231 years old and she doesn't look a day over 200.
The skies over our fair city were alight with firework barrages as one neighbor would respond to another neighbor's volley with a bigger, better blast. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of gunpowder, and on two occasions, I was sent diving for cover with Bryan in my arms as instructions on the munitions, like "this side up," went unheeded by some of our firing party (Kelley!). And, all this happened in a city where the use of fireworks is illegal (but that doesn't stop the city from selling licenses to firework vendors). America--home of the free and the scofflaw. ;)
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
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And don't think I'm not feeling guilty for my newfound scofflaw identity. I won't let my kids order off the kids menu if they're over a particular establishment's age limit. I won't fudge their age when paying admission to already over-priced entertainment venues. But I'll break the law when it comes to explosives? Another secret: I'm a total pyromaniac. And I have anxiety. Imagine the cognitive dissonance experienced when Jessi tried to blow up the neighborhood with that artillery shell.
LOL
Well, see, you're a scofflaw with a conscience. You dutifully recovered the remnants of your errant shots from Betty's and the sheriff's house. I think you just like to live dangerously. I bet you rip the tags off mattresses. Swim after eating. Run with scissors.
I can't imagine Kelley running with scissors. Maybe walking briskly.
But she does seem the type to gulp a slurpee, daring the brain freeze to attack.
Next year ya'll will have to play chicken. Each of you light a firecracker at the same time and hold it. See who will drop it first. Black Cats are the best for this. When it goes off in your hand, it feels like you just shut your fingers in a door.
Black Cats, huh? That's what some of our firing party threw down the sewer. The next morning I saw a city crew digging up the street by the sewer. Coincidence? I think not!
It's really interesting to listen to other people's commentaries about my tendencies toward risk-taking behavior (or lack thereof). I fancy myself this rebellious, socially conscious, feminist . . .yet you boys think the most dangerous activities I'd engage in are swimming after eating and sucking slurpies? What the heck? I think I have a new reason to get that tattoo I keep threatening. I'm wounded. Truly.
John - I have the backstory on the sewer digging. The concrete in font of Steve's house expanded and cracked his foundation, or something like that. I think Jack called it "street creep." If I didn't know that ahead of time, I'd have probably called the city and unnecessarily confessed myself into a fireworks fine.
By the way, something about holding fireworks until they explode feels pretty, ummm . . . Kansas-ish. (Whoops. There I go again.)
I forgot to add ;) , lest you think I might be less than amused with your blatant attempt to get me to blow my hand off, ya big DORK. ;)
Well, what did you expect, Kell? You're a wife and mom--a suburban wife and mom. You work for a church. How rebellious can you be? ;)
I have to think Jack would put the kabosh on you getting ink done, but then you did have that nose piercing...
ACK! I'm not a suburb-ite. Take it back! Take it back! I'm being held here against my will! *sigh*
Jesus was RIDICULOUSLY rebellious, so how come working for a church automatically qualifies me as Martha Stewart, huh? Oh, wait. Even SHE spent time in jail. (Getting nabbed for civil disobedience is on my life goal list, by the way. A good friend of mine was at a protest in DC and has that on her list of accomplishments, now. I'm so jealous.)
Jack hates tattoos. Worse than piercings. He'd be very, very unhappy with me if I got inked. He's smart enough not to openly forbid it, but he's definitely made his opinion known. And since I really love him a lot, I won't get one. But I'll probably never shut up about wanting one.
Pish posh. There's not enough explosive in forecrackers to blow your nose. Not anymore anyway.
I've blown off my fingers several times, and it feels exactly how I described it. If you doubt me, have someone slam a car door on your hand. I'm sure there will be several volunteers!
We never threw them in sewers, due to the fact you could set off trapped gases. (I'm not making that up.)
And Kelley, it's always more fun to attack the meek. If you did get a tattoo, it would probably be a flower. Or Hello Kitty. It would definitely be cute and pink. And you would probably spell it Kittey...
(You had to go and bring up Kansas again, didn't you?)
You've "blown off your fingers several times." Yeah, that's so different than blowing off your hand. ;)
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