I back in very well. It’s simply a matter of taking it slowly, making minute adjustments, easing it in carefully. Oh, and mirrors generally enhance the experience.
I am, of course, talking about trailers.
Stu and I just got back from my family’s annual camping trip in Yosemite. Because he was coming off a grave shift the morning we left, I drove Stu’s huge Chevy truck. And pulled the trailer down 395, up Tioga pass and backed 'er right in to site 25.
This act, apparently, makes me as irresistibly sexy as Megan Fox draped across a motorcycle. Just call me Trailer-Barbie. Actually, scratch that: Trailer Barbie probably doesn’t have any teeth. How about Bad-Ass Camping Barbie? But with brown hair.
I’m not proclaiming my sexiness without lots of proof: I was hit on every time we stopped. The men hitting on me were invariably in their own huge trucks towing something. As I pulled into a parking lot, one or more of them would glance at my huge rig, do a double-take when they noticed me at the wheel and then saunter up, John Wayne style, and open the conversation, “So, what’s she weigh fully loaded?” “What’s the full weight that Chevy can handle?” “You pulling up Tioga in that rig?” “What kinda mileage you getting?”
When I answered these questions competently, interest would spark in their eyes and they’d lean a little closer. At this point, I generally found a way to work into the conversation that another thing fully loaded in the truck was Stu’s off-duty weapon. Bad call…a small woman driving a huge rig pulling a heavy trailer and talking about loaded weapons is, apparently, irresistible to the sort of men who frequent pull-thru gas stations. Ladies, if you are one of those women constantly bemoaning your inability to find guys in bars, the grocery store, etc., just come with me! I coulda had at least 3 marriage offers right there. And these men are good guys. They fish or hunt or boat or camp on the weekends and obviously have money; big trucks and trailers are not cheap. Nor is the price of gas or diesel required to keep those suckers moving. These men all obviously possess enviable disposable income, if somewhat questionable grooming habits.
Seriously, I got more attention in my ratty tank top and tennis shoes in a 395 parking lot than I did in my cleavage-enhancing dress and stilettos in a Vegas club.
I don't understand what all the fuss is about; towing a trailer while driving forward is fairly easy. One needs only to drive and look carefully before changing lanes. Although, Stuart may respectfully disagree about the ‘ease’ of my driving.
I would argue that I only got the trailer air-borne once. And it wasn’t my fault. Stupid road had a huge bump that I didn’t see. Stu awoke when his ass left the seat…and the trailer left gravity. All was well…the trailer landed and we continued on as if nothing had happened. Was just like Dukes of Hazard or something. Look at me: I could be a stunt-driver! And Stuart could be a saint: he made no comment, just squinted his eyes as he does when counting silently to a million in order to avoid yelling at me.
If simply pulling a trailer is a turn-on to men, a woman preparing to back in a trailer is like Super-Viagra. The moment I pulled into the campground, men congregated. I had my pick of the litter. Old men, young men. Fat men, short men, handsome men, scary men. I sent out my siren's call with the rumble of my truck's engine and they literally came out of the bushes.
Not all of this is because I’m a smokin’ hot female. Entertainment is hard to come by while camping. You can sit and stare at the campfire. You can sit and stare at the trees. You can climb a big mountain and stare at the view. You can scratch bug bites, eat oddly-prepared food, drink river-chilled alcohol and generally pretend to have skipped the last hundred thousand years of evolution.
Or you can watch people destroy very expensive property by backing it into trees.
Good times.
Trailer Parking is a Camping Event. Stories are told (back in my day, trailers weighed more than the stuff kids pull these days), legends are created (no one has ever successfully backed into site 35), heroes are made (Nate backed that 31' sucker in around two rocks and a tree, then un-hooked, came around the other way, and slid that baby home!)
The all-time greatest was when I watched a guy scrape off the entire side of his bigger-than-my-second-apartment, $200,000 bus/RV on a tree. Thing peeled off like a tin-can. My dad sauntered over and offered him ducktape to hold the now-dragging shiny side-panel up.We still tell that one around the campfire at night.
Thus, I was not surprised that the men came out of the trees to watch me back it in. When it comes to trailer backing, besides being entertaining, every man’s an expert. Doesn’t matter if, in his real life, he’s actually a CPA who has never backed up anything larger than his jump-drive, if a trailer is being backed in, he’ll have an opinion on how it should be done.
