” including proper usage of bottle openers.

6. Crushing their hopes and dreams.

7. Expanding their minds.

8. Playing dead, and waiting to see how long it takes before one of them decides to eat me.

9. Dressing in drag and explaining, “You have to call me Mommy now.”

10. Counting the hours, minutes and seconds until TheWife gets home.

I’ve just gotta say… if your wife goes out of town for 9 days, leaving you alone in the dead hot middle of summer with three vicious little parasites, no air conditioning and – really – no sense of hope whatsoever while she spends 5 days doing business in a place riddled with 4/5 star restaurants (“Oh, your filet at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant was a little disappointing last night? That’s too bad, because mine was great. Except, you know, for the fact that it was a fucking Thomas’ mini-bagel and not a filet.”) and air conditioning and king-sized beds in rooms with three (3) plasma TVs (because you need one in the bathroom) and air conditioning before she rewards those 5 days of (I’ll admit) hard labor with 4 days of impossibly beautiful R&R while she attends a wedding… and if, as it happens, that week coincides with A) your lesbian cohort Sporty going out of town for summer vacation, as well as B) a sudden and impossible crush of WORKWORKWORK with sudden and impossible deadlines and literally a dozen people breathing down your neck every second you’re there because you – YES, YOU! – have become the bottleneck, my friend, and if about halfway through this hypothetical week (hypothetical, my ass), you are able to briefly escape from work and grab lunch with TheCEO and discover a place that actually serves Dogfish Head’s 60-Minute IPA on tap…

…and you find yourself savoring a brief and fleeting moment of grace, a tantalizing, delicious glimpse of freedom and joy as captured in amber fluid…

Well, let me tell you… that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

Oh, mercy…

A partial list of people I’d be willing to club like baby seals if it would magically result in my house having central air conditioning:

* The “Sleep Technicians” (aka bed salesmen) at my local Jordan’s Furniture, five of whom gave me glowering, sour, disapproving, “why can’t you control your children” looks when one of my demonic offspring had a meltdown there last week. My response: A) Fuck you; and B) Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!

* Whoever told my mother the ending to the new Harry Potter book (she asked, because she’s evil that way). Every since she found out, she’s been threatening to spill the beans and ruin my experience much in the same way that she did Million Dollar Baby (The all-time evil quote from my mother, as TheWife and I prepared to walk out the door to go see the movie: “You know she dies in the end, right?” Evil. Evil. Evil.). Since matricide is beyond even my capabilities, I’ll transfer my anger one step up the food chain to whoever first imparted this information, and express my displeasure via Louisville Slugger: Wham!

* The jackass in the black Range Rover Sport who cut me off in traffic this morning. You get it to the back of the head: Wham! And after I’m done with you, I’m gonna do a little creative body work on your big, shiny, mechanically unreliable status symbol: Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!

* Barry Bonds, because he’s a terrible person doing terrible things to the sport I love. This may take a little extra time and effort, insofar as that Barry’s bloated Michelin Man body and bull elephant skull are probably more resilient than normal human tissue, but in the end I think it would be well worth the effort: Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!

* Rick Pitino, because today’s rumors about a big Celtics trade have reminded me of just how deeply I hate, hate, hate you and everything you did to this once-glorious franchise. Larry Bird might not be walking through that door, and Kevin McHale might not be walking through that door, but do you know who is? Here’s a hint: Wham! Wham! Wham! Oh, hold on… my bat got stuck in your big shiny hair. Let me pry it out…. uh! And again: Wham!

* Everyone responsible for TheWife’s forthcoming 9-day business/pleasure trip to Nevada. Compared to the 9 sweaty, sleepless days of screaming, Wiggles, screaming, Barney, screaming, screaming, and other screaming I’ll be experiencing during that time… you’re getting off easy. Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!

A great summer dessert, corrupted from another, less dangerous recipe:

BLUEBERRY BOURBON CRISP

Ingredients
* 2 pints fresh blueberries
* 1 TB lemon juice
* 3/4 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
* 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
* 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
* 1 stick butter, warmed to “kinda squishy” temp
* 3/4 cup old-fashioned rolled oats (e.g. Quaker)
* 1.5++ TB bourbon

Directions
1. Preheat your oven to 375. Grease a shallow 9×9 baking dish/pan/thing with butter or margarine.

