Dirt Therapy FTW
Spouseman & I had plans for Friday. We were gonna go out and get a fancy steak dinner to celebrate the end of my Birthday Week.
Takeout fancy supper, I should specify, because I never did truly enjoy eating in loud, crowded, environments, and since pandemic takeout has become a really good alternative. Most of the restaurants we like are doing a damfine better job with online ordering portals and preparing orders.
In a perfect world, they would all be serving takeout in reusable dishes that could be returned for a deposit, but still. The point is, we had been anticipating and looking forward to tasty steak fancy meal all week.
Then Friday happened, and a lot of work got done, but when I was done with it all, I was twitchy and antsy and crabby beyond bearing.
Change from plans to PLANTS
At 4:30PM, I decided I wanted to go to the garden center. Spouseman came along for the ride and found awesome new Garden Rocks, and I came picked out a dozen new perennials and 2 bags of fancy soil-amendment planting medium.
(Honestly, our soil is till shit)
t was 6:30PM by the time the plants got to their final placements, and, well, I decided I would rather plant things than go out to dinner.
And Spouseman said, cool, that was fine, we'll do steak another night. Call it reason 6,987, 559 why I love this man
Two hours later, the plants were all planted and watered, and I was covered in sweat and filthy with dirt from hat to shoes. My mood? A thousand times improved. Add a long, decadent showere
Our fine Friday meal: French bread pizzas and watermelon. Tonight we had the steak, and it was also awesome, just in a wholly different way.
Behold, (some of) the pretties!
And that's it, really.
Books!
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