Chuck is on vacation, but I'm not yet. This is pretty confusing for me because I'm no match for his mental forcefield. So if his brain is in leisure mode, if he's set his work shoes aside with a declarative "I WILL NOT PUT MY FEET INTO THESE FOR TWO WEEKS, SO HELP ME ...," then all of a sudden I find myself holding a grudge against any situation that requires more effort than sweatpants.
So I guess I'm on Vacation-ish. Or Vacation Lite. Or Pre-Vacation.
Yesterday we went to Fall Fest and the PBG hi-fived everyone on the bus on the way to Chester Bowl. We entered in a frantic Ergo Carrier, unnecessary sweatshirts, sunscreen, where's-my-purse swirl and didn't have our recommended $2 donation at the ready. "Have a nice time," a volunteer seemed to sneer. We lunched on gyros and cheese curds. I swiped at JCrew's face with her brand new mittens. The PBG touched a dog's nose and then hi-fived everyone on the bus away from Chester Bowl.
We went to a used bookstore and all I could see in my head was a tower of mass market mysteries toppling with a single King Kong-ian swipe by The Girl.
The PBG fell asleep in her stroller as we walked toward the Hot Air Balloon Festival at Bayfront so just inches from the gate we veered left. It seemed pointless to enter if she was going to miss it. We wound around the back of the entertainment center, knocked on the side of a beached art installation that failed to float. It was a gorgeous day and we looked at the water before hiking back toward the car we'd ditched about 3 miles away.
Only later, in the Papa Murphy's parking lot, did we learn that we'd missed this. A massive freighter missed a turn and damn near took out Bayfront. It had been a mere parks-length away from where we shrugged, disinterested, and opted out of the festival. I hate missing cool shit. So we raced to one of the highest points of West Duluth and peered East but couldn't see a lick of it. Blerg.
Then we watched a half-dozen episodes of "Californication" -- the Rick Springfield season.