Greetings from the Green Zone, Baghdad, 2006

Not really, but good gravy it sounds like it right now. People have been setting off fireworks for three days straight; last night I heard fireworks (or a firefight, hard to tell) at 2 a.m. And we’re geographically situated to get noise and light from three different municipal fireworks shows, which doesn’t help.

Spooky Man has taken to naming calibers whenever a particularly close explosion happens — and let’s not kid ourselves, fireworks are nothing more than controlled explosions.

“That was a 38 or a 9-mil,” or “Hmm, grenade launcher, I think,” has been most of his conversation this evening. About fifteen minutes ago he turned to me and said, “Is it just me, or are there a lot more illegal fireworks this year?” I guess it’s a sign of an improving economy: people can afford to spend money on decorative explosives.

Too bad all of my fur babies are traumatized and huddled around me in the bedroom, where the sounds are more muffled. Note to self: Ask vet about sedatives next year. And maybe PTSD therapy for pets.

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