For our July 4th holiday, Joe and I decided to indulge in that most all-American of pastimes: yard work. We just about gave up since monsoon season hit southeastern PA (or so I assumed from all the rain we got in June).
I ordered mulch for Thursday evening, but was thwarted by thunderstorms. It was rescheduled for Friday morning, but my hopes of getting an early start were already fading. I was sure they’d pull a cable guy and not show up until after 1.
So I was pleasantly surprised to hear the truck pull up at 8:30 a.m. I wasn’t dressed, so I made Joe sign for the delivery. My first mistake. This is what they dumped on our driveway:
Great—except it’s not what we ordered. It’s playground mulch, and we’d ordered dyed black (who knew mulch was so diverse?). The company was very nice, admitted their mistake and said they’d be back to clean up. Boo, meanwhile, was ecstatic, thinking we’d just given her with the world’s largest litterbox:
We spent the next two hours shooing her away from it until guys with shovels came to scoop it all back up. By the time the real stuff got delivered, along with our topsoil, it was afternoon before we got to work—like I figured. By the end of the day we had the front bed done:
And only this much dirt left to move out of our driveway:
Piece of cake.