Shane loves candle light and lanterns, so last night he lit our little propane Coleman camp lamp, because we just got a new base for it, so it won't tip over and burn down the ...tent...when we're camping, or possibly start a forest fire and/or leave broken glass everywhere for me to clean up, because that is SO not relaxing.
Anyway--he turned on the lamp and was trying to put it next to my chair.
Our conversation went like this:
Me: Turn that off, it's too noisy, and it reminds me of my childhood. All we HAD was a stupid gas light in the whole downstairs. Turn it off.
Him: No, it's awesome. Turn out the other lights, and we can sit around it...
Me: No. I'm trying to cross stitch and I can't see, plus the noise is driving me crazy. Take it somewhere else.
Him: Come on... See? *turns on Crosby, Stills and Nash from my 70's Spotify playlist and sits by the glow of the Coleman lamp* We ARE hippies now.
Him: Well, or we're...working hippies. Because we work. A lot.
Me: Uh, yeah, that wouldn't fly. We're like...workaholic hippies.
both laughing our heads off
Him: Yeah. We should write a book. Everyone would buy it because they'd be like what is THIS? I need to read it.
Me: The Workaholic Hippie. That could totally be a book. We're gonna be so rich.
That's how our evenings usually go.
And, I suppose if we write it and get rich, we'll have defeated the purpose, because aren't hippies supposed to be ...not rich?
Food for thought, anyway. Peace out, man.