shameless garbage hussy enjoys explosions

I love fireworks. I mean, I really, really, really go ape shit banana bonkers about fireworks. Not lighting them myself, mind you. No thank you. I watched enough drunken uncles nearly blow their hands off when I was a child to cure me of any desire for personal pyrotechnics. No, I love to watch them.



Tonight I was thrilled to the core to actually get my crowd despising husband to agree to go see them. I figured I was going to have to muster up the energy to just take my son and leave his crowd hatin' butt at home, no matter what shape I was in. I've tried to skip them before, and hearing them go off and missing it makes me sad. Very sad.

So tonight, he braved the crowds of the mighty Mount Trashmore and we went to see the fireworks. It took some extra fruity pebbles on my part, but some things are worth it. Specifically, it's one of those things I don't want my son to miss out on.

I grew up just north of Detroit, and there's something spectacular about the fireworks there. Most people don't realize it (those that don't live there anyway), but you can look across the Detroit River and see...guess what? Canada! I confess I would rather live in Canada most any other day of the year, but not the Fourth of July. The city has barges set up in the river, loading to the gills (or stern, whatever) with fireworks, and the river is chock full of boats. The not terribly pleasant on a good day downtown area is packed like sardines for the fireworks... not like when the Red Wings win yet another cup, but close (heh). The fact that the fireworks kick ass is not even the best part. The best part is that you're watching them light up the shoreline of another country, and it's OUR holiday, OUR celebration, and as a kid I thought that was just plain wicked awesome.

Being older and wiser, I realize, in my tempered state of adulthood, that FIREWORKS THEMSELVES are just plain wicked awesome. Oh, I know about their environmental effect, yes. But in my heart of hearts, that's like complaining that Santa doesn't pick up reindeer droppings, that fat lazy bastard.

I stood up on that dirt covered pile of garbage and put my hand over my heart, and sang along with the national anthem, even though we were supposed to be listening to the girl singing it for us; she was too far away and I couldn't really hear her anyway, so I just let loose and sang it anyway, there in the crowd on top of the hill, and was very proud that both my husband and son were singing as well, despite people looking at us weird. Pooh on them. Hmph.

It's always at the end of the song that they start the show, so it builds and builds and KABLAM! I plopped myself down on the ground and did what I always do while watching fireworks:

I laughed, and I cried.

Not a little giggle and a stray tear, no. I clapped my hands and squealed, like a toddler in a candy store, tears streaming down my face to the point of dripping down my shirt. It's another one of Those Moments In Life- I realize people can see me, and I hope they do. I hope the image sticks with them, if they think it's so odd, and starts the same spark somewhere in them, too. Or a spark of unabashed joy about mailboxes or funny hats, whatever floats their freaky boat, who am I to judge?

It was worth stumbling painfully over uneven ground, sitting in the car for almost two HOURS to get out of traffic, even when the battery cables starting acting wonky because of the pouring rain we were sitting in (the alternator can't recharge the battery due to moisture affecting the wiring, and with the headlights on, that was all. We had to turn off the radio, the air conditioning, even the windshield wipers while sitting still. It was a wee bit stressful, but totally worth it.)

I told my son to hurry up and clean his room so he could have the pleasure of getting to finish out his Fourth of July with a big bowl of patriotic truthiness: Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream ice cream. He squealed and hurried, two minutes to midnight, as I sat down to write this.

*contented sigh*

I looooooooove fireworks. Especially the kaBOOM ones and the ones that glitter down trails looking like willow trees. And a dash of blue at the tale end of a burst thrills me, after watching a show about how fireworks are made, and knowing that blue is the most complicated (and expensive, for that matter) color to achieve.

Oh, squeal, giggle, and hurrah! I don't care if I have to sit here in a freaking back brace to tell you about it, it's all worth it.

Oh, and mom? I had a huge laugh that few people would understand. As I stood there on that hill, that glorified junk heap, hilariously named Mount Trashmore, complete with a lake and playground and bike trails and a freaking skate park, for crying out loud, I thought about the hill we went sledding on as kids, admired the very similar pipes (not covered in purty boxes, just being shameless hussy gas pipes and all) and looked around at all those people, all the grandeur of the occasion, and just cracked up. All those people, sitting on a mound of glorified garbage, in one huge celebration, and thought, "The best OUR hill could come up with was golf carts and lattice. It would be SO jealous if it knew." And laughed and laughed, far too loud and not long enough.

What a good night.

parasympathetic pontificating poop!

Great googely moogely- if I don't get this blog thing rolling soon I might kerslode. Yep, kerSPLODE.

It's been an interesting morning. I woke up to my son crying and yelling across the house. I had been having some unfortunate dream concerning him at the time, so I wasn't too annoyed leave it be and get up. However, the little thespian knows that his legs/back/everything work a lot better (and faster) than mommas, and so waking up and just hollering instead of walking his little butt down the hall for snuggles usually doesn't go over well. He knows this.

