Wednesday, June 30, 2010

my husband is a goober

Mitch is getting a motorcycle. So he tells me. He has gone through the trouble of getting his temp (which took him two tries...mwahahaha), taking a 3-day long class (which he scheduled for when I would be stoned on Vicodin), and getting his official operator's license.

What he failed to consider was the fact that we don't have a driveway. Nor do we have a smooth entrance into the backyard. Nor do we live in what one might call a desirable neighborhood. So here begins the scramble to decide where he should keep the motorized bicycle. He has considered tearing up part of our front yard and pouring a cement ramp next to our stairs. No thank you. He has petitioned several friends with driveways and garages, until I told him it was inappropriate. Now his new plan is to punch a hole in our backyard fence and ask our neighbor if he can use his driveway as entrance to the parking platform he plans to build over my sunflower bed (okay, I haven't planted them yet, but I was going to plant them right where he wants to park it). All this, and he hasn't hung my bat house, put up my clothes line, or mowed the lawn in two weeks. I bet anyone $5 the parking platform gets built first.


  1. well, make sure he gets one of those "organ donor" stickers on his license.

  2. Make him start with a hang glider (or a jet pack), and if he can handle that, he can upgrade to the motorcycle. (And since he can just land it on the roof, you don't have the parking problem.)