7 a.m.


7 a.m. Saturday morning there was a horrendous knocking on the front door, which resulted in the jarring of my sleeping puppy. Her barking reaches octaves known only to pre-pubescent boys.

Stumbling out of bed, I peeked through the front window only to see – my mom – cheerfully picking a few dead buds from the petunias on the front porch.

Anything before 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning should be illegal.

We went to the farmer’s market.



This, my friends, is what you refer to as a steal.


“Brooke, hold the plant like a fish – ‘ya know – so it looks bigger.”

I'm not ever sure what type of flower this one is.

The rest of the day consisted of garage sales, antique stores, garage sales....

Who knew that could be so productive... or fun. Weird.