Da Bomb

I know. I’ve had a slew of great days, which is totally blog ruining. I’ve been working really hard at having a slew of crappy days, I promise.

Also, THIS JUST IN, PEOPLE: No one has submitted a darn thing for The Contest. This is sad for one of three reasons: 1) it implies that no one actually reads my blog; that, perhaps, what’s really going on is that my mother is reading it about ten times every day to make me feel good about myself. 2) I’m the only person who has low points, which is really embarrassing because I thought it was a thing. 3) My attempts to get Josh Weed to guest post were futile, lame though they may have been.

Photo taken straight off Josh’s Facebook page, without any permission whatsoever.

Anyways. I just suddenly had a low point, and even though my carpal tunnel is acting up (yeah, too much gaming — whatever, guys, it’s not a big deal that I’m a huge dork), I am willing to sacrifice my health and well-being to share it with you.

That’s either really awesome and loyal of me, or it’s really pathetic. You choose. And then don’t tell me.

First, a funny story: This story is really only super funny if you know my mother well. Imagine, if you will (and you will), a dignified, fastidious, pragmatic woman who spends her days helping America’s children become literate and her evenings puttering and reading. She’s a librarian, in case that wasn’t readily apparent. She is about as opposite me as another person could be, by the way, so she either finds humor in reading my blog or a whole lot of embarrassment. I digress — you need the story because seriously it’s really good, you guys. When I was a little baby, my parents had their roof repaired (replaced? I don’t know. People were climbing up on it and banging on it with metal and wood tools), but she explained very carefully to them that, when I was down for a nap, all work needed to cease.

I needed my beauty rest, even at a young age. It didn’t work, in case you’re curious. I’m still not a supermodel. Or a princess.

As you can probably imagine, the work didn’t cease. She stepped outside, asking them to stop. They still didn’t, at which point my dignified mother stepped outside, looked up on the roof, and told them if they didn’t step down and take a break, she’d get my dad’s gun and shoot them off. I mean, she probably said it in a super nice way, and I don’t even think my dad had a gun, but the roof repairmen took her seriously because they stopped. I wish I hadn’t been a sleeping baby while all this was going on. I wish I’d actually been a teenager or adult, with a video camera and Youtube channel because seriously. Seriously.

Image courtesy of gunsamerica.com
The weird thing about me putting a random picture of a gun on my blog is that I’m vehemently anti-gun.

Now the reason why I shared a funny story: Tonight, at about 10:27 pm (but seriously who was looking at the clock? I certainly wasn’t) a bevy of fireworks went off in the neighborhood. A whole cacophony of them; it was like I was magically transported to Fallujah. They continued for several minutes — bomb after bomb after bomb — I can still smell the sulphur, although I should say that I’ve got an uber sensitive nose, so maybe it’s just me. I’m not quite sure what state holiday takes place on August 18th at 10:27 pm, but seriously someone should have told me because I didn’t get my firework on this past Independence Day, and I felt gypped.

Photo courtesy of @TravisCass
Ah, the infamous 9 second fireworks display. It sounded a lot like this in the neighborhood.

Fireworks around 10:30 pm on a Saturday night aren’t really that big a deal, I suppose, except when Husband is sleeping. And then GOD HELP YOU if you are setting things off like fireworks while my husband is sleeping. No matter where we live, people need to realize as soon as Husband lays down in bed, I want it to be quiet. Soundless. I only want to hear the sound of his heavy breathing and whatever TV show I’m watching because ain’t nobody messin’ with my baby. I mean, husband. And, in fact, I considered stepping outside and screaming into the night sky that I would get a gun and shoot them off their roofs, but it occurred to me that, most likely, they weren’t setting off their wartime fireworks from any rooftops, and I would probably be the one carted away in a police car when all was said and done. Also, we don’t have a gun, so the whole ordeal would have also required that I break and enter into someone else’s place to obtain one. And then figure out how to shoot one because (this might seem unrelated, but when you really think about it, it’s not) I’m the sort of person who used to stick her foot under the lawnmower when she started it.

In the end I decided against all that. But I feel really close to my mom.



2 thoughts on “Da Bomb

  1. i’m pretty sure my funny stories only include me saying “caramel apple crisp” wrong and i’m sure you could tell that story better than me.

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