All hail to the chief.
It’s been three weeks of rainy day recess and teachers are sneaking shots into their coffee mugs.
The only creatures happy at this point are ducks and the Great Earthworm Migration coming through my kitchen, which is the only dry spot for miles.
Our cul de sac has it’s own riptide.
The last time our pool overflowed was New Year’s Eve, 2014, when I inadvertently left a hose running in the spa and then left for an all-night party. I woke up in 2015, the proud owner of an infinity pool complete with optional slide and waterfall feature into the back yard.
People pay a lot of money for this stuff.
If I had the option of curling up in a warm, cozy recliner and watching raindrops caress the windowpanes, I might enjoy the spa experience.
But I have to drive to work in the dark, in the deluge, with maniacs who think they are driving speedboats. My car wobbles in the wake of semi-trucks, my wipers frantically flapping in my face and all I can see are blotchy red dots and two freeway divots from the car in front of me.
Just as I’m deciding between drafting with the lead car or dropping back to a safe speed, we drive out from under the hellion cloud, and here are my wipers, just obliterating the last lone drop.
And the minute I turn them off, it starts sprinkling again.
I’m exhausted and it’s only a ten minute commute.
Once you get parked, there’s the dash into the building.
It’s the moment of truth: which do you value more, your handbag or your hairdo?
Because you can’t keep both.
Because you live in San Diego and IT NEVER RAINS HERE. You don’t have an umbrella. Well, you might, but it’s buried in the garage somewhere with your fishing poles.
This is where you find out if your girlfriend paid bank for that fancy leather bag or if she bought a knock-off. I’ll be the one covering my head with a reusable grocery sack if necessary – curly hair does not do humidity.
Stitch melts in the rain, the Wicked Witch of the West melts in the rain, but my hair stands up and flips it off.
Even flat-ironed, my hair can predict the weather, and frankly, the next time we stay in a motel I’m swiping the little plastic shower-cap that’s been sitting on the sink-top since 1972. It fits into a purse nicely and why I didn’t think of this before, I have no idea.
Oh wait. Yes I do.
BECAUSE IT DOESN’T RAIN IN SAN DIEGO.
All day, we took calls from
hysterical concerned citizens about sinkholes opening, trees tumbling, floodwaters rising, and the sky falling. We had mudslides. Not the Kahlua kind.
Someone reported a leaking fire hydrant (how? how can they tell?), but we think maybe it can wait until any possible chance of a fire occurs. (That would be the Ides of Autumn, when all these nicely watered weeds dry out.)
My sister, who loves rain and the dark, who is probably a vampire, has a cute little sign in her house that reads:
“Life isn’t about Waiting for the Storm to Pass,
it’s About Learning to Dance in the Rain”
Skipping the freeway, I drove the side roads home, dodging potholes, cowering under swaying eucalyptus, fording rivers, and watching for tornadoes.
Tell me when the tyranny ends.
I’ll be hiding under the bed in my shower-cap with a pot of tea.