231 candles is a big fuckin fire

I love the 4^th of July. I mean, I am one of those freaky-deaky people who will spend the rent money on firecrackers. If it stinks, makes a big boom, and has the definite possibility of blowing off my hand or another body part, by god, I will PAY you for it. While a part of me, the side that is rational, somewhat sane, you know the itty bit piece of me that is located somewhere between my pinky finger and the left earlobe- tells the rest of me every year that I will NOT buy fireworks this year… the little part, which has an extraordinary lack of actual power…but hell, it’s such a little guy… it says this even as the rest of me, big, foolish bully that it is, laughs. And then spits on the little part’s foot and smirks, like, “What are you going to do about it, Miss Sensibility Sensible?”

And I find myself driving to the Indian reservation to buy BIG booms… because the ones they sell here in my state are not good enough. Oh no, by golly, if I am going to blow up my eye, I am going to do it with an ILLEGAL firework.

The Indian reservations are where you can gamble (and, I might add, smoke indoors while you do so) and buy things that explode. These are the two reasons on the top of my paper that is titled “Why I Want To live On An Indian Reservation”.

Well, I went a little bit crazier than usual this year. We have the sort of silly, childish wars with the rest of the neighbors every 4^th of July, where we try to outlast and outboom each other. And I was going to WIN it this year. Some friends chipped in to buy the fireworks, I put on my best Barbie smile (which always ensures I will get free fireworks in addition to the ones I buy) and off to the res I went. I had many, many bags of fireworks when I came home, and we set them off tonight. I had to work online at the same time, so I took my computer outside and in between chats, I dashed out into the street to light an artillery shell or a big cake. I sound so professional (to myself) when I use terms I heard used at the fireworks store. “Cake”, obviously being one of them.

Two of my freebies, tossed in by helpful gentlemen, were called Street party and High Plains drifter. The street party was long and it was good, but the High Plains drifter was the impressive one to me. I have NEVER dreamed of such a big boom packed into nine inches.

Re-reading those last couple of sentences, I am tempted, sorely so, to make a naughty comment, but I will refrain.

I am patriotic, too…. Disgustingly so, I guess, especially to my friends who don’t live in the US and don’t particularly like my country. That’s ok, I bear them no grudges, because they just don’t know. They have no idea what it is like to grow up here, to breath in the red white and blue as you grow up. To have that instilled in you- the whole life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness fed to you with your wheaties. I love my rights. I love my country. There is nowhere else I would live, even with all the crap that goes on in our political realm. Nowhere. And, I realize the irony of all that I say here, in light of the fact that I was talking about going to the Indian reservation just a paragraph or two up above. I hope that the modern day native Americans aren’t too bitter about the theft of their beautiful country to not want me to enjoy it today. I will have to ask Joseph, who is, admittedly, a “bad” Indian, who is not “red-correct,” as he puts it. He will probably make some smart-ass remark about his people making money off stupid white people who buy fireworks. But damn, I love the USA.

I realize that this makes me a sap, a redneck, a total dork with not an ounce of self respect in a lot of people’s eyes. That’s hunky dory with me. The day I start caring too much about what other people think of me is the day I need a swift kick in the kneecap. You thought I was going to say “butt” didn’t you?

I love my country. I get all choked up by the star spangled banner. I proudly stand, with my hand plastered on my heart, when the pledge of allegiance is announced. When I leave this country, which is rarely, I admit, I want to kiss the ground when I get home. Kiss the frickin’ ground. Recently, on a plane trip when I sat next to a guy home on leave from Iraq, I felt the profoundest sort of respect for him, and it made me think about all of the veterans of all of the wars America has been in, in her short, violent life. I hope my fellow Americans feel the same way tonight, of all nights. If you don’t, go watch “The Patriot” or something. I hope my fellow earthlings, non-American, will get over hating me for one night.

Happy Birthday, America. The Kaat loves you, bigtime.