Crazy Wet Suit Update
SO….remember when I wrote about crazy wet suit man? Well Internet…you need an update.
After the whole metal detector escapade to dig up any left over Madonnas, wet suit man decided to go on an archaeological dig in his front yard. I swear to you, one morning I left for work and he was out there in JUST HIS SKIVVIES. Now, lets take a second for this. Old man chicken legs. Wrinkly. Pasty as can be. Old and ragged skivvies that resembled daisy dukes. You try and get that picture out of your mind. Continuing on…so he’s out there avec skivvies, BENDING ALL THE WAY OVER, with tiny hand brushes whisking away the dirt from around the roots of where the tree once stood.
I figured we were in for a treat at this point. He was going to try and hack out these roots and I would get the pleasure of watching his chicken legs do all this physical labor. Yummy. But alas, when I returned home that night there were piles of ground up stump around the dig site.
A week went by and the wood chip piles started to disappear and topsoil was now covering the hole. WAS HE GOING TO PLANT GRASS?!? I waited with anticipation every morning as I drove to work. And then, about a week ago I saw tiny little sprouts of grass. HALLELUJAH. I was convinced that after 3 years of living in this neighborhood we finally had closed the book on wet suit man.
…until this morning. I left to run some errands and there he was, in the same skivvies (likely unwashed) sealing the driveway…WITH HOT TAR. Listen Lady, I don’t have a “middle leg”, but I can imagine that HOT TAR on FLESH would not be a pleasant experience. Please, correct me if I’ve wrong though.
When I returned from my errands I made the slow turn past wet suits house and noticed that he left 1/3 of the driveway unsealed…WTF MATE, WILL IT NEVER END WITH THIS MAN!
Grapes of Wrath
Yesterday, I went grocery shopping to stockpile baby food…cause my kid eats enough of the gerber baby food jars to fill a small pool. Seriously, I could swim in the amount of applesause and pears she eats. Though her mom could probably down an entire vineyard of grapes in a week. That is until the grapes of wrath experience.
I bought some grapes and put them in a dish so I could wash them off. Little did I know there was a creature waiting inside the bundle that I selected. I let them soak in water for awhile and returned to find this specimen clinging to the grapes. At first I thought it was just a brown leaf, but it seemed to be too…wrinkly. To make sure I hadn’t summoned any grape demons, I was all, “Brett, get over here and tell me what this thing is!” If I’m going down by the grapes of wrath, I’m sure as hell bringing him with me. Low and behold, it was a bloated, brown, DEAD caterpillar making my grapes it’s graveyard.
I can just imagine it was like that “Hungry Little Caterpillar” book where the caterpillar eats a whole through apples, pears, and probably like small children before it flourishes into this butterfly. GO FLOURISH SOMEWHERE ELSE! Don’t leave your freakin’ cocoon in my grapes. I’m sure you’ll concur with my analysis of DISGUSTING!
Listen Lady, it’s just plain gross. AND THEN…I had to go and pick the damn thing out. I’m not sure I want to eat these grapes anymore.
Speed Racer
Today we were walking into our local home improvement mega store and as we approached the entrance I caught a glimpse of speed racer. Go Speed Racer Go! He even had a companion.
Ok, so it really wasn’t speed racer, it was even better. Are you ready for it…cause I don’t think you can comprehend the excitement. We stood witness to a race between two elderly individuals on ELECTRIC SHOPPING CARTS. 
Take a second to just laugh to yourself.
Listen Lady, I’m not even kidding you. It was a man and woman, they appeared to be married, and they were racing these puppies to their car. Which was of course parked in a handicap spot.
The race started smoothly out of the gate, but the elderly gentlemen took the lead and then cut off his wife with a wide right turn, which in my playbook is totally an illegal maneuver. Don’t worry though, she gave him a good berating. As we were walking through the entrance, I saw the elderly gentlemen do a fist pump for victory.
It’s good to see that even after all these years the spark is still there.
Secret Agent Man
The other day I took my bajillionth trip to the doctors for the never ending headaches I seem to have. You would think that by now I would have seen all the doctors in upstate New York, but alas faithful Internet, there seems to be one doctor that has been kept from me.
So there I am, sitting on the very comfy, very plastic patient chair and I’m divulging my history…yet again. You’d think that after 5 years he’d at least have a vague recollection of me. Especially after that one time where he had to clean and dress the gaping hole in my hand from where my 12 pound cat bit me and I could see the bone through the wound. Not kidding. BONE. That totally would have made dinner time conversation in my world. You would think, at the very least he would have jotted down some freakin notes. Even something simple like, “massively accident prone” or “should live in a bubble”. Hell, I would have even been satisfied with “lacks any sort of ass structure”. Really…I do. Totally flat.
Anyways, you know he’s totally not using that laptop to look at my medical chart…HELLO MINE SWEEPER! But I figure I’ll humor him and give him the whole story again. It goes something like this “I have really bad headaches. Please provide me drugs. The End.” See, it’s totally complex. I mean, I’d have to look up half that shit on webmd.
He asks if I’ve gone to see a neurologist and if I know the name of the doctor. Yes and Yes. I’ve done the neurologist’s office.I really wanted to fake a seizure while I was there. Listen Lady, I know it’s horrible, but I would probably get seen faster. I’m only trying to save valuable time here! I give him the name of the neurologist I saw and he was all “I thought you might have seen Dr. Perfect (I’ve changed his name to protect him here). He is a headache specialist in Western New York, but I think we should try….”
Blink.
Blink. Blink.
I stopped listening to the end of his sentence because I heard HEADACHE SPECIALIST.
One second while I step up on my soapbox…Ok and go…
You are telling me that there is a headache specialist IN MY CITY and you have not referred me to him yet? Is the specialist a secret agent man that uses cloaks and phantom of the opera masks to hide his true speciality? What is this, high school and this doctor is the teenage boy who is trying to hide the playboy magazine from his parents? I’m going out on a limb here, but I don’t think this headache specialist is a deluge of pornographic material so HIDING him isn’t necessary. Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way? Maybe my doctor just wanted a good ol’ fashioned game of Marco Polo?
Holy mystery solved Batman! And here I thought all my co-pays were being spent wisely, when in fact, I should have just used them to wipe my kids ass. I left the office. Another 20 down the drain and a measly script for vicodin to show for all my troubles. When I got home, I promptly looked up Dr. Perfect’s number and made my own appointment. HA…I WIN MARCO!
Sesame Street Gone Wild?
What’s black, white, and hard as a rock??
…..a Panda that has fallen in cement. COME ON! LISTEN LADY, GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER.
My husband claims he was picking up my daughter’s toys and he nonchalantly threw these two stuffed animals on the dresser and they just “HAPPENED TO LAND THIS WAY”.
Yep OK. And when I was a kid, my barbies and G.I. Joes just liked to chillax together with nothing but their plastic underoos on. TOTALLY BELIEVEABLE!