2. Wash your blueberries, then spread them evenly over the bottom of the baking dish thing. Sprinkle the lemon juice over the top. (Don’t use too much lemon juice — that definitely makes things more tart. Unless you like tart, in which case… I think we’re done talking.)

3. In a bowl, use your hands (seriously — it’s messy, but there’s no other way) to mix together the butter, brown sugar, flour, rolled oats, cinnamon and bourbon. When it’s all well-combined and pretty moist (if it’s not moist enough, just add more bourbon. It’s magic that way.), sprinkle it evenly over the blueberries.

4. Throw it in the oven for 30 minutes.

5. Serve warm with good vanilla ice cream.

This recipe is absurdly simple, very quick, and very good. And with blueberries coming into season, it’d be a crime not to savor ’em in this fashion. Enjoy!

Oh, yes I did. I fled my family for three days, leaving them behind in a could of dust and jet fuel as I flew the friendly skies did whatever the fuck it is that US Airways does and made my way to Washington, D.C. for an extended weekend.

Now, not a lot of people realize this, but Washington D.C. is actually the capital of the entire country. It’s true. Which meant that in between beers and margaritas and other beers, I somehow managed to get glimpses of the Capitol Building, various and sundry U.S. Departments of blahblahblah (“Oh, boy — Agriculture!” (long pause) “Shut up.”), the Washington Monument (“Hey, that reminds me… of me!” (long pause) “Shut up.”), a union protest of some sort involving a giant inflatable rat, and the National Zoo (where I spent most of the time carrying around someone else’s kid as I searched in vain for a tapir). It was highly educational and patriotic, and I highly recommend it as a vacation destination for other people fleeing their children.

What happened? What did I do? What did I see? Oh, your excitement is contagious. Here, let us share in the wealth and wonder of my experience.

* The Metro rocks, y’all. Honest to God — you can go just about anywhere, and it’s clean, and it’s comfortable, and there are signs everywhere that tell you when the next train is coming (living in Boston, I can’t tell you what a revelation this is. I had no idea such things were even possible.), and it puts every other form of public transportation I’ve ever taken to shame. After I arrived at DCA, I had to take the subway into the city to meet my friend Demoncrat, and I was a little apprehensive about the journey. Little did I suspect that the train station was literally connected to the airport, and less than 35 minutes after stepping off the plane I’d be walking through downtown DC, nearly getting sideswiped by some jackass in a Bentley Azure. Bravo, DC. Bravo.

* After arriving downtown, I lured my friend Demoncrat and one of his colleagues out for lunch, whereupon we had a coupla beers and I said all kinds of vaguely off-color stuff that the colleague spent the better part of the lunch ignoring. Eventually I became self-conscious about my apparently horrifying stupidity, stopped talking, and concentrated on my beers. That evening, some six hours later, I made some apologetic comment to MrandMrsDemoncrat about what a dick the colleague apparently thought I was, and how I was sorry if I’d been grossly offensive. Demoncrat’s reponse: “Oh, I don’t think he was wearing his hearing aid.” Me: “What?” Demoncrat: “Yeah, he’s pretty deaf. (brief pause) I guess it didn’t occur to me to mention that.” Me: “No, it was much better that I spent the entire day feeling like a dick. Thanks.”

* Following those inaugural beers (please note my clever DC/political wordplay), we took the Metro out to Demoncrat’s home, where we had another beer, and then wandered out to some really nice neighborhood and meandered around until we found this really cool bookstore and hey, look, it’s got a bar and a cafe, and hey, look, it’s happy hour! and then we may or may not have had a couple more beers. Then we slowly floated back to Chez Demoncrat and met up with his lovely Mrs. and made our way out to a very nice Mexican place where we proceeded to share some food and a lovely pitcher of very strong and very good margaritas — except, of course, for the fact that MrsDemoncrat is kinda knocked up, which means that my onetime Best Man and I ended up throwing back something like 3-4 strong margaritas each. Which meant that over the course of Day 1, I had something like a half-dozen pints of beer and 3-4 really strong margaritas.

