![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I've had this theory about yard work that until today I was never able to test, and my theory is that it isn't so bad, really, if you're doing it when it isn't a hundred degrees outside with 95% humidity to make it feel twenty degrees hotter. And today, thanks to the seesaw weather we've been having lately, the temp was in the mid-fifties and bright sunshine was everywhere and I got out my lawn mower and my sexy scientist's clipboard and set out to prove my theory. Which I did. I cut the grass and never broke a sweat, and I finished without even wanting to die.
So I've placed my order for weather like this all summer long. I should be getting it in soon, and I'll let you know how it works out.
There is a price to be paid, however, for scientific progress: it's allergy season, and the pollen's so thick it's turned my porch floor bright yellow-green, with enough left over to coat my lungs but good, and my body likes it not. My body likes it not, at all.
:::
Today's mail sported much catalog-type mail exhorting me to spend these glorious spring days outside, backpacking or picnicking or lazing in my hammock, if only I had the gear to do these things, and look here they all are at special bargain prices! And spending my time this way sounds mighty nice--the hammock especially, because I've always wanted one--so mightily nice, in fact, that I'm tempted just to ignore my body's attempts to persuade me to boycott spring. But maybe I should just think on that for a little while.
Also in the mail was a Restoration Hardware catalog, and one of their items reminded me that I've been meaning to talk to you about this ceiling fan for a while now. See, for some reason it just completely freaks me out--and I am trying to think of something that would freak me out similarly that would convey to you the inexplicable horror that overcomes me whenever I see this fan, but I'm having trouble coming up with anything, because most of the things that similarly creep me out are equally inexplicable. Those dolls that blink. Old-school aqualungs. Cymbal-monkeys. David Cronenberg films--no wait, that's entirely justifiable, so here: this ceiling fan creeps me out in about the same way as any given Cronenberg movie would.
I couldn't really tell you, either, why it horrifies me. Maybe it's because it looks vaguely like a weapon to me? I don't know. But I am wondering if anyone else is feeling it, or if, as is frequently the case, it's just me.
So I've placed my order for weather like this all summer long. I should be getting it in soon, and I'll let you know how it works out.
There is a price to be paid, however, for scientific progress: it's allergy season, and the pollen's so thick it's turned my porch floor bright yellow-green, with enough left over to coat my lungs but good, and my body likes it not. My body likes it not, at all.
:::
Today's mail sported much catalog-type mail exhorting me to spend these glorious spring days outside, backpacking or picnicking or lazing in my hammock, if only I had the gear to do these things, and look here they all are at special bargain prices! And spending my time this way sounds mighty nice--the hammock especially, because I've always wanted one--so mightily nice, in fact, that I'm tempted just to ignore my body's attempts to persuade me to boycott spring. But maybe I should just think on that for a little while.
Also in the mail was a Restoration Hardware catalog, and one of their items reminded me that I've been meaning to talk to you about this ceiling fan for a while now. See, for some reason it just completely freaks me out--and I am trying to think of something that would freak me out similarly that would convey to you the inexplicable horror that overcomes me whenever I see this fan, but I'm having trouble coming up with anything, because most of the things that similarly creep me out are equally inexplicable. Those dolls that blink. Old-school aqualungs. Cymbal-monkeys. David Cronenberg films--no wait, that's entirely justifiable, so here: this ceiling fan creeps me out in about the same way as any given Cronenberg movie would.
I couldn't really tell you, either, why it horrifies me. Maybe it's because it looks vaguely like a weapon to me? I don't know. But I am wondering if anyone else is feeling it, or if, as is frequently the case, it's just me.
