This has been one of the most enjoyably relaxing vacations I’ve ever, ever had. I’ve soaked up visiting with people, doing small projects around the house, reading and drawing and just being around the girls, and generally feeling laid back. But since today was my last chance at break, I kicked my butt into gear.

M had taken the girls in the van into town, so I washed all the hard floors, folded and hung laundry, and didn’t think about this evening’s supper which M had asked me to make until I went to town and the grocery store.

As I wolfed down a meager lunch, I decided that taking the key ring with just the car keys–and not also the van keys–would be fine. Of course there was always the chance that M would accidentally lock her key in the van and would need me to rescue her, but since that has never happened, I figured I’d be alright with just the car keys.

It turned out I was, insofar as she didn’t, but my brother-in-law didn’t make out so well. I crossed paths with him in the hardware store, where he was asking for a jimmy-a-long or some such thing to use to break into his van.

“I never even lock the van,” he groaned, “but I did today. And I was having a productive morning, too.”

At the grocery store I found some pork chops cheap but passed up a sweet ice cream deal because chocolate mint chip wasn’t one of the options; on a lark I also snatched a bundle of rotten bananas.

As exciting as each of these developments were, however, the highlight of my day came at the gas station. I’d brought along 27 gallons of gas cans to fill, plus needed to top off the car tank, so I maxed out my credit card’s $100-at-a-time gas purchase limit. As I was grabbing my receipt and turned to re-seat myself, a truck pulled up on the other side of my pump.

I didn’t pay it or its driver any mind, but I heard him bellow, “You know, boy, that your taxes are going up.”

I didn’t know who he was talking to so I ignored him, but by the time I’d lifted the car door handle, he was in full view, just a big, ruddy elderly man unscrewing his gas cap.

He bellowed again, this time directly at me, “Your taxes are going to go up. You’re going to have to pay more taxes.” He didn’t look happy about it.

It doesn’t happen often, in moments like these, that I am able to think of the exactly right thing to say until hours later. Today, however, my second cup of breakfast coffee seemed to help.

“Well,” I smiled politely, “maybe some good will come of that.”

“You must like Obama,” he bellowed.

Now, I admit I like Obama. But I also like the Libertarian Gary Johnson, for whom I voted last year. Go figure, how I can prefer two leaders of such different political persuasions; I guess it means I’m open minded, whatever that means, or maybe severely fickle (my mom used to call me that regarding my romantic interests, which varied from day to day).

However, my open-mindedness shuts every available in-leaking orifice whenever conservative-radio listeners begin to rant, so I smiled again and said, “I’m Libertarian,” and buckled my seat belt.

He didn’t waste any time in bellowing back, “Well, then you’re an idiot.”

I could do nothing but laugh and laugh, start the car, and drive away.

Back at home after a few other stops, I prepped supper, then gathered tools to work on my shed roof. The shingles have a leaky area which I’ve tried unsuccessfully to fix before, so I’d gleaned some plastic foundation sealer sheeting or something like that from my parents’ construction site to cover the suspect area. But the roof was still ice covered, so I gave up and decided instead to use the new chain saw chain I’d just bought for cutting up some branches I’ve accumulated.

If you haven’t tried accumulating branches, you really should give it a go.

Trouble was, after about five minutes of really swell cutting, I hit a nail or something with the saw and from then on it cut like fine-tooth sandpaper, so I ended my outdoor work stint with filling some new driveway potholes with gravel.

Somewhere in there I dropped over to my sister’s house to borrow some cream cheese. Earlier in the afternoon I’d gotten the recipe for the cake I’d made from her blog, but was opting to make a non-peanut butter version of her recommended icing.

“I have two packages,” she said.

“I just need one.”

“Okay. And you don’t have to return it, either, since we’re leaving the country.”

“In that case, can I have both?”

“Yes, but let me check this recipe right now…I might actually need it. Ah-ha. Yes, I need it. Sorry, you can have only one package.”

“What are you making?” I asked.

“Just some peanut butter icing.”

Yup, the same icing I’d decided not to make.

And then, glory be, it was suppertime: perfectly steamed carrots, perfectly cooked and straight-from-the-rice-cooker jasmine rice, crock pot chunks of pork wallowing in high-fructose corn syrup barbecue sauce, and banana cake with cream cheese icing and cold milk.

We were ready for the meal, too. The girls shoveled it down, and so did I. M took dainty bites.

By bedtime we’d eaten all but one tiny piece of the pound and a half of meat, more than two-thirds of the rice (I’d put four cups of dry grains into the cooker), all five of the steamed carrots, and over a quarter of the 9×13 banana cake.

“It’s my consolation meal,” I told everyone, “since I have to go back to school tomorrow.”