When I got home yesterday Jason was finishing up mowing the yard. The weather was gorgeous so I sat out on the porch while he weed-eated. (Is that a word?) He trimmed our bushes and then we hauled sticks, limbs, bricks, rocks, and anything else we deemed a blemish on our yard, all the way to a big burn pile a ways behind our house. I’m sore. Mostly because I was the one that got up in the bed of the truck and slung everything out onto said burn pile. I was unbelievably paranoid about a snake or black widow or ant crawling up my precious porcelain skin and biting me. Jason assured me that nothing is going to be in there that we didn’t put in there. Yeah, whatever.
So pity me. The poor, depraved wife that only had to unload the bed of one truck while her husband mowed an acre of thick grass and trimmed bushes and loaded the truck.