See, I’m pretty sure, that when the winds were a’howlin’ a few weeks past and large trees were falling into my neighbor’s yard, that I might have promised on a few of your blogs that I wasn’t going to complain about the rain when it came back. In fact, I think I promised to be downright giddy about the rain.

I lied.

I vaguely recall bartering with the Universe, “Let’s make a deal: You keep my roof on and I’ll put a lid on my bitching about the weather.” I like to be witty when conversing with the Universe. I think it keeps the relationship fresh. Evidently, the Universe was not amused. Nor did it believe me. Instead, it decided that I was lying in the first place.

So, the rains come. Down and down and down. And the floods take us away. Into the river, into the drain, into the dream of balmy weather we cannot know because we live in a torrent of wet. Wet. Wet. I’m tired of the wet. And the only recourse I seem to have, the only coping mechanism I can muster is to whine.

Whining suits me. It would suit you too, if you were a Southern girl growing web toes and fungus and mold. This is unsettling, depressing even! You try maintaining a bouffant hair-do in this weather. I don’t even want to discuss my mascara—which has the unearthly tendency to trail off my face making me look very much like those Heroin Chic models in the magazines, albeit an overweight one. And don’t start lecturing me about “water-proof” mascara, because I’m here to inform you Smarty-Pants Internets that in the wilds of the Oregon Coast there is no such thing. No siree. Does not exist.

So. Yes. I admit it; I lied. I never intended to stop complaining. Because, this is what I do. Whining. I’m good at it. Trust me, dear readers, when you find what you’re good at, you stick with it. People have been telling me for months now that I should find my bliss and follow it. Draw what conclusions you may.

Rain, rain, go away.
Come again… to Australia, which I hear really needs you.