When my husband and I were childless and lived in one of our old houses (the one next to Martin), located on the other side of our home was the house of a locally begrudged school teacher. She was really,really rude. We had several unfriendly run-ins with her. Everyone in the town knew how outrageously bitched up she was, and it was not unusual for her to tell you herself.
You can only imagine what it is like to live next to such a lady in a small town. Because here, all of the kids that dislike a person for whatever teen-angst driven reason, know where you live. And at that time, she lived next to me.
Unfortunately, we caught the tail end of all pranks pulled on her. Because if someone egged her house, at least one stray egg would accidentally hit our home.While it sucked to be punished for her lack of personality, I will admit that the king of all inherited pranks was well worth catching–for me anyway.
You see, one night somewhere around two a.m we heard very loud popping sounds outside of the house.
My sleeping husband hops out of bed and decides that this sound must be someone shooting at our house. (I KNOW!)
So his first instinct was to roll my sleeping body off of the bed and into the floor in case the alleged sharpshooters decided to shoot into the window.
Of course, he didn’t wake me up first, and the three foot fall to the floor served as quite the wake-up call.
I hit the floor with a bump. And believe me, being thrown off your bed at 2 a.m. is not pleasant. I believe I yelled something along the lines of , “what the hell are you doing?”
(Because I am hostile after being tossed off my tall bed in the wee hours of the morning.)
“SOMEONE IS SHOOTING AT OUR HOUSE,” he screamed.
While I might’ve abruptly been woken up by the toss into the floor, I knew better than to think that some random fool was shooting at our house. We didn’t live in the ghetto, and aside from that, it just didn’t make sense. Not that those sort of things always do, but still. I knew that no one was shooting into our house.
” No, Adam. No one is shooting at our house. Go back to sleep.” I said as I crawled back in bed.
He grumbled at me and joined.
Just as we got comfortable, we heard the popping sound again.
“I’m going to go look,” he said as he jumped out of bed.
So Adam waltzed out of the house suited in only his underwear, a black dress coat, and a gun. Take a moment to the let that register. Since I don’t have a picture of that, and I will provide a visual aid:
Now, you have some idea of how ridiculous this situation was.
After popping on the man-coat and man-shoes, he peered out the door and crept around the house all discrete and Barny Fife like (haha). He was determined to find the gunman.
Pants or no pants.
He circled the house in its entirety. Then suddenly, as he popped his head around the front corner, more popping occurred. And he looked around to see…
firecrackers lighting up in the road.
the whole time, it had just been firecrackers.
It turns out that a few kids decided to throw firecrackers into the street in front of the ladies home.
The firecrackers had went off, popping and lighting up. And my husband woke up thinking that someone was shooting at us, and ran out into the street with his underwear and a gun.
It’s pretty classic since being a complete idiot isn’t normally something he does. I only make fun of him for it once a day. Just once a day.
Filed under: 
