And the rockets' red glare...is making me hide in my sister's closet

Napping on the beach in Maine, exhausted from post-
July 4 fireworks. Fireworks, rockets, they're all the same to me: terrifying.

Cajoled Mom into taking me for an after-dinner walk tonight at Lilja Field in Natick. Here's how I did it: she thought we were using just our feet, but I made a u-turn at the sidewalk and performed a Plop O'Doom at the garage. Tired of the same old, same old, I wanted wheels, just to make things more interesting.

Here's the rub: we get to the field, and I can hear the whistle of rockets. Mom, busy parking or whatever, plus her hearing isn't that great, doesn't notice a thing. I'm cowering in the back, but a pup decided to check out the antiquity of my car, so I hop out for a meet-and-greet.

Then the rockets start going off like crazy. "It's like Cape Canaveral out there," says the pup's owner. While not quite the crowds that made it to the 321 area code to see the final space shuttle liftoff, there were a dozen or so people craning their necks.

I get that people want to have fun with rockets, but look, I barely made it through the Fourth of July. And I need exercise.

One good thing: it's August, so most people should have used up their fireworks by now. But don't all psychiatrists go on vacation in August? That's bad, because I could use some couch time.