So I will.
Turns out we enjoyed a pretty eventful week around here. Not really on the Fourth of July front, which mainly involved fending off pot smoke, errant marshmallows, and a high tide, but the rest of the time? Pretty much a lot going on.
It started Wednesday night. We ambitiously took the whole family to a hotel lounge to listen to our friend play a tribute concert for a local musician who passed away last weekend. And though the mood should have been somber, Toots and Booger put an end to that with their signature ballet/tap/knocking-things-over fusion dance and periodic high-pitched screaming.
So I drank too much.
And of course went Geico™ like no one’s business. Eventually, the Rock pulled me away right in the middle of my discussion on the healing power of creativity, which was some stuff I made up because that’s the gestalt of my “Going Geico™.
Then, Thursday. Friends invited us over for an adults-only barbeque, which needing some social time that did not involve McDonald’s, we would have attended even if I had to lock the kids in the trunk with oxygen masks and a battery-powered fan. Luckily, we found a babysitter, a delightful young lady who recently turned 21, likes to go out after 11 at night, and expected us home at 10PM. (Please forgive my inelegant use of foreshadowing)
So off we went and right away, The Rock and I could tell this was one serious party crowd. Serious. There were signature cocktails, grilled asparagus wrapped in pancetta, artsy custom napkins, full-bred New Yorkers, and Paul Anka singing Nirvana.
So I drank too much.
Next thing I know, I’m discussing Tiger Woods’ mental and physical stamina, early childhood training and championships won. Which, may I remind you…well, I’m sure you get it. I pulled it all out of my butt. Again: the earmark of Going Geico™. And again, the Rock dragged me away as I putting in my last two cents about rotator cuff injuries. Also, the designer James Perse. Who is not Australian as my Geico-ness would have you believe.
It was 12:30AM.
We returned home to a bemused babysitter and a truckload of Advil. Also, popcorn, corn chips and me sitting upright for one full hour to stall the inevitable pillow spins.
I managed to make it through the night comfortably propped halfway up my couch cushions.
And so now it’s the Fourth of July and I’d like nothing better than to sweat in last night’s outfit, watching back-to-back Deadliest Catch, with maybe a couple Denise Richards reality shows thrown in. But yea, the cruel sunshine shattered that hope, as did repeated refrains of “When are we going to watch the fireworks? When are we going to watch the fireworks? When? The fireworks? Fireworks? When? What did you say? About the fireworks? When? When? When?”
So The Rock fired up the grill, hoping the magical mystery flames would lull the kids into a hypnotic trance, while I somehow cobbled together some side dishes which may or may not have included Froot Loops. And as we ate as a family, I floated away for entire moments, shutting down the parts of my brain that remembered the previous night’s Tiger Woods treatise and how I went on and on about interior decorating, shabby chic, the name “Alexandra,” yachting, 100% cotton tees, Mamma Mia (which…right. You got it. Never saw it), New York in the fall (never been), pork products, and electronica.
And what I didn’t remember was supplied by The Rock, who said things like, “No, you didn’t embarrass me! I think it’s cute when you drone on and on about hunting quail!”
I’m proud to say we did make it out to see the fireworks. In a venue, which, while 100% antithetical to anywhere you’d want to be in a million years post-hangover, did offer a bit of hair of the dog, as I observed a drunken throng mill about, stumble across my path, and suffer inexorable bouts of beer gas.
We made it to the beach at about 6:30, meaning we only had about 3 hours to go until fireworks! Three more hours of character-building, “Mom? When are the fireworks? When? Mom? When did you say? Did you say, Mom? When was that? Now? Right now? Well then, when? When, when, when?”
So I settled in, tried to laugh effortlessly when Booger flung seaweed at my wan and slack face, and steeled myself for my town’s annual marshmallow fight. Because really? What is more poetic than a suffering alcoholic housewife being pelted with marshmallows?
Soon (read: not so much), fireworks shattered the sky and we fought our way home through the drunken, beer-gas-emitting crowd. And all I had to show for it was one lone, grayish, crusty marshmallow stuck to our beach bag. I really, really tried not to make that a metaphor.
A good night sleep was had by all, and we prepared for yet another barbeque. This one contained quiet conversation, plump hot dogs and hamburgers, a mellow park excursion and good friends.
And I did not drink too much, OR Go Geico™. The perfect end to a rather rambunctious weekend. My soft place to fall.
Kind of like the marshmallow after the fight.
That’s right. I pulled that simile out of my ass. Going Geico™ just went sober.