The 4th of July Lady

We spent the rest of our afternoon making ice cream and smoking ribs. We live in a fantastic neighborhood: on a hill overlooking where they shoot off the fireworks. Our development came alive as we closed off our street and had a huge block party complete with a water slide, volleyball and food. Lots and lots of food.

We were only bereft of our beloved neighbors, Mike and Lisa, who recently moved away. In addition to being great backcountry buddies, they were also our posse. Lisa is a complete sweetheart but if you were to meet Mike, you might be wary. With his muscular build, goatee, tattoos and beefed-up truck, he looks like someone you would avoid. Until you get to know him and he is the biggest softy who adored our kids.

A couple of years ago after the fireworks, we wandered back to our house and were shocked/bewildered/ticked off that someone had parked in our driveway. I mean, our street was littered with cars on the road but who would have the nerve to park in a person’s driveway?

Welp, we were understandably torked off. Mike noticed and he pulled his buddies into our inner strategy sanctum. Big buff guys like Mike who were enraged on our behalf. “Don’t worry about anything,” they told us. “We’ll take care of these guys for you” one of them professed as he cracked his knuckles. I think he freelances as a hitman.

“Let’s slash their tires,” one of them suggested. Now, call me crazy but doesn’t slashing someone’s tires kinda defeat the purpose of getting rid of them?

They finally agreed they would park one of their monster trucks behind the car to block it in. And then they would confront them. It sounded like a good idea but I did not want anything to do with the showdown. I suggested to Jamie that we take a picture of the culprit’s license plate in case they try to bolt across our lawn. He agreed.

I went inside to get the camera. By the time I started taking pictures, I, too had become a raging lunatic about the whole situation. As I was recording the evidence, I was interrupted by a small voice that queried, “What is this truck doing here? How are we supposed to get out?” Finally, the culprits.

I snapped. “WELL, MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF THIS BEFORE YOU PARKED ON SOMEONE’S PRIVATE PROPERTY AND AND AND….” then I turned. There, in front of me, was sweet little 9-year-old Rachel, the daughter of our cruise buddies Ivan and Karla. Her family had decided to catch the fireworks at the last minute but had arrived after we departed.

“Well, helloooooooooo, Rachel.”

There was no retracting my rant. And since that time, she has referred to me as “The 4th of July Lady.”

I guess that is better than “Psycho, Irrational Wench Who Unleashes Upon Innocent Children.”

Though I answer to both.