And if the driver of that trailer happens to have breasts, well, shit, jump-drive-boy could do it better, faster, cleaner. Because having a penis makes you an expert at jamming stuff into tight narrow areas.
Huh. My ass.
Seems to me, having a penis should disqualify you from ever being allowed to ‘jam stuff in’…any where. Just look at how men use their penises. With complete indiscretion and disregard for size, compatibility or favorable environmental conditions. When penis-wielders see an opening, they take it! It generally takes a great deal instruction and training by a patient woman for a man to realize that the penis should not always be used as a battering ram to breach any available opening.
This 'just jam it in' male philosophy applies to more than sex. Men do not worry about proper placement of furniture, they simply plop the couch or, worse, recliner down in front of the TV and call the room ‘arranged’. Socks are thrown into drawers, all laundry is jammed—regardless of color or delicacy—into the washer, expanding guts are stuffed into decades-old, sizes-too-small pants.
And these indelicate, unrefined creatures think they're more genetically gifted at easing a large, awkward object into an impossibly narrow space that is difficult to access?
I think being a woman instantly qualifies us to back up trailers. Having a vagina means being very aware of the necessity for proper alignment, minute adjustments, proper preparation. Women know how to examine size, shape and available insertion area in order to accommodate without damage.
We’re also adept at taking care of this without any helpful assistance from men.
Thus, I was mortally offended that my all-penis audience insisted upon offering advice as I prepared to slip my trailer into the designated slot. Especially as the advice generally indicated that the men all thought I was slightly less intelligent than the rock I was attempting to avoid. This group behaved in typical, group-of-men-at-sporting-event style: cheering, cursing, questioning the decisions and calls as if their sagging beer-gut-showing selves could do any better.
This seriously annoyed me. I don’t like other men being involved when I go into reverse. Call me traditional, but I prefer to keep such things within my marriage.
You can tell a lot about a couple’s relationship and sex life by observing their trailer-parking strategies.
Some men simply insist upon doing it alone, banishing their wives to the sidelines while they take care of business. I understand this. Alone, you have full responsibility for everything; placement, necessary adjustments and speed. And you get to decide when you’ve successfully arrived without worrying about any one else's feelings.
Some men have their wives help, but fail to explain what it is they want. Thus, the wives hover nervously, ineffectively waving their arms about and trying to look interested and involved while their husbands grunt and curse and mutter about not being understood. When the trailer is finally parked, this type of couple will typically spend the rest of the day mutually frustrated and not speaking to each other.
The best couples, like Stu and I, communicate very effectively. We’ve perfected our technique and built up trust so that each of us is comfortable. It’s like a perfectly-choreographed and well-rehearsed ballet. Most importantly, Stuart is man enough to let me take the driver’s seat. With his loving help, I can take in any size—even the big ones.
“Forward slowly, yes, yes, now to the right. Uh huh….now, back slowly. To the left, the left, little bit, oh yeah…now straight, straight, right…goooood…again now….yes…faster now, uh huh, now ease it in…almost there….almost….keep it up…and….YES YES YES!!! We’re in!!!!”
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Confession: Sometimes, ‘almost’ counts!
“People pay a lot of money for ‘almost’.”
Stuart made this epiphanous observation while lounging, like a lazy king, on a large cabana. Sprawled beside him were two gorgeous, topless women who adore him, while others cavorted merrily in the sparkling pool before him. A cabana boy refilled his drink and fluffed the pillows behind his back while a cabana girl, a gauzy scarf almost covering her perfectly tight little ass, adjusted the fan so that His Laziness (and His best friend, happily esconced on the other side of the two nearly-naked women) wouldn’t get too hot in the Vegas sun.
Needless to say the boys wore huge grins with their sunglasses and board shorts. We girls wore sexy smiles...and not much else. No schedule, no time lines, no agenda. No kids. Almost Paradise.
We Nevadans should make Stu’s quote our motto. After all, most of our revenue comes from expertly and decadently providing the ultimate ‘almost’ experiences. The epicenter of the Almost is, of course, Las Vegas. And, although Stu and I like to consider ourselves highly evolved, metacognitive, self-actualized adults, we make an annual pilgrimage to this mecca of Almost-Dreams.
And no, I’m NOT going to tell you what we do there. “What happens in Vegas…”.
