Bore Samples.

I just might be the dullest person in the world.

You want proof?

Daughter and I were discussing hobbies. We discussed her hobbies, we discussed Consort’s hobbies, we discussed how while the dog enjoys eating Band-Aids, that doesn’t actually qualify as a hobby.

Then Daughter said brightly, “I know what your hobby is! Your hobby is finding a parking space!”

I am happy to say it isn’t true; finding a parking space is only one of my hobbies. But for sheer visceral satisfaction, I defy any suburban/urban dweller to come up with a feeling better than having a parking space open up right in front of the building you have to enter. If there is money left in the meter, it’s nearly “Drinking single-malt Scotch while a tuxedo-clad George Clooney smiles across the table at you” good.

I’ve been dull for years, and I am very nearly comfortable with that. But in the last week, I have plummeted to some subterranean level of dreariness. I am so boring that I might serve a medical benefit; if I am taken into a Cardiac ward in a hospital and allowed to talk about what’s on my mind these days, I could bring even the most stubborn blood pressure down. The patients would have to be closely monitored, however, to make sure they didn’t slip into a coma.

Here’s a topic I’m finding compelling these days; Federal Identification Numbers. Actually, even I don’t find this topic captivating, but the Internal Revenue Service does, and what makes the IRS happy makes me enthralled, at least when I’m trying to get the taxes out of the house. The sad thing is, I need the Federal ID numbers every year, and so wouldn’t you think I’d, um, learn?

No. From April to February, I live in some exquisitely delusional state where the IRS will simply take my word for how much I’ve paid companies, and will not want back-up corroboration. From February through mid-March, I perform these increasingly frantic dances while trying to get someone from each business, school, company or organization to call me back to give me their Federal ID.

Needless to say, my request is on the bottom of the pile of the most feeble-minded intern, because my inability to plan ahead is really not their greatest problem.

[Their greatest problem, of course, being how they are trying to get other businesses, schools, companies or organizations on the horn, so they can get their Federal ID numbers, which they had failed to get earlier in the year.]

So, right now, I like to talk about Federal ID numbers. How many people have them, but stubbornly refuse to give them to me. How I called one office three times, and was given three different sets of numbers, none of which had the right amount of digits. How I should have gotten the Federal ID numbers back in October, when everyone was young and hopeful and actually returned phone calls. How if only the IRS would simply lighten up a touch, I would happily move on to another, more interesting topic.

Like the state of my dog’s digestive system.

[When I wrote “More interesting”, perhaps you thought I meant “More interesting to someone besides me”. You were mistaken.]

For an entire week, at exactly eleven thirty p.m., the dog would throw up, sometimes repeatedly. Daytime, she was just an average, elderly, smelly, Band-Aid eating dog; nighttime, it was The Exorcist. Consort (who graciously never mentions how he in no way wanted a dog) and I would have conversations like this:

(Quinn comes staggering out of the bedroom. Consort is walking outside with rags, the damning smell of Pine-Sol in the air in the laundry room.)

QUINN: Oh, no. Again?

CONSORT: Third time tonight.

(We both stare at the dog, who is staring guiltily at a wall, which is not entirely different from when she stares vacantly at a wall.)

For days, I went back and forth on what to do, and dragged everyone within earshot along with me.

She’s clearly unwell, if punctual about it. Take her to the vet.

She’s completely fine otherwise. Don’t take her to the vet.

This could be an intestinal blockage. Take her to the vet.

An intestinal blockage with a more reliable clock than the VCR? Don’t take her to the vet, just teach her to use the toilet or buy Pine-Sol in bulk.

It’s been two weeks of vomiting, and Consort never actually wanted a dog. Take her to the vet.

The dog has a long and storied history of having weird, random symptoms which end up requiring expensive tests which prove nothing. Eventually, the symptoms go away. Don’t take her to the vet, and look into any subsequent pet being small, cheap, and physically incapable of vomiting.

Of course I took her to the vet. Once I made the appointment, she stopped vomiting and hasn’t so much as burped since then. But, knowing her Byzantine ways, I knew that if I had cancelled the appointment, she would have rewarded us with nightly peristaltic fireworks until Thanksgiving.

I am unsurprised to tell you the basic blood work showed her to be an elderly dog with no immediate medical concerns and a real talent for costing me money.

But my favorite screamingly boring topic right now is The Incision. The doctor has finally impressed upon me that a) Scalp wounds take forever to heal, b) My treatment of said scalp wound will make all the difference between completely healing and not completely healing, and c) Not completely healing will mean having to do this again. So now, it’s all about making the incision happy.

Unfortunately, the incision and I have fundamentally different ideas of what constitutes a life well-lived.

I like hot showers, training for Mount Whitney, and brushing my hair without having to take a pain pill ahead of time.

The incision likes tepid showers, sitting still while wearing an ice pack on my head and a warm compress on my neck (to help the neck spasm I have gotten from holding my head still so the ice pack won’t fall off) and naps.

The incision hates hats, which means I walk around wearing the incision like an ugly moist accessory all the time, which means that anyone over 5’8” can say helpful things like “Is your head supposed to be leaking?”

The incision hates when I lean over, which means I either wear slip-on shoes or tie my shoes by doing this sort of modified curtsey.

The incision hates sneezing, yelling or laughing. If I sneeze, laugh or yell, the incision rewards me with the sensation of my brain rocketing up through my skull.

I am appeasing something with only slightly fewer demands than Mariah Carey.

And I simply must talk about it. Even though it’s gross, even though it’s dull, even though I know that, at some point in the monologue, I will say to my hapless victim, “Here, just look at it. You’ll see where the stitches started to come loose-hey, where are you going?”

I am dullard, hear me bore.