I'm sitting on my deck in the heart of suburbia on a warm Saturday, coffee in hand, book in my lap, taking in some morning sun. My elusive neighbor, whom I've never seen before, finally makes her debut with her maaah-jorly annoying bush whacker, or weed cutter, or noise maker… whatever, I'm not a fucking gardner. Fine, Mystery Neighbor, trim your bushes if you must. But that's not all she's doing. She's screaming at her lackluster, annoying voiced children. I'm no mother and I'm sure I lack any profound motherly advice yet I know this for sure. If you're going to furrow your brow under that stupid visor you're wearing and yell at your kids, take it inside, lady! I say this on behalf of the entire neighborhood and probably your husband, you already look crazy enough in that ridiculous hat, waving around that power tool! Now you're screaming at your kids? You look like a suburban version of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and if you haven't noticed your little monsters don't take you seriously at all. Who would, with those ill-fitting pleated shorts and that RIDICULOS pink visor you probably got from your sorority in '92. I'm sure I'd be pissed off too if that ugly visor had my temples in a vice grip and my husband was making me do yard work but that's when you take your cue and dust of your margarita machine, grab your headphones and lock yourself in the bathroom like any respectable mother would do. Get a grip desperate housewife, that or a new wardrobe and some Xanax. And judging by your outfit, maybe when your husband asked you to trim the bushes, he wasn't talking about the ones in front of your house. Just some neighborly advice, that's all.
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