Weed bouquet

Today is the 11th anniversary of my marriage to Brain. He doesn't get me flowers, ever, using his half-Vulcan logic: "You have flowers," broadly indicating the yard. This year, though, all I have are weeds. And a fairly good excuse to not have gotten rid of them. (Though I had eradicated the evil garlic mustard previously, at least). I missed the peonies' bloom- pushing aside the taller-than-myself weeds revealed only shriveled brown. I had hoped to snip a bouquet for myself, at the very least.

Since many of my neighbors care meticulously about their own lawn appearances, particularly those directly next door in either direction, this is especially frustrating.

So today, Brain, ever the practical pragmatist, weeded the front flowerbeds for me. Ah, mature love. That, and the perfectly cooked steak he has been making for me.