The other night we were watching TV on the couch, switching channels between America’s Funniest Home Videos and Jeff Foxworthy on Comedy Central.

“Mommy, what’s a redneck?” Girl asks me, after Jeff Foxworthy has used the term for the 20th time.

“Uh, I guess, uh, it’s a not nice word for poor people. Don’t call anybody that,” I say lamely.

Tonight, I have a better explanation for her, delivered in Foxworthy style:

- You might be a redneck if you sneak out to the fireworks stand when your wife and children are out shopping and come home with this:

- You might be a redneck if you buy this just because of its name: The Junior Redneck Party Pack

- You might be a redneck if you shoot it off the day after the Fourth of July, just for the hell of it

- You might be a redneck if you can’t even wait til it’s dark to shoot it off on the Fifth of July, just for the hell of it

- And, you might be a redneck if your very favorite rocket in the whole Junior Redneck Party Pack is named “Butt Ugly.”

Times you should not talk to me:

- When I am in the bathroom getting a child dressed
- When I am late for work and putting on makeup in the bathroom
- When I am using the bathroom
- Okay, pretty much, if I’m anywhere near the bathroom, don’t talk to me.

Here’s a word I wish I didn’t know: “barndominium.” This word has been thrust into my vocubulary by my husband. We seem to be playing out a 2010 version of the 1960s sitcom “Green Acres.”

In the modern version, the husband drags the wife over to his computer to show her screen after screen of rural property for sale all over the state. Some of these properties have little houses on them. Some of them have mobile homes, and some have, you guessed it, barndominiums. A barndominium is a barn with an apartment built into it. Let’s just say this is not where I want to spend my golden years.

I have come up with a nice way of saying “Are you out of your mind?” I say, “But what about Zsa Zsa?” This response is also kinder than my previous one: “I’m sure your next wife will be very happy there.” (Side note: I have since learned that it was actually Eva Gabor, not Zsa Zsa, who starred in Green Acres, but I’m sticking with Zsa Zsa because it’s a much funnier name.)

I’m afraid we do not share the same vision of retirement. Bob sees himself endlessly puttering — in the chicken coop, in the garden, among the fruit trees. The gentleman farmer.

I see myself drinking red wine with old friends, writing, taking fun classes. I doubt they have yoga in Hooterville.

I picture myself at 70 in a pink feather boa, chugging chianti with Arnold the Pig.

“Arnold dahling,” I say, “It’s so dull here. I miss Park Avenue.”

Arnold just nods kindly and nuzzles me with his snout.

Thank God I’m not single. I’m a lousy date. I cannot eat spicy food, polish off half a bottle of wine and stay up past 10 p.m. Men are generally not attracted to someone who pops Gas-X pills at the table and falls asleep in the car on the way home. It takes a husband to extend you that much of a benefit of the doubt.

There’s not much to do on a date night around here except go out to eat. I have a great business idea for a budding entrepreneur in Sugar Land — a one-hour hotel geared for parents with young children. I’m sure there are one-hour hotels in Houston, probably along Telephone Road, but I’m not willing to take my life in my hands for a little nooky. It would all need to be legal, clean, safe and not embarrassing. I’m thinking of a wholesome, upscale kind of place like Lifetime Fitness. No gangstas, no pimps and especially no hoes. It could be called The Ultimate Date Night.

Of course there are regular hotel rooms you can rent, but it’s hard to get a babysitter who can stay all night. Plus, it’s expensive. The Ultimate Date Night would be more affordable, say $25 an hour. That’s the price of two deluxe dinners at our favorite Thai restaurant, the price of one at our favorite Italian place. You’d get a bed, a hot-tub and dessert brought to your room. You can pick up a big Mac on the way home.

I think this is the perfect business concept for these harried, time-strapped, money-crunched times. I’ve already got the marketing plan for it worked out in my head. The advertising campaign would be flyers plastered in daycares and sent home in backpacks, with coupons attached.