I wonder occasionally if the stuff I mishear is somehow Freudian and says things about my personality, or if it's a totally random concoction of the syllables my brain manages to pick up through my failing ears and string together. I will definitely need a hearing aid when I get on in years. T'other day a show about scorpions mentioned the "giant desert hairy" which turned into the "giant desert herring" on the way to my ears. The majestic desert herring, breaching the dunes in vast shoals, glittering in the sun...well, it's a thought. (Nothing has ever quite topped "Grandma blows polar bears" from a Campbell soup commercial some years back, which has stuck in my mind to this day.)
In other news, we're in what a friend calls "tree bukkake season" as pollen rains down in a vast spring green cloud. It doesn't actually bother me--oak pollen, which is invisible, kills me, but the visible pine pollen isn't a problem to my nose. James, on the other hand, is slightly unhinged by it--not from sneezing, but from the fact that the car is sheathed in chartreuse dust, and he cannot wash it off for more than about an hour. The deck is awash in tiny drifts of yellow, and the broader leaves of my container plants look as if they've been chalked. When I water the plants, the splatter leaves little wobbly yellow globules on the deck. But there's nothing you can do. You just kinda grin and bear it.
Soon, the bugs will come.