Good day.

* On Day 2, we ditched the knocked up Mrs to go see Knocked Up. Not to give anything away, but if you’ve already seen the movie… you might remember a scene in which somone tells the female lead, “Wow — you really do look a lot like your sister.” Now, when that happened, my friend snickered a bit, and I completely lost it — just helpless, gasping for breath. But no one else in the audience made a sound. I don’t know if they didn’t find it funny, or if it just went over their heads… but for a full minute afterwards, it was just me in hysterics… and crickets. Which is a very odd sensation. The only other time I can recall something similar was when I first saw Fargo. Near the end of the movie, the very pregnant cop is walking toward the house on the lake when she hears this high pitched whirring sound — and at the sound, me and one other guy in this very full theater just burst out laughing, because we knew exactly what we were hearing… it wasn’t until 10-20 seconds later that the wood chipper actually became visible on-screen, and everyone else figured out what was going on. It was an odd sensation then, and it was an odd sensation again this past weekend.

Whatever.

* Later on, we went to RFK, met up with my friend Angus and saw the Nationals/Rockies game which was… well, it was. Small crowd, lousy stadium, two very mediocre teams… I’ll have to come back next year when the new stadium opens to see what DC is really capable of delivering in a sports environment. The real excitement came afterwards, when Angus and I were trying to leave the RFK parking lot. As is the case virtually anytime you leave a “big” event, all traffic gets routed a single way (regardless of what way you actually want to go), and so Angus and I found ourselves pointing the wrong way — headed over the Anacostia River and into a part of DC that Angus promised me we didn’t want to get lost in. So, we pulled into the left lane of this 6-lane road and waited in a line of cars to make an illegal left turn. After a minute or two, we were the 3rd or 4th car back, and as we prepared to move I noticed a DC cop car pulling up slowly behind us to the right. I was expecting him to start flashing his lights or use the bullhorn to tell us all to clear out and move on, when suddenly the patrol car stopped and the cop got out.

In a split-second, the car behind us pounded the gas, jumped the 10″ median strip – losing all kinds of pieces of his undercarriage in the process – and went screaming off in the other direction. Another patrol car was coming up the road from the other direction and immediately went flying after him… at which point I glanced back over to the first cop and saw that he had his hand on his gun holster, like he was going to take a shot at the fleeing car. Fortunately, he changed his mind, jumped back into his car, bounced over the median and took off in hot pursuit.

High point of the entire trip, right there.

* I spent the night 2 in the wilds of northern Virginia, abusing the hospitality of old friend Angus, MrsAngus and BabyAngus, who I must note is one freakin’ enormous slab of beef. 18 months old and 33+ lbs? Goddamn.

* Day 3 offered a mellow flow of kickass french toast (thanks, MrsAngus), taking BabyAngus to a park (where I made not one but two diving saves as he walked off a climber/slide apparatus, showing off the strength of my Dad Fu), and then making our way in to the National Zoo, where we saw large mammals, lots of monkeys (apparently a BabyAngus favorite), no tapirs, and then – in the Bird House – some of the most profound and enormous ass cleavage I’ve ever encountered. It was a rather large woman who was crouched down in the Indoor Flight Room, where she was attempting to take a camera-movie of the Western Crowned-Pigeon of New Guinea. Granted, it was a pretty cool bird, but such was her stance that her depthless butt crevasse was unveiled in its full, unfettered glory to any with the misfortune to glance her way. I was one such poor soul, and I found myself unable to tear my eyes away. Sometimes you stare into the ass cleavage… sometimes the ass cleavage stares into you. It was hypnotic. When I was finally able to look up, I noticed MrsAngus sharing the view, biting hard on her lip to keep from busting out laughing. “What a remarkable view,” I said to her. “I don’t think I’ll ever really forget this.” And then she turned bright red, smacked me in the back of the head, and walked away before any real harm was done.

I love MrsAngus.

* And then I came home, and died. The end.