The Life

Let Me Tell You About July 4th

The fourth of July is a special day.  A day for American’s to celebrate our freedom.  To reflect and remember our countries roots and stand proud to be a part of something so amazing.
The fourth of July is also my mother’s birthday.  My mother was born on a day full of celebrations.  Every birthday she celebrates ends in fireworks.  Pretty cool.  On the downside, she does have to share her birthday with AMERICA.  I didn’t even like sharing my birthday with a girl in high school.  Like ew, get your own day.

Mini and I planned a weekend celebration trip.  The plan was to come on the fourth, stay until Sunday, when we have Mike’s 30th birthday party and then head back home.  So the morning of the fourth, I find myself running around like a chicken with my head cut off.  Why?  Because I am damn lazy.  I didn’t pack the night before.  I had nothing put together.  My car looked like a bomb went off with such magnitude that I actually had to attack it with a hefty bag and air freshener.  { Note to Mini:  I found enough crumbs underneath your car seat to create 10 granola bars.  You just lost your car snacking privileges.  And as for the French fries I found under my own seat…so did I. }  Needless to say, the morning was flying by at a rapid pace.  Around 12:15 we hopped in the car and began the drive.  It takes exactly 2 hours.  Well, this time it took a few minutes more because someone, no names mentioned, decided to scream hysterically for 30 minutes and make me pull over 2x for no reason.  Thanks kid.

We finally get there and I’m unloading Mini from the car.  My mom, stepdad and sister are so excited to see her.  Me?  They could give a shit about seeing me.  I walk in the house with my usual declaration: “I’m STARVING!!  Are the hotdogs done!?!” And then my phone rings.  It’s Mike.  So my first thought is, seriously?  I just called him to tell him I was here, what did he forget to say?  But then I hear this..

“Danielle.  Do you have my car keys?”

Let me rewind for you, so you get the full effect of this situation.  Mike didn’t come with me, because he had to go to work.  And work on Friday.  And work on Saturday.  And he can’t find his keys.  (And somehow I have become a notorious key thief)

So I’m all like, “Absolutely not!  Why would I have your keys.  Your ridiculous.  Look in the drawer.  Look in the garage on the table”.  While in reality, my insides are melting.  My thoughts are racing, “Dear god, are you there, are you listening? PLEASE DON’T LET ME FIND HIS KEYS, I will NEVER ask you for meaningless crap again”.

My husband has a temper.  He’s Italian.  Go figure.  I can hear the heat in his voice.  I am in full panic mode.  Like, about to have diarrhea panic mode.  I hear him opening and slamming drawers and cabinets.  I have now dumped my diaper bag sending loose chips and broken crayons all over the house.  I run out to the car to start searching there.  My mother gives me a look that can only say, “oh shit”.  Because she knows.  She knows I have his keys.  She knows that my husband is anal ocd, and I am a disaster.  I see it on her face.

I have now tossed every bag, suitcase, make-up case, and toy out of my car onto the front lawn.  NOTHING.  No keys.  I open the trunk.  I was transporting a ridiculously large gift to give my husband at his party.  I heave the gift out of the trunk.

And I see them.  Now I am silent.  Mike knows.  I finally open my mouth, “Oh shit, what do I do now”.  He starts screaming.  I start crying.  My stepdad starts looking at overnight deliveries.

To make a long story, and even longer day, short…I drove back.  This time after eating 2 hot dogs in tears.  With my little sister and a stack of scratch off cards for entertainment.  I drove all the way back home.  2 hours.  Brought Mike his car to work, (thankfully someone picked him up to bring him so he wasn’t late because he literally would have killed me).  Then, we drove the long way home.  I don’t feel like I live so far from my family.  2 hours.  It’s nothing.  6 hours?  That’s a different story.

We finally arrived at 7ish.  My mom started mixing the martinis.  We ate a delicious meal of crab cakes, tuna tartar, and shrimp ceviche.  I relaxed.  Shit happens.  It is what it is.  I had to drive back.  It was an accident, my husband knew that.  I knew that.  It still sucked.

I figure I have 2 choices.  I can attempt to be more organized and careful, or I can take his car key off my ring and leave it on a hook in the garage.  I will be buying a hook tomorrow.

God bless America.  And Happy Birthday Mom.

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