Besides, The Hangover has already been made.
Initially, I wanted to disagree with Stuart. I don’t like "almost". "Almost" makes me uncomfortable. "Almost" makes me twitchy. I generally seek to resolve any "Almosts" as quickly as possible. I like closure. I like completion. I like final acts and conclusions and grand crescendos that signal crashing finales.
But then I looked down at my almost-naked self and realized how sexy I felt. I’m not a prude (obviously), but total skinny-dipping generally makes me uncomfortable. I just don’t want sand or sunburn in the area where the sun (shouldn't!) shine! But being topless in the sun? Ahhh…that ‘almost’ is a wonderful, freeing tease. I felt like one of the heavy-lidded, full-lipped Guess models who are always almost bursting out of their tops. Not only did I feel sexy being topless myself, but I also enjoy looking at other women's breasts.
Yeah, I said it. Girls are hot. Cosmo calls it 'hetero-flexible'. I call it basic asthetics. I'd much rather look through my Victoria's Secret catalog than go see the Thunder from Down Under.
Isn’t the ‘almost’ the point of lingerie? The peek, the glimpse, the tease, the almost-naked that is often much, much better than totally-naked? Advertising has perfected the Almost. Almost naked, almost fornicating almost real girls and boys sell everything from motor oil to perfume. From this, savvy girls learn early on that an ‘almost’ glimpse of a pretty pair of panties, bra or forbidden flesh is guaranteed to get the attention of every man present.
The allure of the 'almost' is its lack of obviousness. It is the difference between sexy and sleazy, enticing and trampy, go-go dancer and whore. Sometimes, the "almost" is even less obvious. It can be found in peep-toe shoes, boyfriend-cut jeans, fade-to-black movie scenes and seemingly-innocent experiences.
Massages are a well-known--and often cliched-- example. A well-done massage can be the ultimate "almost" experience.
I have been getting massages since I was 12. In fact, I’m lucky enough to have received amazing treatments at many of the top resort locations in the world. This extensive research has shown that, low-quality Skinimax Porn aside, most masseuses are large, German women with bad skin and strong hands who answer to names like Helga. Not that I much care once those freakishly masculine hands start working out the knots that gather habitually at the base of my skull, but my illicit-sex fantasies don’t really run to women who could be subbed in for the Bears' defensive line.
On this most recent trip, I visited one of the many lovely and plush spas Vegas offers and signed up for an hour-long massage with ‘Sean’, expecting the ‘artist’ who greeted me in my robe to have sloppily-large breasts, limp hair and a very firm handshake. Boy oh boy, was I pleasantly surprised!
Sean was gorgeous. Sean was sexy. Sean immediately made my fertile little imagination turn hot and steamy. I was very, very excited that I was about to spend an hour almost-naked with Sean's hands all over my body.
Sean looked Spanish, or maybe South American, with dark hair he wore long (not usually my taste, but yummy on him), rich olive skin and deep brown eyes. When he took my hand, his long fingers stroked my tender palm. I think I may have whimpered. Later, I am certain I moaned shamelessly as I lay face-down on the massage bed, naked under a thin cotton sheet while those magic hands rubbed oil on my back, arms, legs, thighs….almost everywhere in slow, sensual circles.
Oh, yes…yes!…sometimes, almost is amazing. And well worth the $150 60-minute session.
Although ‘relaxing’ isn’t the adjective I’d ascribe to my interlude with Sean.
Taking it past sex (just for a moment, I promise!), the almost-death experience is equally compelling. Roller coasters, sky diving, scuba diving, cliff diving (really, any ‘diving’) all simulate the ‘I almost died’ adrenalin rush.
After all, in the subject of death, it’s the almost that counts.
All of these are exceedingly profitable. Want the feeling that you’re almost about-to-be fabulously wealthy? You can experience that thrill for just 25 cents! Drop your quarter into the machine, pull and for a few heady seconds, you’re just a spin or two from financial nirvana!
Want the feeing that the gorgeous and bendy woman doing impossibly acrobatic things to that big shiny pole desires you? Flash some cash and she’ll mimic almost having sex with you.
