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.

Lord of the Denim - An Adventure

I have been going to The Gap for over ten months trying to find a pair of jeans since the jeans I bought during the still hefty phase of post pregnancy were ill fitting. Luckily for me, I did manage to fit in my pre-pregnancy Banana Republic jeans. Mind you, nothing else pre-pregnancy without a muffin top. I don't get it either. I have been wearing these jeans religiously for ten months every jean day work Friday and the occasional weekend day. Which is fine, but I have been visiting The Gap approximately twice a month during this time searching for another pair. And much like Frodo's ring search, it has been an utterly tiring endeavor (but not with the homoerotic undertones). Now, I am sure you are probably saying to yourself, doesn't this girl know there are stores other than The Gap that sell jeans? And yes, this girl does, but read yesterday post about lacking a girl gene for clarification. Me no likey to shop. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I found pair to my liking, long enough and on sale for $29.99. Ca-ching! Hit the denim trifecta, anyone? I rushed to a sales person and said "Hi, can you put this on hold for me; I just need to run upstairs to my office to get something I need to return. Thanks." Upstairs I go, not believing that after an epic 300 day search, denim was found. At the counter, I informed the girl that the jeans behind her were mine, and I had a return. Gap girl says "Thirty dollars" and I am all "Aren't these jeans on sale?" "Not these". Oh my god, what to do. Not on sale? So the mental debate "Okay maybe they aren't on sale but you like them." "Yeah, I do like them, and it has been a long hunt." "You should totally buy them, forget the denim trifecta." And I did. You know why? Because I am wacky like that. Dressing this morning, I could feel the happiness well for the inaugural jeans wear. Will someone compliment me? Will John like my ass in them? Will Owen drool or vomit on them first? Frantically, I remove them from the bag, rip of tags, look down and say "Muthafarka." Why? Because there on the tag is a number, and that number is not mine, it is a "6". A six. I had got the wrong jeans, and the ones in my hands were calling me fat. As I stepped into B&R jeans for the fortieth week in a row, with a return to make, there was sadness, maybe even a tear. The good news is the jeans were still on hold - for Sandra, and they were in fact on sale. I knew it, bitch.