I was outside last night putting the horses out in the pasture when I realized I could see the fireworks from the nearby town. I am not into fireworks. I can’t stand the “OOOOHing” and “AAAAAAHing” involved in watching with a group of people. But the husband likes them so I went to the house and told him to come outside.
Remember my new manure pile that I surrounded with hay bales? We went out there and sat on the hay for the best view. Yep, cuddling on a hay bale by the manure pile watching fireworks is what passes for a romantic evening around here. (I’d take a minute to cringe about acting like a hick but that is seriously approaching redneck status so I’m going to stay in denial.)
When it was over the husband went back in the house and told his mother that we were watching fireworks. He doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. She went off on him. Yelled about how rude it was not to tell her about the fireworks. She was bored sitting in the house (“Get a job!” my mind automatically yells). Did he think that she might have liked to see fireworks? He just ignored her. Apparently the idea of us having personal quality time never occurs to her.
