Props to mi hermano, Keith, for sending me Kirsty MacColl's Tropical Brainstorm some time ago. It's difficult not to sing along and on more than one occasion I believe she's saved me from injury or prison by making me too happy in my car to get out and kill the jackass that's tailgating me on 285.
This morning I woke up all crusty with allergies. The guy making my latte (we ran out of milk at the house) informed me that the trees are trying to kill us. He then went on to explain this is most likely because Atlanta has a disproportionate number of male trees and the lack of females creates, basically, a waste of tree sperm (my words). I knew this already but was pleased to have a barista who also knows about trees. Or would he be a baristo? At any rate, even if it is only self-defense, he's right, the trees are trying to kill us. So I feel dreadful (but not dead yet, you deciduous bastards!) and I'm grumpy about my job and the fact that I had to go to the office this morning instead of sneaking in a work-from-home day because I'm dumb and left my laptop on my docking station.
Knowing my state of mind, I popped ol' Kirsty into the CD player. For most of the commute I remained mute and glared at my fellow drivers through angry, puffy, slits of eyes. Coughing periodically. But it's irresistible and by the time she got to Us Amazonians I was unable to stop myself from belting it out along with her and arrived at the office still jaded, but much peppier.
Then I spilled latte on my favorite pants. She's powerful, but I can only expect so much from Kirsty.