|Silent but deadly|
It is once again that time of year during which my neighborhood stinks.
Like, really stinks.
It's the Bradford pear trees; they are the actual REASON it stinks. Like a zombie's armpit, or so I've heard it called. It's bad, and there's nothing to do but live through it or don't go outside. CERTAINLY don't fling the windows open even if it is a glorious Spring day that really does call for the flinging open of windows.
Why, they're so bad even the polite persons at Southern Living can't stand them. They even had to go so far as to import some grumpy Northerner to rant about them, just so Mama wouldn't get too hot under the collar and sweat BB cream all down the front of her housedress.
So, I'm hiding in the house until...next week maybe, or until I see the shower of bright white petals start to fall to the ground during a wind or rainstorm.
That will be a happy day, for sure.
Y'all, if I manage to make it though the next couple of weeks (stinky trees and all) it will be through a minor miracle and a major jug of bourbon. We are reaching the finish line for a major work project and if you're not familiar with the gut-clenching thrill of a looming deadline, count yourself lucky.
And because it's nearing 5 p.m. here, it's time to go put in another couple of hours of work.