We usually have a handful of rainy days each year. Normally, those three days clump together and then the natives have a collective breakdown. The Weather People, on the other hand, celebrate with a bottle of bubbly before their segments knowing that they get to finally use words other than "dry," "Santa," "Ana," "mild," "high," "pressure," or "chance-of-rain [wink!]."
Giddy, they stand there, telling us our lives might be spared, but only if we are very careful and get the sand bags out and pray for our lives and, nervous as all get out, run out the back door and hop onto a plane headed to somewhere where palm trees are guaranteed to gently sway in the breeze.
In spite of dire warnings by a guy named Dallas Storm (actually, I think his name is Dallas Raines), the native Angelinos will always venture out, because, let's face it: One cannot settle for a ho-hum home-brewed cup of coffee if there's a Starbucks within a 42-mile radius. I mean, why skip the opportunity to stand in line behind someone ordering a half-caf, half choc, semi-latte with 1/3 pack of Splenda and a half shot of espresso, not the usual kind, but a special kind, and can they have it in a special green container? One that will definitely not begin to break down in the 42-mile car ride home, but at the exact moment that it hits either the landfill or the trash truck, and not before, because if it did break down before that moment, it might make my recycle bin "icky"?
But I'm rambling and dinner's almost ready.
So, next thing you know, the stuff that's wet comes out of the sky and drops onto the windshield at exactly the wrong time and we all forget who we are and either turn into a speed demon who drives a black Escalade, Range Rover (also black) or, oh, the Lincoln knock-off of the Escalade (also black). If we're not that type, we might, instead, turn into Elmer Fudd and decide the only choice is to drive one mile an hour and sob.
There is simply no in-between.
Friends, these three-day clumps of rain that happen once or twice a year are murder.
So the other day, when I traded emails with a quilter friend of mine who now knits more than she quilts, I suggested we hit the yarn store that's up the road a piece later in the week. She took the bait and when it started raining for real this morning, I was happy she had offered to drive. And to assuage my mild fear of all that pouring rain and gripping the wheel as if she let go her hair would catch fire, she said: "It makes more sense for me to drive, after all, because . . . I lived . . . in Oregon . . . for awhile . . . and it rains there a lot. . . . I have . . . more . . . uhm . . . practice. . . . Yes, . . it's better that . . . I . . . drive."
Speaking of rain: The boys (Chuck and Rocko), neither of them will go out when it rains. I try to tell them there is an army of squirrels outside and that they most definitely need to get out there and give them the what-for, but no. Even Rocko doesn't fall for it. So today, after two days of rain (and about a half-second of hail) I came home from the yarn store with fistful of yarn and spotted two rods of poop on the guest room bed (heh) and a chewed up Endless Knitted Cardi Shawl, needles and all, and I know who did it.
I guess even the dog(s) aren't immune to this particular clump of rain.