How about plummeting out of the sky? Couple hundred bones and some guy will strap you to his body and hurl himself—and you!!—out of an airplane. You get to free-fall for 2-3 breathless seconds before the parachute saves you from almost plunging into the ground. Or, if you prefer to take your thrills sitting down, $35 will buy you an all-day pass to the rollercoaster on the top of the New York New York casino where you almost fly off the edge of a super-high building while regretting drinking that last vodka-redbull before you climbed in.
There is serious money to be made in the ‘almost’.
Obviously, the examples are endless and would be fabulous fodder for a psychology thesis. Thankfully, I already wrote one and don’t have to ever do that again.
So, back to sex. Does the almost count in sex?
To answer, allow me to return to Vegas. Still tingling and glistening from my massage, I slithered down between my husband and our friends on our pool-side cabana. I could feel the slightly rough towel against my naked belly and breasts, the warm sun on my back and my husband’s hand on my thigh. Slowly, slowly stroking up and down, almost going too high, almost dipping in, almost breaking the code of public decency.
I spent most of the day almost having an orgasm.
And, when we returned to our hotel room, that almost was finally, amazingly, satisfyingly completed. Several times.
Priceless.
Stuart made this epiphanous observation while lounging, like a lazy king, on a large cabana. Sprawled beside him were two gorgeous, topless women who adore him, while others cavorted merrily in the sparkling pool before him. A cabana boy refilled his drink and fluffed the pillows behind his back while a cabana girl, a gauzy scarf almost covering her perfectly tight little ass, adjusted the fan so that His Laziness (and His best friend, happily esconced on the other side of the two nearly-naked women) wouldn’t get too hot in the Vegas sun.
Needless to say the boys wore huge grins with their sunglasses and board shorts. We girls wore sexy smiles...and not much else. No schedule, no time lines, no agenda. No kids. Almost Paradise.
We Nevadans should make Stu’s quote our motto. After all, most of our revenue comes from expertly and decadently providing the ultimate ‘almost’ experiences. The epicenter of the Almost is, of course, Las Vegas. And, although Stu and I like to consider ourselves highly evolved, metacognitive, self-actualized adults, we make an annual pilgrimage to this mecca of Almost-Dreams.
And no, I’m NOT going to tell you what we do there. “What happens in Vegas…”.
Besides, The Hangover has already been made.
Initially, I wanted to disagree with Stuart. I don’t like "almost". "Almost" makes me uncomfortable. "Almost" makes me twitchy. I generally seek to resolve any "Almosts" as quickly as possible. I like closure. I like completion. I like final acts and conclusions and grand crescendos that signal crashing finales.
But then I looked down at my almost-naked self and realized how sexy I felt. I’m not a prude (obviously), but total skinny-dipping generally makes me uncomfortable. I just don’t want sand or sunburn in the area where the sun (shouldn't!) shine! But being topless in the sun? Ahhh…that ‘almost’ is a wonderful, freeing tease. I felt like one of the heavy-lidded, full-lipped Guess models who are always almost bursting out of their tops. Not only did I feel sexy being topless myself, but I also enjoy looking at other women's breasts.
Yeah, I said it. Girls are hot. Cosmo calls it 'hetero-flexible'. I call it basic asthetics. I'd much rather look through my Victoria's Secret catalog than go see the Thunder from Down Under.
Isn’t the ‘almost’ the point of lingerie? The peek, the glimpse, the tease, the almost-naked that is often much, much better than totally-naked? Advertising has perfected the Almost. Almost naked, almost fornicating almost real girls and boys sell everything from motor oil to perfume. From this, savvy girls learn early on that an ‘almost’ glimpse of a pretty pair of panties, bra or forbidden flesh is guaranteed to get the attention of every man present.
The allure of the 'almost' is its lack of obviousness. It is the difference between sexy and sleazy, enticing and trampy, go-go dancer and whore. Sometimes, the "almost" is even less obvious. It can be found in peep-toe shoes, boyfriend-cut jeans, fade-to-black movie scenes and seemingly-innocent experiences.
Massages are a well-known--and often cliched-- example. A well-done massage can be the ultimate "almost" experience.
I have been getting massages since I was 12. In fact, I’m lucky enough to have received amazing treatments at many of the top resort locations in the world. This extensive research has shown that, low-quality Skinimax Porn aside, most masseuses are large, German women with bad skin and strong hands who answer to names like Helga. Not that I much care once those freakishly masculine hands start working out the knots that gather habitually at the base of my skull, but my illicit-sex fantasies don’t really run to women who could be subbed in for the Bears' defensive line.
