The flips I’m wearing today combined with the excessive heat produce an unwanted side effect: they make my feet fart.
They’ll be relegated to the back of the closet until the temperatures drop below surface-of-the-sun hot.
That is all.
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.”
This picture snapped over the weekend near the rarely traveled path that is Bear Creek Trail, the view from which nearly rendered me speechless.
In the mist of the clouds and the silence of the mountainside we had to ourselves I still managed to mutter a “Dear lord baby Jesus… you’re just sitting there watching your little Einsteins movie and learning your colors and shapes…” along with a “thank you for this freakishly warm weather that lets me hike in the dead of winter with nary a thought for a coat”
What. You didn’t think I’d actually be speechless?
More here, if that wasn’t enough.
Winter in Georgia always surprises me, despite having been through this 11 times before.
I’m in the south, right? In a state that borders Florida? Where snowbirds go to winter? Where it’s always sunshine and sand and bronze skin and frosty adult beverages on stand-by waiting to quench your sun inspired thirst?