My patio is looking quite busted these days.
The scene is usually the same this time of year. The Little Shop of Horror weeds have pushed their way up through the cloth lining and thinning layer of pea gravel. Clumps of dry pine needles collect in dark crevices that I dare not touch with a gloved hand or a disposable chopstick. The ferns are fireballs waiting to be ignited by some douchey neighbor or passerby with a smoking (and littering) habit.
Dead lifeless foliage aside, I really do love the space. On an old episode of Designed to Sell, Lisa LaPorta (cute little thang) explained to the homeowners that they needed to think of their outdoor area as an extension of their home. I try to heed her advice and treat our little 12' x 18' rectangle of outside space as another room. A room to grill in, to entertain friends in and to soak in all of the sunlight that we typically miss out on from living in a humbly-sized condo on the ground level.
Oh, and there's just enough room to display my priceless objet d'outside arts.
Like the jaundiced gnome who clearly needs to get out and see more parts of the globe.
(There's no escaping the punnage. Not in this home.)
The cheery winged pig who, after three treacherous winters, has resisted rain, wind, snow and patina.
I can't help but wonder if I'm headed down that road. You know, that road that leads you to that house with that lawn with the flamingos and the pinwheels and the wooden cutout of a portly gardening woman's buttcheeks.
If you ever sense that I'm heading in that direction, you have permission to throw a flaming fern in my face's general vicinity.
Alright, this patio is begging for some new life. Time to get crackin'.