We've had a lot of hail and strong wind this year, and our roof has been suffering.* We had an insurance adjustor out last week to discuss things like the ping-ping-sized hole in the plastic thingie that covers the basement window, the hits and splits on the wood shake shingles and the water spots inside the house.

But last night -- LAST NIGHT -- the neighbors had a kickin' party with lights, a DJ, about fifty people and at least a thousand dollars worth of firecrackers. Though I'm a fan of firecrackers myself, when we pulled back into our driveway after annual trip to see the local professional display, I thought our normally quiet cul-de-sac had been bombed. Chunks of reinforced cardboard lay scattered across my lawn and the cement was littered with casings and mortar chutes. The haze made it difficult to see the children racing around holding lit punks and shouting with pyro-induced glee. I saw another of my neighbors who I knew better standing across the driveway.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"I think they have a half-stick of dynamite in there somewhere," he muttered.

After they set off some rockets that blew straight for me, we took shelter inside, where I shut off all my lights and waited them out, until they finally took a leafblower to the cul-de-sac to clean up the mess.

This morning, the little angel led me outside to show me all the parachutes she'd spied while eating her breakfast. I looked up to see at least six more parachutes on my roof.

I want a new roof, people. But, like, not that bad.

* A source of anxiety for sure, but not *the* source