So he knew I wouldn't be particularly cheery as I arrived at his door while he was shrieking, "MOOOOMMMY!" in a voice that I'm pretty sure he wouldn't use in front of his friends, you know, I'm just saying... and I wasn't. Cheery, that is. I don't know what he was expecting, really, but what he got was something in the neighborhood of Bad Dream Protecting Strorm Trooper Mommy. I barked something about him not yelling, him knowing better, sorry he's having bad dreams, I was too, gimme that body pillow, scoot over, may I point out it's LIGHT out (flicked curtains above bed open to give him a good healthy dose of sunlight in the eyeballs) and he could have just gotten up, think I mentioned that, scoot, SCOOT, I have to lay on this side, the other side hurts, now cuddle my butt.

He listened, followed directions, noticed the sunlight, and then lay there kind of baffled in the rapid fire delivery. Well, I can only guess he was baffled, since I wasn't facing him. (In my defense, I couldn't face him unless I crawled over him and ripped the blankets loose- his bed is against the wall on one side.) As I started to fall back asleep (no small miracle at 7 am) I kept scooting back at him and wiggling my butt, saying, "Hello? Mister Snuggle Butt? Must. Lay. On. This. Side." (imagine robot voice) "Must. Use. Butt. For snuggling purposes." He finally laughed and wiggled closer, comforted, knowing that I wasn't really irritated, and we both fell back asleep.

I then dreamed some bizarre thing about being at my dad's house and other people being there, and some girl I didn't know was using the bathroom upstairs and plugged it up. But oh no, it wasn't just plugged up, somehow there was (hold on to your most recent meal) actual sewage gurgling up and occasionally splattering everywhere. The grossest part about it was my thought, which was, "Well, that explains why his bathroom is so dirty."

Ugh.

Then there was some bit about being in his attic and noticing all the stuff he hoards, only to turn around and suddenly realize he'd built a strange sort of cafe setting overlooking Detroit. Like, half of the attic was dust and junk, and then there was a whole sunny wall of beautiful clear windows and tiled floor, about ten different bistro tables and I just stood there, staring. All I could say was, "Wow, Dad. This is beautiful. Good job."

The next part I remember was trying to get home, running along the highway with some neighbor kid from my childhood, and thinking I was exhausted, when suddenly it started raining dirt clods. Yes. Dirt clods. And I thought it was normal, but the kid with me was getting hurt, so I was trying to protect him instead and find some shrubs somewhere to take shelter.

The night before I had a dream about losing my son at a gas station while on a road trip because I simply HAD to have a freaking Red Bull, dammit. Too long to explain, but I was freaking out because I couldn't find him and how could I have not been paying attention to him because drinking a freaking Red Bull was somehow more important?

I type that with one sitting in front of me right now. Hardy har har.

After waking up from the gurgling poop, pretty cafe, raining dirt clods dream, I got up and did my usual morning routine: make tea (Lady Earl Gray), get cereal (Kashi Crunch, Almond and Flax, with vanilla soymilk), take medicine (unaffectionately termed "fruity pebbles"), heat up hot pads, and make myself a spine friendly space in the corner of the couch next to the window. I did all that, and stretched, slowly, this and that, while half heartedly looking at a library book my son took out, "Popular Mechanics, for Kids: Make Cool Gadgets For Your Room" and wondering what he was going to create, and hoping that whatever it was didn't involve Xacto knives or epoxy, which many of the "gadgets" did. I actually started to nod off reading it, so I set it down and cheerfully thought I was going to get some nap-happy time.

No deal. Muscle spasms galore. I gave up and told my husband I was going to go lay on the bed and try some slow traction. It's a weird maneuver I learned while in physical therapy, and I've had pretty good results at home as long as no one interrupts me.

The gist of it is to lay with everything as extended as possible, and just let the friction of gravity itself keep me pulled softly out. The trick in in getting my heels over the edge of the bed (thus pinning them) and then tucking my chin in, pulling my neck out flat against the bed. No pillow.

It makes this really weird sensation happen, and I tried to describe it to my husband. I said, "It looks glittery, like with my eyes closed, looking at my own internal map," (something I do a lot, I call it listening, as in, to my body) "and the sounds like glass breaking. It's painful, and it moves." I'm sure that made as much sense to him as it does to anyone reading this, but it's the best explanation I could give. I think of it as muscles tweaking, twinging, right on the verge of spasms, but it's like I'm looking at the nerves firing or something. Like I said, it's weird.

