Happy Anniversary

Today I celebrate five years of marriage with John McCall - five years, two kids and seemingly 13.5 hours of sleep. Last night, as we were going to bed, John said called me a doofus. You see, I am one of those people who only truly believe humorous acknowledgments of my being. I live for the joke, this is not to say that I am not serious, I am in ways. But I much prefer to laugh than lament. For example, the other night on the Bachelorette, one of the bachelors was having a serious conversation with his mom about his emotional development, his acceptance of himself and his new reality of wanting to be a person of substance. His mother listened intently, thanking him for an apology. All the while I am watching this, I am saying in my head - Do people really act like this? If I was to tell my mother any of that, she would have said “Oh my god, Cassie. What the fuck is wrong with you? Get a load of Cassie Mikey, Ms. la deee da. Emotional reality? Oh for Christ’s sake. Shut up and get over yourself.” So yeah, I don’t take things of a serious nature very seriously. But neither does John. After his doofus comment, I retorted with “Well, you are the one that proposed to me.” And he said, “Did I?” And I said, “Yeah, right?” To which he responded, “Ah, I don’t know.” And I guess I could have been “that” girl who can’t believe her husband forgets such important things, but seriously, I had no freaking clue either. The only reason I know today is my anniversary is because I have the wedding invitation on my refrigerator. So, yeah, Happy Anniversary John. You may or may not have proposed, but who cares really? I 50s styled trapped you by getting pregnant and now you are condemn to a life with a girl who doesn’t like birthday gifts, anniversary gifts, Christmas gifts but will instead play fantasy sports with you while drinking gimlets. Cheers to us. Also, we sorta kinda made these two nitwits.

Its Starts Early . . .

While Maggie repeatedly uses the phrase “Where my socks?”, when John repeats it, she suddenly remembers that said socks are “downstairs in my bed.” John then volunteers to get said socks. And there you have it, pretty girls getting guys to do things for them when they can do it themselves, starts very early, indeed. Also, her curls are killing me I love them so much.

I Knew He Was Giving Me Come Hither Eyes

"My cashier today was Randy." Capital R. Not only does Safeway provide an avenue for me to get food and booze, but now I bear witness to a sexually agitated cashier. Was it because of me? I think so.

Please note, that yes, I am a coupon cutter. Don’t judge me, because food shopping is more fun when it is a competitive sport. And the answer to your question is “Yes, I am a still big ole nerd.”

Kaboom, Kaboom - A Fourth of July Tale

The Fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays - possibly because it too qualifies as a drinking holiday and there is the added bonus of fireworks. The combination of nighttime explosiveness with cheap beer is one of the pleasures in life worthy of awesomeness. Growing up, because we had a pool, my family would have an annual 4th of July party. My parents, each the middle of seven children, would invite our family -lots of uncles, aunts and cousins. It was fantastic for us kids - barbeque, swimming, playing - and equally fantastic for our parents - barbeque, beer, the kids not driving me bonkers (I now know this).

A few weeks prior to one 4th of July party, my father came home with a gift. During my Dad’s drinking days, he would often come home from the bar with a surprise. One time he came home with a dozen cream filled Dunkin Donuts because they were my favorite (best Dad ever), another a pizza with everything on it, including anchovies (what the hell Dad?), but that night he came home with a box of fireworks. Living in Massachusetts you can’t buy fireworks anywhere because they are banned. But my Dad gave me and my brother, ages 8 and 10, fireworks for 4th of July - again, BEST DAD EVER!

I can’t completely describe the level of obsession my brother and I had for those fireworks, but it bordered on unhealthy. We would take them out of the box one by one, examining them, talking about the order they would be fired, how the one shaped like a tank was his, and the roman candles were mine. We pretended, we plotted, and we prodded along in a firework haze waiting for the party, where we could enact our extravagantly thought out plan.

That day was one of the happiest of my life, it rivaled Christmas morning. When will it be dark? When? WHEN? Our many cousins arrived, and each one was brought them up to Michael’s room where his closet held our magnificent treasure. The day progressed. We swam, we ate and we showed the fireworks approximately 300 times. As it began to get dark, we brought the fireworks outside in their box. Carefully going over the order of what would be done. Michael was first with a bottle rocket, and I would follow with a roman candle. Finally, after what seemed like a century of waiting, we were given the okay. Most of the family was situated on the lawn by the tree, my mother on her lawn chair with beer in hand. (An example I am proud to follow.)

Michael held the bottle rocket up and ignited it to a screaming ear popping blast. Hurray! Now the real display was to begin, I reached down and grabbed a roman candle. Michael lit it. I held it to the sky when boom, one went off, two went off. Wow, there are lots of sparks. Another boom and more sparks. Then it happened, below my feet catching all those sparks was our utter happiness, our box of fireworks. Lesson to you, when setting off fireworks, the box containing said fireworks should never be below the ones that you are currently lighting. I remember turning and seeing explosive light everywhere. Some people screaming, but most people running. They went everywhere, all at once - flashes of light, booms, and bottle rockets screeching. Five minutes later, my Dad managed to grab the hose, so that it was over. The box a sodden charred reminder of what was. We walked over, my brother and I, looking upon the wreckage in tears. He picked up his tank, and then dropped it defeated. I think he may have forgiven me, but I can’t say for sure.

My mother still says that it was the best fireworks show she ever witnessed, because unlike the rest of us she remained seated and watched - her possible death only 10 feet away (again, she is kind of awesome, right?). But for my brother and me, it was our first true heartbreak. We thankfully managed to get over it, and now that story is one of our family’s funniest. Which in a way, is what 4th of July is all about. Taking a break from it all to be with the ones we love and remembering our history all while drinking beer and watching explosions in the sky - or around your backyard because some dumbass decided a box of fireworks would be best by her feet. Fourth of July, I love you.