I am done with the rain. 22 days of it so far this month, and more on the way. This is California. The Desert. It's dry. But not now. I'm done, but it's not done with me. This may be the wettest March ever.
It's risky, I know, to wish the rain away. I should be grateful. Rain here means snow in the mountains. Good snow pack = lots of water in the summer. Water is everything in California. And I still remember the drought of 86-92, when it never, ever rained. The Boyo's early childhood was virtually rain free. We took 3-minute showers, shared bathwater and watered the garden with greywater. When we finally had substantial rain, he was already seven years old. It was a miracle to have water droplets coming from the sky. Picture the hatless boyo in a pair of rubber boots, standing in water up to his ankles in the gutter, marveling at the miracle stream flowing down the street. He still loves the rain.
I should, too. But it's wet. It interferes with morning and noontime walks. And there are muddy dog footprints on the just-cleaned kitchen floor. Muddy. Dog. Footprints. On the new leather couch. And the construction project I've worked four years to see built is officially delayed. And driving on the freeway in the rain? Let's just say most California drivers seem to have a death wish.
I know I should be Singing in the Rain. But, dammit, Rachael and Lala are getting married on Saturday. No fair raining on their parade.
Enough, I say!
I'm done.
