Every summer I do this. I purchase dirt.
Every summer part of me marvels at the absurdity of it. I mean, I’m buying dirt. Dirt. The stuff you can dig up anywhere, that is generally equated with no monetary value whatsoever. (“Cheap as dirt” is actually not a very good saying, since this little pile here cost me $146. One hundred and forty six dollars for dirt.)
But there is another tiny part of me that gets immense satisfaction out of it. It’s as though I feel like I own more of my property now, or something. If I foreclose on my mortgage, I can be all, “No way, that pile there is bought and paid for. Imma take that with me.”
Now I just need someone to shovel it.
(You people living on farms and beaches can stop laughing at me now.)
In related news, there’s this:
The first mojito of the season.
(Yeah, I mix them straight in the shaker. It’s bigger. Shut up.)
Man, I love summer.