WHY I AM NOT SINGING IN THE RAIN

I got caught in the rain Tuesday.  Actually, that's a ginormous understatement.  I got caught in what could be more aptly defined as a torturously painful monsoon.

It was 6:50 a.m.  The trash had to go out the curb before 7:00 a.m., and I was on track to be out of the house by 6:55 when I heard what sounded like the trash truck barreling down the side street.  The recycling was already to the curb (a task I prefer to do the evening before just because it's time-consuming and often messy), and this week's trash haul was reasonably light - one heavily-packed trash bag, packed inside another trash bag, packed inside a plastic handle bag, packed inside a brown paper bag.  Yes, I like to make sure my trash isn't going to break open or smell when I wing it onto the sidewalk, and I like to make it more of a challenge to squirrels and local river rats that have re-infested the neighborhoods near the train station (such as mine).

So I quickly threw on any shoes that were handy and ran the one bag out to the lone barrel my landlord had set out, smooshed the bag into the top of the precariously stuffed container, and ran back in to finish getting ready for work.  Now that I had packed all my junk for the trash men, I had to pack up my own junk for work.

No sooner had I shut myself back into the house when a horrific noise set upon the premises.  It sounded at first like a freight train hauling-ass down the tracks.  It also sounded like a hurricane-force wind gust (we just survived Hurricane Sandy a week ago) kicking up every leaf pile in the neighborhood and rustling it past my windows.  It wasn't until I actually looked out the windows that I realized it was raining.

No.  It wasn't just raining.  It was pouring.  It was pounding.  It was hitting the ground with such furor that it was literally bouncing up about two feet back into the air.  It was roaring against the screens and coming sideways from who-the-hell-knows where.  I mean, I had just been outside, and it was warm and dry and quite ridiculously comfortable for New England mid-November.  And now, mere moments later… squalor.

I managed to find a quick break when it was only pouring and not pounding, and I ran to my car to head to work.  I drove eight miles through four more downpour-drizzle-downpour-drizzle cycles and arrived at work during a full-on downpour outburst.  I sat in my car for about three minutes then made a mad run for it, only getting partially soaked in the process.  After work I had to go shopping, bring in the groceries, and bring in the recycle barrel, all during more rain.  Just ten minutes ago, I went outside to get the mail and it was still raining hard.

Now, finally, when I am sitting down and don't have to leave the house for another hour (conferences tonight), I notice orange and pink glowing ominously through the windows.  It's almost as if a fire is burning off in the distance until I realize that the sun has come out for its final hurrah just as darkness descends at 4:30 p.m.

What's truly amazing is not that I survived the rain and didn't melt ala Wicked Witch of the West.  What's amazing to me is how I didn't know this was going to happen.  There was no rain on the radar nor on any computer models, at least not due until this evening sometime, and even then the map only showed one drop, which usually means sprinkles or drizzle.  I didn't expect typhoon-force storms all day, but I should have.  I truly should have known.  After all, I washed my son's car for him on Sunday, and I washed my own car Monday.  If that isn't a guarantee for major bad weather on Tuesday, nothing is. 

Wait until I finish raking the leaves, kids.  That's a sure sign of a blizzard coming.