Yesterday, I gave myself a new title - The Crabby Gardener. There wasn't much reason to be crabby, besides my early step into puppy poop in the laundry room. You would think that having a fifth puppy in four years I'd get used to it. But no, each time it is a disgusting surprise that puts me in a brief, foul mood.
After finding my last pair of clean, thin socks, I braved the hot sun and finally got my herbs and flowers planted in pots. I don't put herbs in the garden for one reason: if I had to put on my mucks and head out while cooking, our food would be very, very bland. I like having them on my little front porch where I can snip what I need when I am cooking.
Before we started, the front yard looked lousy with bags of potting soil, piles of empty pots and a few of those little plastic containers of rapidly drying out flowers and herbs. Well, I barked at everyone and was a complete pain to be around, but my heroic family stuck by me and we now have flowers and herbs decorating the front of our house.
Except the pots that have only seeds. Which is most of the pots. But, the pots look good.