My grandmother once told me that as a child growing up in Ireland, she never felt dry. Once she settled here she probably relished the blasting radiator heat of certain old NYC apartment buildings.
That's how I've felt all week. Soggy. Our floor boards are damp, I think I saw toadstools growing out of our books, and we're going to have to relocate our towels to Arizona for a week if we ever want to use them to dry ourselves with again.
For someone who knows how boring it is to talk about the weather, I sure do talk a lot about the weather. But it's become so extreme lately: tornadoes ripping up trees in Brooklyn, a punishing 113 degrees in L.A.. