Dear Rain,
It’s not that I don’t like you.
I enjoyed those four days last month when you made an appearance after months of drought and let me commune with my inner Englishman by standing ankle deep in mud and threatening things with a trowel (this is, of course, the proverbial Inner Englishman as the literal Inner Englishman was kicked to the kerb years ago when he tried to give me the chlams (p.s., you’re not a filmmaker if you’ve never made a film, your haircut actually DID look stupid and in your case, what with the total absence of technique or stamina, size really does matter))
ANYHOOetc.
That being said, Rain, some things –like Botox and aggravated assault— really ought to be enjoyed in moderation. That includes you, and I don’t feel I’m being unreasonable when I say you made a bit too much of yourself during my vacation.
I didn’t complain when you rained the morning I departed, liberally dousing my dog so I had to drive 300 miles to my brother’s place with a soggy Shar Pei, whose many positive qualities do not include emitting a springtime freshness when moistened.
I didn’t complain when you blurred my vision so I missed my off ramp and accidentally wound up in Oklahoma, which led me to pulling into the first rest stop and having several not-inconsiderable fits because Oklahoma and I have a difference of opinion on many important subjects, including, but not limited to, woodland creatures and their relative position to my speeding car.
I didn’t utter a peep when you made me drive 55 all the way through Texarkana, putting me three hours behind schedule, thus ensuring I’d miss the cornmeal-dredged poem that is the catfish at Perry’s Motel in Lonoke, Arkansas, which is the ONLY reason I drive to Nashville instead of flying, nor did I say anything when that same delay put me into Nashville well after Whitt’s Barbecue –the only ‘cue I’ll ever really love– had closed and wouldn’t reopen during my stay.
And when I drove through the Smokies at 4 a.m. in a heavy drizzle BECAUSE CLEARLY IT WASN’T SMOKY ENOUGH AS IT WAS, I shook my fist, but that was it. Mostly because I needed two hands to grip the wheel since I don’t have the laissez-faire attitude towards life seemingly required by the truckers of the Eastern Seaboard.
But did you really need to soak my hammock?
My special hammock, employed only in times of great duress when for the good of myself and those around me, I need to lay myself down and silently stare at the ocean until I don’t want to kill people? What did my special hammock ever do to you? Or maybe you just don’t want me to be happy. Is that it, Rain?
Because I have news for you. I’m going to be happy anyway.
You rain on my special hammock? FINE.
You make my dog smell like someone stuck a bag of Fritos under an old man’s armpit for a week? FINE.
You make my mascara run on the ONE DAY I WORE MAKEUP when I was chatting up the cute-but-dim boy from the fishmonger’s who would’ve made a VERY NICE DIVERSION during my first proper vacation in five years (although we both know I wouldn’t have gone there since I’m not that type of girl and it’s very possible he was Quite Young). FINE.
I DON’T CARE, RAIN.
I was on vacation and NOT at work and NOT wearing shoes and NOT waxing or plucking or drawing or contouring or powdering ANYTHING. I watched TELEVISION and ate shrimp and made friends with a guy who told me all about ‘nam and then named a ship in a painting after me AND YOU CANNOT TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME, RAIN.
DON’T EVEN TRY.
