Oh mah holy hell, y’all - where is the weekend going? Okay, it may be because I have done absolutely nothing but eat and read while sitting out in the gorgeous (finally!) weather - but I’ve neglected my reading and writing horribly.

My grill-master-slash-stud-muffin, Mr. Hot, provided us with grilled chicken, potatoes, and asparagus yesterday and then turkey burgers today. Someone needs to come over and roll me into the shower - I feel a bit like a beached whale. And I found a new mixer for my vodka - Minute Maid Orange/Tangerine (Light! Only 15-calories per serving!) - which also, by the way, mixes nicely with rum. (Or so that grill-master-slash-stud-muffin claims.)

Last night, the fireworks show brilliantly orchestrated by the fireman down the road (in his front yard) provided us our 4th entertainment - until the “Mayor” put a stop to it.

Wait, I’ve never told you about the “Mayor”? Well, he isn’t. But damned, he thinks he is. He is, in his own words, “A farmer, a retired engineer, a horse trainer, and a BORN-AGAIN CHRISTIAN.” And yes, that’s exactly how he says it. All-caps. Shout it out with me now, y’all. Amen. (Not that I have a problem with his religious beliefs - even though, as we’ll see, he doesn’t embody those beliefs, but the fact that he feels the need to announce his particular faith IN ALL CAPS? I have a problem with that.)

He has 15 acres, which happens to run behind every house the entire length of our road. His house and garage, however, are behind OUR backyard. (Lucky us!) We were working out there, one day soon after we moved in, and he accosted us with his speech. “I’ve got the most land of anyone around here and no one with less than 10 acres is considered a farm. I’m considered a farm. So I can burn brush. I can have animals. I hate any noise that isn’t related to maintaining my land. Don’t think you can use that firepit in your yard because I’ve got a barn over here. I’m a farmer, a retired engineer, a horse trainer and a BORN AGAIN CHRISTIAN.”

Mr. Hot and I nodded and walked off, shaking our heads.

Of course, we also checked the township bylaws about burning.

• Anyone with at least an acre (which we have) can burn with notice to the fire department.
• Said burning cannot last longer than 3 hours.

Period.

So, y’all know what we did, right? We used our firepit. Snort. Mr. Hot also kindly printed off the township regulations for the “Mayor”. Just in case he needed a refresher course.

Annnnyway, for the last two years, we’ve had no problems. Of course, we know that every time we sit out on the deck, or do something in our backyard, the “Mayor” and his wife, “Ruffie” are watching our every move. Sometimes I flash Mr. Hot a boob-shot while we’re out there or slip my hand down his pants - just in case the “Mayor” needs a cheap thrill.

He has been known to shoot dogs that come onto his property (as the people at the corner found out the hard way). He makes the mail carrier beep when they drop off his mail (apparently, he is so important that his mail cannot sit in the mailbox like the rest of us mortals’ mail). His wife has threatened another neighbor when the neighbor innocently offered to help muck out the horsebarn - “You come into my yard and I’ll shoot you.”

Oh, yes, the “Mayor” keeps an eye on the neighbors. Well, the ones on our side of the street anyway. So, every year, it’s a race to see if the fireman and friends can finish their state of the art fireworks show before the “Mayor” manages to get the police to come put a stop to it.

This show rivals anything that you would see at your local town’s festivities. Real fireworks - Dahlias, Peonies and Chrysanthemums, Phoenix & Birds and Glitter Palms. We sit out in our front yard and wait for the sun to set. Then we oooooh and ahhhhhhh and clap. Poopy the Puppy stays amazingly calm during the whole thing - although he does think it’s weird that we look into the sky and clap. I’m sure he thinks we’re clapping for him.

Last night, we called Shortman and 24 out to watch. About 20 minutes in, the finale started. About 3 minutes after the finale was over, the police car that we’d been half-expecting made its way down the road. SLOWLY… ever so slowly. We have a theory though. Since the firemen run this show, and the policemen around here know the “Mayor” by name*… they do the firemen the courtesy of calling to tell them, “Have your show done by 10:20 because we can’t stand him calling every three fucking minutes. Then we’ll come by and grab a hotdog so it looks good.”

But it’s fun while it lasts… and we don’t have to fight for a spot to put our blankets down.

—-*Yep. When Mr. Hot went to file a report about our stolen credit card number, he gave the officer our address and said, “I live behind the “Mayor”.” The cop looked up with pity in his eyes, slowly nodded his head, and bent back down to finish the report. Mr. Hot swears that he heard him whisper, “You poor sap.” —-