Last Sunday was a glorious day.
I had no real plans and the weather was sunny and unseasonably warm for January.
After finishing the perusal of my stack of decorating books checked out from my local library and loading myself with plenty of coffee, I decided to throw on jeans, a t-shirt and my rain boots and work in my backyard.
|Dear Local Library: I love you. That is all.|
I spent hours back there with my 3 trusted assistants scooping dog poop, raking leaves, lifting stepping stones, and trimming an overgrown grapevine.
Eventually my husband came out to admire my work and to retrieve one of the dogs and banish him to the crate indoors, as his obnoxious barking at the neighbor's roof repairs next door were simply too much to endure.
My husband laid a towel out next to the pool for the 2 smaller dogs to lay on and sunbathe and I sat down next to them and my husband, passing him a beer and popping the cap on my own.
We sat for almost an hour talking about his running, my brilliant idea of wearing rainboots to do yardwork, our kids, the dogs, and all sorts of important topics like that.
|Thrifted $5 rain boots|
It was ideal and I would give anything to replicate it every weekend.
Except for the poop scooping.
À la vie et à l'amour