Thats a sigh, not a scream. The two have always confused me when written. I never know if Im supposed to be breathing a sigh of relief for whom Im reading, or creeping to the edge of my seat along with them. But fear not, this stat holiday, I sigh.
Its nine thirty, my baby girl is bathed, clean diapered, boobed and in bed. Out. Cold.
Jer is djing down at a local bar tonight. All can-con for the local drunkies downtown for the fireworks. I will not be partaking in the festivities this year. No, not I.
Im home, alone, and couldnt be happier. Dont get me wrong, I am very patriotic. I love my country as much as the next guy, Im just way too comfy on my couch.
I have, in the past, donned canada day deely boppers or fashioned a dress out of a flag and cheerfully shouted patriotically with the masses. But not this year.
I have drank luke warm beer out of plastic cola bottles, shared cigarettes with strangers and peed in (mostly) abandoned parking lots. But not this year.
This year I wandered about with my family in the glorious sunshine this afternoon, bbqued my man and me some dinner, and tucked in my kidlett.
I have had her puke on me this year, no need for a drunk teenager sardined in beside me. I would rather watch online episodes of Mad Men (my new obsession) instead of this city’s terrible excuse for a fireworks display. Maybe Im getting old, but I just dont feel the urge this year.
So now? Now Ima sit down and read a book and drink a very good cup of coffee.
THAT is my idea of a good time, this year.