I’ve talked about living in rural America so this should be nothing new.
And I explained already about how I own the half mile gravel road that services the 3 houses on my lot and the stuff that comes with it.
And now today I will explain that I am unreasonably mad at a concrete contractor for turning around in my front lawn.
Like really fucking mad and that’s not a good thing. I can’t be carrying this shit around with me so I will now get it off my chest.
We just had the driveway paved this week for the first time in the near 100 year history of this house. It cost a lot of money because it’s 7,000 square feet of driveway. It’s huge and more importantly, it’s expensive. So we want to take good care of it and that means roping it off because it’s not even 48 hours after the job. I wouldn’t ride a bike on it much less park a commercial truck. It’s soft asphalt. It’s roped off.
As such, there’s only 4 other outlets from the road to turn around. Which I say sarcastically because that’s a lot obvious places to turn around on the road should you accidentally end up here.
OR.
Alternatively.
You could be some fuck face dipshit that’s entitled to driving on lawns after heavy rains. At least I suppose because that’s exactly what just happened.
I’m sitting here writing a blog about Hydrangea bushes. I just got done walking Scottie. He just had a nice meal. Music softly plays from the record player while British Open coverage occupies my second monitor. I’m having a coffee in the middle of the woods on a gorgeous Thursday morning with plans later in the day to see one of my closest muchachos.
Life is good.
And then a commercial grade concrete truck comes slowly rolling down the road. I’m praying and hoping he doesn’t rip through the pink tape that’s blocking off the driveway. I’m expecting the worst because that’s what you do when you’re sensitive about a big project. You expect things to go wrong so you’re heightened to the risk that happens.
But I didn’t think the alternative to turning around in my driveway was just pulling right into my front lawn? Are you out of your fucking mind?
I come out the front door like Urlacher chasing down Mike Vick in a Soldier Field snowstorm.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING
The guy asked me for fucking directions. He rolled the window down. Do you know where 1030 South…
BUDDY WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON MY LAWN
I’m sorry but I don’t know where I’m going.
YOU’RE ON THE FRONT LAWN.
This fucking pussy.
And just typing this out makes me feel better which is quite literally the only purpose of this blog. I don’t need or want sympathy or camaraderie around some stupid fucking driver. I’m just saying this so I don’t later argue with a stranger on behalf of my emotions from earlier in the day. So let me just keep going for a second here.
Heavy rains last night mean heavy tiretracks this morning. A good 15-20 feet into the lawn.
And not that my grass is winning awards or I’m anything like a psycho lawn owner.
But I’m also not talking about a couple kids walking through it. I’m not bitching at a wayward dog taking a dump. Or any of that routine stuff that turns the looney bin grass guys off the rails.
I’m talking about a licensed contractor ripping up my lawn with his commercial grade truck used for large scale concrete projects. I’m talking about the blatant destruction of my property. I’m talking about a world class jabroni boner moron.
I don’t know how dumb you have to be to do that but I can say it’s much dumber than I anticipated existing in this world. And that really gets the blood pressure going because I try hard to keep a good homestead. We spend so much time and effort and to just see a contractor lay waste to a section of my home because he’s too dumb/lazy/arrogant to drive another 100 feet to another driveway really fucking bothers me.
So I had to sit down and write about it because an hour later and I’m still hot and that’s not good.
So I wrote about it and now you’ve read and hopefully I can move on from this as quickly as possible.
Fuck that guy.
End Blog.
PS – I’m proud of myself for having a mature exchange with the guy and saving my angst and anger for my blog. If there’s one positive takeaway from this, I suppose it’s not making a mountain out of a molehill. Which I have a lot of so if anyone has a good mole guy, please hit me up. I’m trying to have a great lawn tiretracks be damned.