Enough with yellow stuff
My car is black. So is my wife’s.
Our oven is black, too, as well as a fridge in the garage and the frame of the TV in the family room, along with numerous other household items.
We obviously like black things.
The deal is, though, now some evil doer has covered all of them in what at first appeared to be a thin layer of yellow spray paint.
Who would do such a thing, and why? Have the evangelicals finally figured out where I live?
Upon further inspection, however, I discovered the evil doer is that female dog known as “Mother Nature,” and the yellow spray paint is the witch’s method of allowing her plants to have sex, and by sex I mean the spreading of seeds, and by seeds I mean pollen.
Where are the plant puritans when we need them?
I washed my black car in Edwards, drove straight to Walmart, and in that less-than-10-minute drive, before I could even begin to wipe the remaining wet spots on the shiny black surface with my handy-dandy microfiber cloth, the damn thing was already covered with a fine mist of the yellow devil dust. It was as if the car wash were nothing more than a convenient way to waste water.
This is my 28th summer living in Happy Valley, and I’ve never seen anything like it. Seriously, someone could write “sneeze me” on my windows, and if they then used the same finger to pick their nose would be sneezing uncontrollably for the next week. It would serve them right, I suppose.
Still, I wish there was some sort of super wax injected with Claritin-D or a button at the car wash labeled Zyrtec or Allegra. I’d not only do the cars, but most every surface in the house as well.
Pollen is, of course, the male participant in the natural act known as plant sex, where the seeds, as opposed to hooking up at a typical Hot Summer Night concert in Vail, instead use nature’s wind to spread themselves all over every single surface on the planet. Being male, pollen evidently assumes all surfaces are female and in constant anticipation of being satisfyingly “seeded,” but reality is probably somewhere in the less than 1 percent range for surfaces that actually care.
With our 22-year-old busy painting every wall and section of trim inside the house, I can only imagine the trillions of spores now trapped inside a thin layer of actual paint, just waiting to escape at some point to continue their never-ending journey of annoying those of us who have no need for further seeding.
Don’t worry, though, as I certainly understand that without pollen the bees would die, and without bees the world’s food supply would shrivel faster than excited pollen in a snowstorm, and thus we would all die in a relatively linear fashion. But that doesn’t mean I have to learn to like the yellow stuff.
Either way, I’m pretty sure I can hear the trees laughing at night, and that alone is more annoying than constant car washing.