On this most recent trip, I visited one of the many lovely and plush spas Vegas offers and signed up for an hour-long massage with ‘Sean’, expecting the ‘artist’ who greeted me in my robe to have sloppily-large breasts, limp hair and a very firm handshake. Boy oh boy, was I pleasantly surprised!
Sean was gorgeous. Sean was sexy. Sean immediately made my fertile little imagination turn hot and steamy. I was very, very excited that I was about to spend an hour almost-naked with Sean's hands all over my body.
Sean looked Spanish, or maybe South American, with dark hair he wore long (not usually my taste, but yummy on him), rich olive skin and deep brown eyes. When he took my hand, his long fingers stroked my tender palm. I think I may have whimpered. Later, I am certain I moaned shamelessly as I lay face-down on the massage bed, naked under a thin cotton sheet while those magic hands rubbed oil on my back, arms, legs, thighs….almost everywhere in slow, sensual circles.
Oh, yes…yes!…sometimes, almost is amazing. And well worth the $150 60-minute session.
Although ‘relaxing’ isn’t the adjective I’d ascribe to my interlude with Sean.
Taking it past sex (just for a moment, I promise!), the almost-death experience is equally compelling. Roller coasters, sky diving, scuba diving, cliff diving (really, any ‘diving’) all simulate the ‘I almost died’ adrenalin rush.
After all, in the subject of death, it’s the almost that counts.
All of these are exceedingly profitable. Want the feeling that you’re almost about-to-be fabulously wealthy? You can experience that thrill for just 25 cents! Drop your quarter into the machine, pull and for a few heady seconds, you’re just a spin or two from financial nirvana!
Want the feeing that the gorgeous and bendy woman doing impossibly acrobatic things to that big shiny pole desires you? Flash some cash and she’ll mimic almost having sex with you.
How about plummeting out of the sky? Couple hundred bones and some guy will strap you to his body and hurl himself—and you!!—out of an airplane. You get to free-fall for 2-3 breathless seconds before the parachute saves you from almost plunging into the ground. Or, if you prefer to take your thrills sitting down, $35 will buy you an all-day pass to the rollercoaster on the top of the New York New York casino where you almost fly off the edge of a super-high building while regretting drinking that last vodka-redbull before you climbed in.
There is serious money to be made in the ‘almost’.
Obviously, the examples are endless and would be fabulous fodder for a psychology thesis. Thankfully, I already wrote one and don’t have to ever do that again.
So, back to sex. Does the almost count in sex?
To answer, allow me to return to Vegas. Still tingling and glistening from my massage, I slithered down between my husband and our friends on our pool-side cabana. I could feel the slightly rough towel against my naked belly and breasts, the warm sun on my back and my husband’s hand on my thigh. Slowly, slowly stroking up and down, almost going too high, almost dipping in, almost breaking the code of public decency.
I spent most of the day almost having an orgasm.
And, when we returned to our hotel room, that almost was finally, amazingly, satisfyingly completed. Several times.
Priceless.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Confession: I love me a grand finale!
Fireworks remind me of sex.
Not just the big bang and the bright lights, but the entire event. The slight dread as you anticipate the hassle of engaging in this activity, the initial discomfort, the sense of disappointment when they begin and are, after-all, only loud bangs, then the growing sense of wonder and, finally, the completely absorbed excitement and awe by the time the grand finale erupts joyously into the night sky.
Yesterday was the Fourth of July. Our Nation’s birthday. And the only holiday, aside from SuperBowl Sunday, that the majority of America agrees to celebrate.
Being an All-American family with good ol’ All-American friends, we celebrated in traditional style. Had the backyard BBQ, the beer, the boys and babies and bikinis. Then the Great Debate: “are we going up to the fireworks?”
Lake Tahoe puts on an amazing fireworks show every 4th, ‘Lights on the Lake’. Only problem is, while I and my friends are Hot Minivan Moms, we are not RICH minivan moms. Thus, we live nowhere near the Lake. In fact, we don’t even live on the mountains between which the Lake is nestled. We live in the Valley, less romantically defined as the desert. The lake is all crystalline waters reflecting an azure sky framed by snow-capped peaks and spearing green pines. The valley is all tacky above-ground pools reflecting a hazy, smog-filled sky framed by brown sandy dirt and stout sagebrush.
