This year in particular, I've been stymied by a lack of motivation so profound, just getting out of bed requires Herculean effort, let alone making the garden look presentable. Every other spring, I have started out hopeful, weeding and digging and wasting money on plants that were mostly doomed to die. This year, I did nothing, absolutely nothing and the front yard in particular is a horrifying jungle of weeds, decorated with a beat-up fire pit. At this point, I'm pretty much past caring what the rest of the neighborhood thinks. I grew up in an immaculately maintained house, and believe me, this doesn't bring happiness or any sense of satisfaction.
I present the evidence of my descent into sluttishness.
The back yard of disgrace:
The raised beds of reproach:
As I predicted, the "two week" back order for a new dryer motor has stretched into a month.
The side yard of sorrow:
The front porch of destruction:
The front yard of despair:
The fire-pit of ill repute.
The path of degradation:
The tuna fish can ashtray of ignominy:
So there it is. We have made tepid overtures toward a contractor to see if he can turn the appalling "fire pit" section of the front yard into an elegant bluestone patio, but this would require a retaining wall and steps and having two kids in college has put a serious dent in our home improvement budget.