I have nothing to say, actually, about anything of consequence, anyway, but I figure it’s time I moved that depressing-as-hell post down a notch or two. So the Memorial Day weekend came and went, and all I can say is…
Ow. Ow. Ow.

See, it’s like this. I like getting out in my yard. Planting, trimming, weeding, growing. It’s almost an illness. Except I suffer from two things that make gardening difficult: (1) I’m impatient as hell, and (2) I’m not getting any younger.

Lemme ‘splain.

See, I wanted to make a raised bed. And Mr. Nerd promised to take all the grass out and turn the soil for me before I built it up. Except I couldn’t wait till he got to a stopping point with his to-do list. So I did it myself. With a small garden cultivator and a teeny (albeit cute) little garden shovel. I took out every bit of grass, by the roots. I took out everything that resembled grass. I turned the soil. Then I added three forty-pound bags of soil and organic material. Then I turned it some more. Then I planted the new Oleander bush. And the Cat’s Whiskers. And a whole buncha bulbs. And repotted the Shrimp Plant. And the Guara.

Which leads me to Part 2. I’m not getting any younger. So my back hurts in about sixty different places. I have blisters. My feet hurt. And I have a killer sunburn from straining the pool.

But my yard looks good.

But ow.

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