Stop and Smell the Smoke

Dear fellow residents of my over privileged suburban neighborhood,

Hello! How are you? I wanted to take a moment to congratulate you on your financial windfall! No, I don't know you, at least not those of you who don't live in my building. But I know you must be really really rich because you spent six solid hours basically blowing up paychecks in a cloud of noisy smoke on Friday night.

I have to admit, I don't understand the point of fireworks. Well, professional fireworks I get. They can be quite pretty and impressive. But the ones you set off at home? They're expensive - more so in Illinois, since you have to drive to Indiana to buy them. And they're really not very pretty. And they leave smoke-scented garbage littered all over the street. Not to mention the potential for maiming.

To be completely honest, I never really cared one way or the other about them before we had the dog. I have to make a confession. Originally the dog didn't care about fireworks either. And then one year, we thought we'd see our town's fireworks display and since the dog had heard fireworks before without caring, we figured we'd bring him with. But apparently, the combination of the loud noise with being able to see the explosion caused something in him to snap. We went home feeling like the worst pet owners ever, and since then he has been terrified of fireworks.

Which kind of makes sense, when you think about it. Friday night was surreal. I am fortunate enough to say that I have never been in an actual war zone, but I have to imagine that our neighborhood sounded like one, with explosions literally every few seconds. I just don't get why this is how we celebrate our nation's birthday. To remind us of past wars? Frankly, who needs a war to take off limbs, when the combination of beer and explosives can do it right in your own backyard?

But I forgot about you, neighbors. I just have one question. If you honestly believe that midnight is a super time to grab another bottle of beer and blow some more stuff up, then why not do it in front of your house? Why come to the playground, which is, coincidentally, right in front of my house? The dog was already huddled in our closet, shivering violently. Did you really have to make him pee on my husband's shirt?

Also, while walking through the town's downtown yesterday, a woman in a cocktail dress burned me with her cigarette as I was walking by. It was an accident, but she didn't even know it happened, and I was so taken aback that I didn't even say anything until she had passed. It's just further proof that you all need to learn a lesson. So, neighbors, I'm taking away your lighter privileges. I don't care if you spent this month's mortgage payments on fireworks and cigarettes. You can spend the time cleaning up that mess you made. And if I hear any lip from you, I'm going to make you pay the dog's therapy bills.