I was informed yesterday morning that I was not, under any circumstances, to do laundry. I was not allowed to waste time on trivial domestic chores when, having chosen to give myself a long weekend, it was the perfect opportunity for me to spend some time doing something meaningful and life-affirming, such as working on my novel or learning Spanish for a change.
Well, I didn't learn any Spanish yesterday. Nada. (I already knew that one.) And I haven't worked on my novel for awhile. A couple months ago, I sent one of the main characters off alone into the cold, dark, wintry woods for some spur-of-the-moment camping (he's totally unprepared) and can't work out why exactly he would've decided to do that. So I quit thinking about it for awhile. Maybe he'll work it out on his own.
Instead, I did laundry.
And then it rained!
That's really why I'm posting. Last night, we were having drinks on the leafy patio at The Shanty with our neighbors and recounting the scariest dreams we'd ever had when we finally got a good storm. The timing really couldn't have been better: "And then I went outside, in my dream I mean, and I saw that my roommate's calf had turned into a strange, creepy man covered in black fur--" our neighbor Glenn said, "--and then I looked up and the house was covered by a big, evil shadow and--" Kaboom!! And then lightning! And by the time we got home, the streets were running and the gravel was sodden and we fell asleep to rumbly storm noises and this morning I woke up and the ground was actually damp and so was the laundry I'd hung on the line yesterday afternoon instead of learning Spanish or rescuing my guy from the forest where it's most likely about to snow -- if it hasn't already started in the time I've been away.