Most people who know me also know that I am not a huge
fireworks fan.
Oh, sure, I like to "oooohhh" and
"aaahhhh" at fireworks … from a
distance. However, the term from a distance and I have been at odds
since the day I am born when Karma shits all over me. Out of the 365 days I could be born, I am
born on July 4th, Independence Day, Day of Fireworks Extravaganzas Nationwide.
In the continual irony that is my life, I move at a young
age from Massachusetts to New Hampshire, the state where, ironically enough,
fireworks are legal, yet the whole time I live in NH, I only have real trouble
with fireworks twice: when I decide to attend the fireworks shows … twice. It sucks.
Oh, the colors are great; the noise gives me such physical pains that my
ears ooze wax for days.
I move back to Massachusetts in junior high to discover that
the illegal fireworks down here seem to get lit in the hallways on the last day
of school every bloody year. As if
that's not painful enough, we move mere blocks from the professional fireworks
being shot off in the town park.
For my first Fourth of July back in Massachusetts, it sucks
to be me.
When
we move to the west side of town, the Powers that Be decide to move the
fireworks to the vocational school, which is mere blocks from where we
live. Sucks to be me yet again. Then the town moves the fireworks to the high
school, which is also mere blocks from our house. It still totally sucks to be me on my own
birthday evening.
This pattern continues on into adulthood. I move back to New Hampshire; the fireworks
are a few blocks from my house. I move
to south Lawrence; the fireworks are across the train tracks from my
house. I move to Methuen; the fireworks
are blocks from my house. I move to
Andover; the fireworks are shot off around the corner from my house. Suck, suck, suck.
Oh, there are some advantages: I can watch most of the
fireworks displays from the comfort of my own home, complete with air
conditioning, alcohol, and bathroom facilities, and I never, ever get a
mosquito bite. I don't have to fight for
a space on the field with thousands of other families, and I don't get stuck in
that massive traffic gridlock to get home afterward.
Usually, though, I go out galavanting for the evening,
sometimes getting to see the displays from afar, which is exactly how I like
it. I don't mind fireworks, per se. They're beautiful and awe-inspiring. I don't like loud noises, though, so being
right up close and personal with fireworks is not my favorite thing. It makes for tedious birthdays every single
year.
So, yes, those of you who know me already understand that my
own birthday falls on a day chock-full of my biggest phobia. Haha, isn't karma just a frigging bitch! But, no, she's not done with me yet.
This past weekend, my sister and I drive down to meet my New
York brother, and his wife and two sons,
at my youngest brother's home in Pennsylvania, where he and his wife and
daughter live. My sister and I take
great pains to find a hotel. It must
have three things: 1. Pennsylvania (not New Jersey) address; 2. decent AAA
rating; 3. be far, far, far away from Sesame Place and small children. We make the reservation and drive together
from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania and the hotel that we have oh-so-carefully
researched.
When we arrive, it is dark and the entrance to the hotel is
unmarked. We circle the block a couple
of times and discover an alley-like road along the train tracks that actually
does lead to the hotel. We pull in, head
into the parking lot, and find … next to the hotel and sharing its parking lot
and abutting our hotel window …
FIREWORKS SUPER-STORE.
Karma, one day I'm going to get you back, I swear it with
every ironic bone in my body. Yes, I
will Karma, because, like you, I, too, can be a royal bitch.
