Well, the annual July 4th holiday brought many things with the rockets red glare – insect bites, poison ivy, heartburn, hangovers and relatives. God Bless America!
My older brother and sister are proud D.I.N.K.s. (Double Income No Kids) who love to lavish gifts on ours. It’s OK with us. The kids think July 4th is when we celebrate Christmas and December 25th is when the Easter bunny goes into his cave until his shadow reappears in spring. Close enough.
The kids really liked the Hubble telescope and the 2,399,876 piece Wright Brother's kite that their Aunt Connie and Harvard MBA brother-out-law deposited without the slightest idea how to assemble or operate. Six years at Harvard – wasted. (Zippy promised to show me later – when we’re alone again in the year 2525 as a couple of DINKS ourselves, I can't wait.) It’s the thought and their good intentions that count. Right.
But the fireworks their Uncle Craig brought have had a profound impact on the kid’s psychological and emotional development. On June 30th Truman wanted to be an Ichthyologist – today he wants to join the Marines. From scientist to jarhead in 24 hours having discovered the wonders of explosives, (I think our dog has run away from home, has anyone seen our cat?). Truman will be the only kid in the third grade with U.S.M.C. tattooed on his forearms. Zuzu has tattoos too! She has blue Satanic looking reptiles on her shoulders, I’ll check for body studs when she’s asleep (I don’t want her to see me cry). I think she has taken up smoking. I found a pack of Lucky Strikes in her Barbi-doll carrying case and her Ken doll in the rubbish. She’s gone pre-kindergarten "alternative lifestyle" (not that there is anything wrong with that) before she even knew what the word gender means. I’m sure it’s just a phase and will pass with puberty. Good intentions those fireworks. Right.
I do, however, appreciate the boat, motor, lights, anchor and fishing gear that Uncle Craig brought me, (I wish someone would remind him I could use a new trailer). We had fun fishing and I caught the biggest striped bass of my life. It weighed more than Truman and just as long. Unfortunately, well intended weekend water warriors (liberals in expensive boats a.k.a. “Earth Pigs”) were out and saw us land the fish. These are the people who think that trees conceptualize and have Constitutional rights but are pro-abortion. You see their “I love my dog” (but hate my relatives) bumper stickers on their Lincoln Navigators next to the Save the Planet stickers everywhere. Their association’s logo is a picture of Free Willy (a, ahhh, killer whale) eating a human sandwich. They are a secretly passive aggressive group rumored to have Mary Tyler Moore as their leader. Mary, by the way, may have been in Rockland, Maine this weekend protesting the annual Fourth of July Lobster Festival, (she skipped this year’s Feed the Hungry Rally feeling that lobsters are more important than starving people). But her intentions are good. Right.
Anyway, the good ship Earth Pig was a fossil fuel, air and water polluting Boston Whaler (isn’t that ironic) that pulled up next to us. A protein depleted, puffy faced carbohydrate enriched bleeding heart yelled over:
Earth Pig: “Hey, you’re gonna pass on that fish and release it aren’t you?”
Me: “Sure, after digestion.”
EP: “Is that fish legal?
Me: “Hey, you ever have been to Legal Seafood? You ought to try their baby octopus.”
EP: “How long is that fish?”
Me: “I dunno, it didn’t say. My tape measure stops at 40 inches.”
EP: “You know what that fish is good for? (He didn’t wait for my answer) REPRODUCING!”
Me: “Great! Now I can throw my Viagra away.”
I guess you could say that’s when the conversation kind of dried up. It happened to me twice this past weekend. My muscles were sore from fighting that beautiful fish and Zippy was giving me a soothing massage. She whispered in my ear… “Bengay?”
All I said was “Nope, never interested." (Not that there is anything wrong with that) Right?