Hay!

Fever.

Yes, it's that time again. When you'd sell your soul to the devil for a bottle of Afrin, toss the idea of sexy to schlep a box of Kleenex everywhere you go, and alter your natural look to include large circles under your eyes.

It's actually been that time for a bit, but right about now all of our abused sinuses have decided to get off this banana boat, pull down the shutters, and completely wall up every opening with an unholy wall of snot. And if you're me (and I am) your ears have followed suit. Now, if you live in a city, I'm going to begin by offending you and saying I have just a wee, tiny, but sometimes bigger than a breadbox bit smaller amount of sympathy for you.

Right now the breadbox could hold about three or four loaves.

I realize you have pollen. I realize you have grass. Mold. Air currents distribute the...yeah. Etc. But I'm here to tell you that there is a haze of large chunks of chopped up plant matter floating around in the air up here and you can't throw a rock without hitting a tractor that's on it's way to stir up a whole lot more of it. Come to think of it, you can barely drive a car without hitting a tractor the last two days. I don't know what's up with that, but I suppose it's one of those strange things like the day you show up at the grocer wearing your Dad's jeans and t-shirt and the whole church is there (saving that one).

I should be glad about this whole tractor-hay nonsense. Texas makes over a billion dollars a year selling hay and then subsequently has twice as many cattle as the next largest farmer of cattle. And I am. I'd be gladder (gladder?...yes...gladder...I've decided not to be more glad about it) if they were, say, my 13 billion head of cattle.

[Everything you never wanted to know about hay is here. I thought it was kinda cool.]

So the slightly emo-lookin' sniffly chick that has been dragging her boots in and out of my house with that pink Kleenex box is not our fantabulous new chef/babysitter. Dammit.

It's just me.
Scat