Wall They or Won't They aka Smoke Gets In Your...

The seawall people are coming today!

Or so we're told.

Actually, we've been told that a LOT in the past few months. But now the truck is supposedly on the road and headed toward us!

The seawall was actually replaced late last year, and THAT is a post (or two or three) of its own. At some point. When I can relate it without experiencing PTSD symptoms and jacking my blood pressure so high that my head pops off and flies around the room going "pffffttt" like a balloon that somebody blew up and released. Because a wildly zooming, farting head is the last thing we need in a year when human rights are disappearing, the former president is being exposed as a treasonous fuck who threw hamberders at the wall and attacked his security detail, and the planet is about to ignite and take the whole sorry lot of us down with full support of the SCOTUS. Oh, and that pesky COVID thing is still hanging around like the drunk uncle who just won't leave when the party's over.

This is the backfill and yard restoration that was supposed to happen, according to our contract, thus worded: 

As soon as weather breaks / ground thaws we will quickly get back to you to make everything look great over there.

I know this is Michigan, and our weather is unpredictable, but the ground has been thawed for some time now. And our contact person there, whom I shall refer to as Stoner Surfer Dude or SSD for now until I decide it's time to blast his name around, has been giving us deadlines and then ghosting us since late April. And that has ONLY been when I have badgered him for information first. If I hadn't initiated contact, I doubt we'd have heard a word from him. More on that particular trait of his in my follow up story that may or may not happen depending on how much my blood pressure can endure.

SSD is piss-poor at communicating and customer service doesn't exist in his world. But, by golly, is he an expert at blowing smoke! I've had so much smoke blown up my ass in the past three months that you could put me on a stage and squeeze me around the middle and I could provide the fog effect for a fairly lengthy rock concert. Hell, feed me some beans first and light a match and I'll provide the pyrotechnics as well.

So the truck should be here soon. Unless the driver sees something shiny along the way. He had better not, because I'm about at smoke capacity.