Scott Pilgrim is coming to Netflix as an animated series, written and run by the creator, produced by Edgar Wright, and starring the voices of almost everyone from the original movie. This is the good news I needed on an otherwise sour Thursday afternoon.
Alas, I forgot to take my Claritin this morning. Yesterday I was about 80% OK with the combination of rain and pharmaceuticals, but today I am at about 50% and tired of this throaty Brenda Vaccaro voice. I will have to walk over to the local pharmacy to see how much they gouge inner-city denizens for allergy medication depending on how many tissues I go through in the next two hours.
This is the opening shot in what I hope will be a successful battle to make our greenhouse productive and useful. I’ve got a source for a temperature-controlled fan to add air circulation ( and hopefully pollination) throughout; the plan is to add more tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, cucumbers and radishes.
“…one of downtown Baltimore’s main thoroughfares is filled with water after a water main burst just before 6:30 a.m. Tuesday. The break closed Lombard Streets from President to Gay streets, crippling rush-hour traffic, closing buildings, parking garages and the National Aquarium in Baltimore.”
Texts from last night. Random sampling:
(202): Dude, I woke up at my ex’s house. I am spooning her half naked roommate. There is a pizza on my shoulder. I need you to come pick me up.
Among the more annoying symptoms of increasing age, my ability to recover from short excursions with alcohol had to be my least favorite until this weekend. It’s been a slow progression from four beers to three beers to two that used to give me a righteous headache in the morning, but now I can have one stinkin’ Corona on a Friday night and wake up feeling like there’s a midget swinging a hammer at my skull on Saturday morning. What gives? Corona is just beer-flavored water, for Christ’s sake. What have I done to deserve this?
Of course, this could be a symptom of the passive-aggressive weather patterns we’ve been living through the past couple of months; every time we have a new front blow through, it feels like I’ve had cement poured into my sinus cavities, and this phenomena has only gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. So it should come as no surprise, then, that the sudden spike in temperature kickstarted pollen production around our house, which caused my nasal cavities to start leaking snot at prodigious and embarrassing levels—all weekend long.
It didn’t used to be this way. I never had allergies as a kid (not that I can remember, anyway) and last year’s pollen dump didn’t affect me as badly as it has this year; in fact, I remember shoveling green pollen off the cars last year by the bagful and not blinking an eye. So what gives? Has the pollen mixed with a new and more potent brew of toxins and swine flu, or has my body decided 38 is the year to finally see if we can transform into a flesh-covered snot monster?
Whatever the case, I mowed the lawn for the first time since last September (coincidence? I THINK NOT), trimmed the sidewalks, watered two hedge plants (moved from the backyard last weekend to fill a huge dead spot), and attempted to repair our back gutter, which has sagged and leaked for the last two years. We also took the girl on an epic journey to find organic starter vegetables but were thwarted by poor selection and the commercial dominance of Miracle-Gro. Having the window in the Jeep fixed could not have come at a better time, though, because Her Highness spent most of the day in a onesie and still wore a rosy pink glow, even though I put the air conditioners in the windows and chilled her cave to a comfortable 72°.
Plans are afoot to purchase a fan for the greenhouse, and I will have tomatoes planted within the week, but finding other organics to grow indoors remains a problem. In the meantime, I will continue to blow my nose and fill wastebaskets and curse all of the pretty trees and shrubs and flowers that herald the arrival of springtime in Baltimore.
Saturn was Supposed To Save GM. People wonder why Detroit is doomed? And, there’s an International Harvester link:
“…a new power was emerging at UAW headquarters in Detroit. Stephen P. Yokich… had first made his mark at the union by leading a lengthy 1979 strike against International Harvester, from which the company never fully recovered.”
Depending on who you ask, I may have had something to do with the new sign at the corner of 33rd and 7th Avenue in New York City. But that’s about all I can say here.