As seen on this poor, innocent vehicle in ViHi, spring in Atlanta means a nice coating of pollen on anything that sits outside for more than ten minutes. It reminds me of the volcano back home and the layer of ash it laid on Anchorage…except more offensive and not really a solid excuse to not do stuff. Like drive. Or breathe outdoors without a mask.
Fellow Metroblogger Will did it justice:
Standing on the porch, she looks back at the footprints left behind in the green silt. Cat’s paws, men’s boots, women’s dress shoes. It’s all decorated with the little wormy things that have been coming off the trees like rats off a sinking ship.
“Ugh,” she says.
“It’s so gross. It’s like the trees are basically having sex all over us.”
“No it’s not,” I say. “Please don’t say that.”