It's ruining my life right now. Oh, it is much better than worm poop, but it's running a close second where my car is concerned. New Englanders are always happy around mid-April when we assume, sometimes incorrectly, that Salt Season has passed.
But now -- the Green Curse from Hell.
I'm constantly sneezing, coughing, blowing my nose, wiping my water eyes. I have to sweep and resweep the porch over and over again, wiping the green and yellow and black dust off the furniture.
The car, though. My poor car.
I spend an entire weekend without once moving my car. When I leave for work on Monday morning, the pollen residue is so thick that I can't see out of the front or back windshields. Normally, I am able to rid the dusty crap with a flick of the wiper blades. Not so this time. This time it is a muddy, disgusting, pasted-on mess. My only choice is to suffer through the embarrassment in the staff parking lot then head to the car wash down the street after school.
I usually avoid this car wash because the dryers don't work, so my car ends up with mottled spots, but I figure mottled spots are better than pollen. I notice, however, as I pull up to the automated gates (yes, two gates) that this car wash has been completely redone.
I pull up to the gate where a human points slightly to the right (I am darn accurate at hitting the skids) then points to the flashing sign that says in lights and in a booming voice, "PUT YOUR CAR IN NUETRAL!" As my car rolls forward, I am suddenly assaulted with not only a sudsy car but disco lights through the watery haze.
At the car wash! Working at the car wash . . . Working at the car wash . . . yeah, yeah, yeah!
My gawd. It's like the 1970s all over again. There is a veritable ROY G BIV of excitement going on in here. I start having disco flashbacks. Ah, come on. Even those of us who were hardcore metalheads hit a disco a few times for the fun of it. Heck, there was a place in New Hampshire that had all four things a person could enjoy all in the same building: The disco room (where unusually old and hairy men hung out for some odd reason), the rock room (lots of drunk and high eighteen-year-olds), the country room (for those of us who could line dance -- not me because I'm uncoordinated), and the acoustic room if you actually wanted to hold a conversation.
If you need the Jimi Hendrix experience with a little White Rabbit thrown in, I know a great place where you can do so without any lingering after-effects. Bonus -- your car gets washed at the same time!