Well, it works pretty good at relaxing me unless I'm interrupted, as I was by my son and husband coming to smooch me and talk about this and that. I love them to smithereens and all, it's just that if I'm not concentrating while I'm doing this stretching thing, the twinging turns to spasms, and builds to a crescendo of pain that I cannot stop on my own. My legs lock down. Like, I'm laying flat and my hip and leg muscles LOCK down. I cannot move my legs, and it took most of my husbands strength to lift my leg and bend it at the knee, pushing it up towards my chest and holding it while I spasmed, then get the other leg, too... when I was at physical therapy, it would take three of them, usually, to get me out of that position. And every time I would burst into tears afterwards, not knowing why, but just filled with a horrible sense of grief. My physical therapist would always tell me to go ahead and cry, to get it out, but I get so wound up sobbing that the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back start to spasm, and I'll end up with massive active trigger points if I let that continue, so I always have to stop.

I say it present tense because it happened again this morning, but I just asked my husband to please close the door on his way out, since I didn't want my son to see the whole dreadful thing. I finally calmed down, took more of my fruity pebbles, got in a hot shower and got dressed.

Now here I sit. Pondering.

What the hell IS that? My therapist had told me gentle traction activates the parasympathetic nervous system. In her office it was always two assistants, one gently pulling my head, one gently pulling my ankles. It baffled me then, and baffles me still more that I can cause the same reaction even at home without assistance. I thought it was something my therapist had done before they did the traction, not the traction itself that caused the lockdown.

(taps fingers)

As I told my husband as he was holding my legs bent up, "You know... this seems kind of important. I mean with all this weird shit the doctors can't figure out. It seems like THIS would be a pretty big clue." But it doesn't happen in the doctor's office. It may soon, since I'm starting physical therapy, again, but this time the physical therapist is in the same building as my doctor, so hopefully that will shed some light on things. In the meantime, I'm going to do what I always do- research the shit myself.

It reminds me, my pain and symptoms, of a lot of the same shit my dad has suffered with. I mentioned it to him when we went up to visit at Christmas. He said, yah, yah, he thought they had mentioned something about fibromyalgia and chronic myofacsial pain something... but he didn't really care because they tell him things are wrong with him all the time. Which is true.

My dad is a huge factor in the person I am today, not just my genetic oddities (ha) but because I have watched him, my whole life, battle with pain and depression and I know how horrible it is for a child to watch a parent suffer. I try to spare my son as much of that as I can, but more so, I learned something vital from my father, besides stoicism and an occasional dark sense of humor:

I learned how vital optimism truly is.

Not just for me, but for the people around me. It's the difference between watching your parent spend their whole life slowly dying and hoping it would hurry the fuck up, and watching someone refuse to back down despite it all. I mean, I have my dark times, hell. But I put a hell of a lot of energy into doing something with my son when I can, whenever I can, and not just shielding him from the worst of the pain (which he's helpless to do anything about) but something so much more important- showing him all those little moments. Showing him, teaching him, while reminding myself at how vital those little moments are. Those are the things that keep a person going.

Those are the things that embarrass my dad, make him grumble and act all uncomfortable. Not always, but mostly.

Fuck all that.

Yesterday I was coming out of Target as the sun set, and I was in a world of pain. But as I got up close to their big Holy Crap Vibrant Red painted wall, I realized the sun was hitting it in a way that lit it up strangely, with a violet sort of undertone, and something about it just freaking PLEASED me. I don't know what it was. I don't care. So I just stopped, and stood close to the wall, letting my eyes absorb all the yummy delicious glowing red-violet light that they wanted to. I probably looked weird, but anyone who knows me knows that's hardly a reason for me to stop what I'm doing. Oh, it was a yummy, yummy, absolutely fucking delicious color, and once I had my fill I proceeded to painfully stagger to the car, taking time to admire the outline of the pine trees against the sky. I've always had a thing for pine trees. My mom can tell you horror stories about trying to wash pine sap out of my clothes when I was young...

So, I have something new to study. The parasympathetic nervous system. I suspect it finds endorphins delicious. Like red-violet paint and the insanely soothing feeling of hot running water.

What does that have to do with weird dreams about gurgling poop? I don't know. Probably everything, if the universe acts the way I suspect it does.

Which reminds me: I had an amusing thought the other day while standing in the shower. (Tangent: my husband thinks there should be a word for some eureka moment had while sitting on the toilet. I agree, and think there should be one for the shower as well.) What I was thinking about was the unruly effects of quantum physics, and also about that odd superstition some people have about jinxing something by saying it aloud. I thought how funny it would be if the superstition was correct, for instance, merely saying a thing out loud caused a collapse of the wave function...

Geek humor. Try explaining that to someone who asks you why you're laughing in the shower. As much as my husband's brainiac qualities can drive me insane, having someone to tell thoughts like that to makes all of his pontificating worthwhile. And, I dare say, is a damn happy chasm in the difference between me and my father.

Yep. Those are my thoughts of this morning. Now I'm gonna go eat something. And read something.
'Cause that's how I roll.

*laughter*