For the 4th of July, I was not about to dress up as Lady Liberty (that would be lame) but to embrace several American classics all in one: Miami Vice, Boca Raton, Fl and the Golden Girls. It only seemed right to embrace some American traditions of excellence for America's birthday. While I channeled Don Johnson's girls through my get up, I prioritized other timeles American traditions throughout the course of the weekend: Bartles and Jaymes by the pool, aluminum cans of Coors Light, bars with mechanical bulls, fries and cornbread, NY pizza at 3 am, so-co lime shots from strange men, Hall&Oates and excess in general.
There is one major American Tradition that is not on the list: fireworks. Fireworks, actually, were invented by the Chinese and originally used to scare away evil spirits. Per usual, the Europeans stole them from the far east. Later, a much younger America became a pyromaniac, kind of like when my sister, the neglected middle child, went and played with matches behind the garage.
Fireworks and I have a very touch and go relationship. As a child, my favorite part of going to the fireworks was getting glowrings ( later I would learn that glow rings show up much more often than just in a field on the 4th of July, thank god). I would save them in the freezer until my mom threw them away, claiming that chemicals were leaking all over the frozen chicken. I did not particularly like sitting on wet grass ( i have a thing about grass) and being mauled by mosquitos.
As an adult, I had a horrific experience at a firework display in downtown Atlanta where a local referred to me as a 'bitch ho' for stepping on her picnic blanket and threw a tumbler of gin and juice at me to teach me a lesson on territory. Last year, my friend megan and I began our 4th of July at about 5pm and ended our 4th of July at 11 pm with all american cheese fries and a philapdelphia steak sandwich. Talk about let freedom ring.
This year, I had no particular interest in fireworks, but, apparently, they still wanted me. After prioritizing dinner at a wonderland of wild western fun called Saddle Ranch where we saw countless Americans forced to gyrate atop a mechanical bull, We decided to change it up and hit the W hotel where there were rumored to be fireworks. Upon arrival, we learned very quickly that the fire works had already set sail 15 minutes ago (bummer) but luckily a man at a nearby table had saved some for me.
Within two minutes of meeting this man--an all american man who wore striped button down, worked for Ford, and had even driven a ford truck (probably a red one) at some point in his life-- I felt a POP under my skirt and whipped around to find him getting up off the ground laughing his ass off. Clarification- in the 1 minute that i had disengaged in conversation with All American Boy to meet one of his friends, he had decided it was appropriate to celebrate America between my legs, as he had just pulled a popper apart below my skirt.
It probably would have made sense to 95% of the female population to give him a dirty look and walk away. Unfortunately, I am intrigued by bold moves and knew that, at the very least, this boy was good for a bizarre 15 minutes and a belvedere and soda. The interaction, henceforth, went like so:
Me: You owe me a drink for that (pointing finger, evil stare)
The American: have a seat ( The American, in addition to a slew of amateur fireworks that fascinate 1st graders, happens to have a table)
[small talk ensues, ranging from ford trucks, ford-lincoln-mercury, Boca Raton, Fl, his sister's affinity for African American men, the fact that he lives by some of the Arizona Cardinals. The waitress serves drinks: redbull and belv- not what i wanted- i am losing interest]
The American: I like your earrings [note: i am wearing large white sea shells that Betty White might have laying around in her jewelry collection]
Me [dry tone]: Thanks- I love Florida and old people. and bingo- but only with greyhounds.
The American: [ puts his ear next to mine] I am trying to hear the ocean.
Me: How does it sound?
The American: What would happen if you brought home a guy who wasn't white? [I guess we are digressing back to his sister]
Me: I thought we were talking about the ocean. [ I stop myself from saying "i've seen guess who's coming to dinner a million times.]
The American: What would happen if you brought home me? [ well, this is moving quickly, but at least we have abandoned his poor sister ].
Me: well i probably would leave out how i met you.
The American: You remind me of my great aunt Nettie.
Me: You think of me as a 90 year old woman?
The American: No, you are just so quirky. You're a little firecracker!
Me: Oh, so are you.
the conversation carries on in a strand of non sequiters until Roxanne comes on. The American gets super excited and starts to rock out on the flourescent floor lights. I dance with him for a moment before he twirls off into a new bevy of blondes.
Ain't that America? Home of the freeeee, yeaaah.
1 comment:
This, my friend, is hysterical.
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