The problem now is that we have to go to a birthday party this evening, as well. That kind of sucks. The temperature is pushing ninety degrees, and the last thing I want to do is go to a house filled with sweaty people and sing "Happy Birthday." It's for my nephew's 18th birthday, and he has officially reached the "all he wants is cash" stage. Frankly, when kids reach that stage, I reach the "I only want to send a card" stage. However, I will dutifully show up at my sister-in-law's house; watch my nephew open his envelopes of cash like a scene out of one of the Godfather films; and then see my nephew disappear with his friends to spend his newly acquired cash.
The party itself will be hot and uncomfortable, unless it's held in the backyard. If it is held in the backyard, I'll guarantee that my son will end up stepping in a pile of dog crap. At t the very least, I'm hoping for some barbecued bratwurst. It's the only thing that will salvage the entire affair for me.
Then, at dusk, my wife, daughter, son, and I will be sitting on a blanket, which will still be damp from yesterday's deluge, and watch the fireworks. My son's first fireworks. Hopefully, I will be able to get all the dog crap off his shoe by the time of the rocket's red glare.
Saint Marty is trying to remain positive.
|Oh-oh, say can you see...|