Thus, going to the fireworks involves getting from the Valley to the Lake. An apt metaphor would be Adam and Eve trying to bust back IN to the Garden of Eden. Or the heathens trying to breach the walls to the Forbidden City. You get the idea.
Actually, it only requires a 20 minute drive up a one-lane, twisted, super-graded mountain highway behind semi-trucks, tourists who are afraid of turns and crazy-ass road bikers pedaling laboriously up a road meant only for non-human-powered vehicles (really, who are these fitness-obsessed fucks? I like a bike-ride too…to the local 7-11 for a Slurpee. Maybe on a nice bike-path to a beach and a Rum-Runner. Translation: I only ride a bike long distances if there is a tasty treat at the end!)
But here’s the thing. Hellish mountain passes aside, there is no way we can actually skip the fireworks. Fireworks are crack to kids. I don’t know why. I actually am pretty sure kids don’t really like fireworks. They’re loud and bright and crowded and occur way, way past bedtime. I think kids just like the idea of fireworks. Big explosions up in the sky, the titillating possibility that maybe something, or someone, else will explode.
And I think they like the fact that it’s such a grand pain in the ass for their parents.
Whatever the reason, it’s just not worth the foreverness of whining and complaining to MISS the fireworks. So, despite half-hearted bribes and tough talk amongst the parents, we end up making the trek up the mountain to see the fireworks every year.
Last night was no different. Loaded up the minivan with sunburned, over-tired children, blankets, water, cupcakes and enough glow-sticks, glow-necklaces and glow-bracelets to ensure that our children looked like walking Las Vegas casino signs.
Drove to the Lake. Got pulled over by Highway Patrol. Same guy managed to pull over all 3 minivans carrying cop wives. The few cops amongst us got us out of the tickets. Sad quota day for NHP-guy.
Found a parking spot. Unloaded cranky, over-excited kids. Played chicken with dangerous mountain highway and kids and wagons full of crap. Found a ‘great’ spot…half swamp, half hill, all dirt and pine needles…to set up ‘camp’.
Proceeded to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Kids got cranky. Picked fights over the nine million glowy-things. Annoyed all the parents. Took a fieldtrip to the bathroom. Came back. Consumed cupcakes. Kids got sugar-happy and ran around like frantically glowing lightning bugs.
Still waiting.
Kids sugar-crash. Crawl into blankets and laps. Whine that it’s late and they’re tired and when will the fireworks start?
Parents are cranky and tired and whiney and when will the fireworks start?
We lose 2 kids in the bushes. Three little girls try to perfect the pee-squat.
We find the kids. The girls pee on their shoes.
Everyone wonders why the hell we thought this would be fun.
And then…a sizzle. Just a little pop. A solitary flare spears up into the dark sky, explodes in a dignified poof and disintegrates elegantly to the first strains of the National Anthem.
The kids stop whining and settle into laps. The parents breath deep sighs of relief, shift heavy children, and gaze upwards at the heavens.
The music swells, the lights dance. We ooh and ahh and are transported away from the cold and the sunburn and the mosquitoes and the to-lists marching through our brains. We sit, transfixed, and allow the booms, the pops, the cascades and the colors and the music and the joy overtake us.
I have the errant thought that fireworks look a lot like sperm as they climb into the sky.
Jennifer covers her ears to the booms. Kathleen stares in childhood wonder. Stuart puts his warm hand on my cheek.
And together we all forget about laundry and wars and bills and grudges and who ate the last pink cupcake and who broke vital promises and mosquito bites and illness and all the cares, big and small, and simply allow ourselves to be transported by the fireworks exploding in a star-studded sky over a fathomless black lake framed by eager American faces and grateful patriots.
Not just the big bang and the bright lights, but the entire event. The slight dread as you anticipate the hassle of engaging in this activity, the initial discomfort, the sense of disappointment when they begin and are, after-all, only loud bangs, then the growing sense of wonder and, finally, the completely absorbed excitement and awe by the time the grand finale erupts joyously into the night sky.
Yesterday was the Fourth of July. Our Nation’s birthday. And the only holiday, aside from SuperBowl Sunday, that the majority of America agrees to celebrate.
Being an All-American family with good ol’ All-American friends, we celebrated in traditional style. Had the backyard BBQ, the beer, the boys and babies and bikinis. Then the Great Debate: “are we going up to the fireworks?”
