It's quarter past 11 and my 3-year-old is awake. This makes Angie unhappy. Holidays are supposed to be happy days, and not just for the jackasses in my complex who got ahold of illegal, city-show commercial level fireworks (big, pretty, and loud) and thought that shooting them off every five minutes for four hours was an excellent holiday plan.
All the neighbors in the three buildings surrounding the parking lot where the pyrotechnics took place were out on their patios or at the windows, watching the show. At about 11, after a particularly loud firework that did nothing but smoke, flash, and bang at deafening volume, I called out across the lot, "Can you guys hold off one the really loud ones till tomorrow evening? I gotta kid that needs to sleep." Other neighbors' voices started to ring out, "That's what I'm saying!"
Ten minutes later they let off another of that same kind. I just lost it and yelled, in the Mommy Voice "You're being rude. Those fireworks aren't legal. Clean it up or I'm calling the cops!" And what do you know? Fifteen little hoodlums are industriously clearing the debris off the parking lot as I type this. I feel self-satisfied and smug, and very happy that I'll be moving in a month, and not only because I just pissed off a lot of people. Also because the people I just pissed off know exactly where I live.
One of the reasons I am moving to outback south OZ.
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