April’s knocking on the door with a jumbo box of Kleenex in one hand.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything. Gesundheit.”
Swear to Dog, everything’s springing to desperate life at once. Lawn, maple, lilacs, wisteria, ornamental plum, Chinese pistache, a few of the bulbs we assumed the landscapers had done for last summer. Not even a layer of gravel over weed fabric can keep those hardy little bastards buried.
Have you noticed that no one puts flowers on a flower’s grave?
With a red-flag warning posted I thought it prudent to give everything a good soaking yesterday. It was like handing Hunter S. Thompson an entire sheet of blotter acid and a quart of Wild Turkey to wash it down, then watching him fire up the Great Red Shark with the notion of driving the pace car at the fabulous Mint 400. Stand back!, etc.
Should I have been surprised to wake up honking my horn? No. Happily, Herself recently made a Kleenex run so I probably won’t have to resort to sleeves or dish towels for a day or two.
Mad Blog Media 
A red flag warning, and it’s dryer than hell.
But my nose is running, and it’s red as well.
Breakfast is calling, but I can’t smell
I got the old snot locker blues
Not that bad right now here in the Suburbs of Hell, the pollen counts for things I’m actually allergic to is slightly more than nil. Now the stuff I’m not allergic to has left a yellow-green film on every outdoor surface, so the actual pollen count is into the danger zone for most of the population. But for the nonce I’m not too bad.