Lake Tahoe puts on an amazing fireworks show every 4th, ‘Lights on the Lake’. Only problem is, while I and my friends are Hot Minivan Moms, we are not RICH minivan moms. Thus, we live nowhere near the Lake. In fact, we don’t even live on the mountains between which the Lake is nestled. We live in the Valley, less romantically defined as the desert. The lake is all crystalline waters reflecting an azure sky framed by snow-capped peaks and spearing green pines. The valley is all tacky above-ground pools reflecting a hazy, smog-filled sky framed by brown sandy dirt and stout sagebrush.
Thus, going to the fireworks involves getting from the Valley to the Lake. An apt metaphor would be Adam and Eve trying to bust back IN to the Garden of Eden. Or the heathens trying to breach the walls to the Forbidden City. You get the idea.
Actually, it only requires a 20 minute drive up a one-lane, twisted, super-graded mountain highway behind semi-trucks, tourists who are afraid of turns and crazy-ass road bikers pedaling laboriously up a road meant only for non-human-powered vehicles (really, who are these fitness-obsessed fucks? I like a bike-ride too…to the local 7-11 for a Slurpee. Maybe on a nice bike-path to a beach and a Rum-Runner. Translation: I only ride a bike long distances if there is a tasty treat at the end!)
But here’s the thing. Hellish mountain passes aside, there is no way we can actually skip the fireworks. Fireworks are crack to kids. I don’t know why. I actually am pretty sure kids don’t really like fireworks. They’re loud and bright and crowded and occur way, way past bedtime. I think kids just like the idea of fireworks. Big explosions up in the sky, the titillating possibility that maybe something, or someone, else will explode.
And I think they like the fact that it’s such a grand pain in the ass for their parents.
Whatever the reason, it’s just not worth the foreverness of whining and complaining to MISS the fireworks. So, despite half-hearted bribes and tough talk amongst the parents, we end up making the trek up the mountain to see the fireworks every year.
Last night was no different. Loaded up the minivan with sunburned, over-tired children, blankets, water, cupcakes and enough glow-sticks, glow-necklaces and glow-bracelets to ensure that our children looked like walking Las Vegas casino signs.
Drove to the Lake. Got pulled over by Highway Patrol. Same guy managed to pull over all 3 minivans carrying cop wives. The few cops amongst us got us out of the tickets. Sad quota day for NHP-guy.
Found a parking spot. Unloaded cranky, over-excited kids. Played chicken with dangerous mountain highway and kids and wagons full of crap. Found a ‘great’ spot…half swamp, half hill, all dirt and pine needles…to set up ‘camp’.
Proceeded to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Kids got cranky. Picked fights over the nine million glowy-things. Annoyed all the parents. Took a fieldtrip to the bathroom. Came back. Consumed cupcakes. Kids got sugar-happy and ran around like frantically glowing lightning bugs.
Still waiting.
Kids sugar-crash. Crawl into blankets and laps. Whine that it’s late and they’re tired and when will the fireworks start?
Parents are cranky and tired and whiney and when will the fireworks start?
We lose 2 kids in the bushes. Three little girls try to perfect the pee-squat.
We find the kids. The girls pee on their shoes.
Everyone wonders why the hell we thought this would be fun.
And then…a sizzle. Just a little pop. A solitary flare spears up into the dark sky, explodes in a dignified poof and disintegrates elegantly to the first strains of the National Anthem.
The kids stop whining and settle into laps. The parents breath deep sighs of relief, shift heavy children, and gaze upwards at the heavens.
The music swells, the lights dance. We ooh and ahh and are transported away from the cold and the sunburn and the mosquitoes and the to-lists marching through our brains. We sit, transfixed, and allow the booms, the pops, the cascades and the colors and the music and the joy overtake us.
I have the errant thought that fireworks look a lot like sperm as they climb into the sky.
Jennifer covers her ears to the booms. Kathleen stares in childhood wonder. Stuart puts his warm hand on my cheek.
And together we all forget about laundry and wars and bills and grudges and who ate the last pink cupcake and who broke vital promises and mosquito bites and illness and all the cares, big and small, and simply allow ourselves to be transported by the fireworks exploding in a star-studded sky over a fathomless black lake framed by eager American faces and grateful patriots.
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