‘Murica

Last year, we spent the 4th of July up in Maine, surrounded by family and friends. There was a bike parade for the kids, a festival and of course beaches, booze and tons of fireworks! It doesn’t get more American than that.

…This year, thanks to COVID, it was a little different. We literally had nothing to do, so we let Jacoby drive (decisions, not the car). He wanted beach pizza (if you’re from the North Shore, you know what I’m talking about), and we headed to Salisbury for a box of Tripoli’s. After sitting in beach traffic for far too long, our poor planning led us to enjoy lunch roadside, taking in the views (people watching up there is fucking amazing), the salt air and the green heads. Life is good.

Later that day (it was so uneventful, I can’t even remember what the fuck happened in between lunch and dinner), we grilled burgers, ate outside, started a game of Monopoly (I hate Monopoly) and made a night of it. We had originally planned to keep Jacoby awake and drive around aimlessly looking for local backyard fireworks, but he’s been a handful lately [more on that later], and we couldn’t bear the thought of keeping him up longer than necessary, so it was bedtime as usual.

The hubby felt oddly nostalgic and had also bought some Tripoli’s dough to attempt homemade fried dough as a 4th of July treat (apparently, this was a thing when he was a kid). I had just finished my second tequila seltzer (don’t judge), and as the awesome parents we are, we waited until Jacoby was fast asleep to attempt some good ol’ fried dough as a late night adult treat (ok, now you can judge).

It was sinfully delicious. I can’t remember the last time I had a fried treat smothered in butter and powdered sugar. Who the fuck cares if it was 10:30 at night, it was worth it.
…Until it wasn’t. I went to bed with a belly full of fried goodness and a pretty decent buzz. I fell asleep thinking how our low-key Independence Day hadn’t been so bad after all. And then it hit me. The oil, the sugar, the gluten, the late-night snack…it was all a terrible idea. My stomach was doing somersaults and I laid in bed wide awake with the poop sweats. Needless to say, I spent a better part of that night on the toilet regretting the day’s decisions—all while listening to the over-zealous neighborhood fireworks that just wouldn’t fucking quit. I’m not proud of any of it. 2020 has been a year. Happy fucking birthday ‘Merica.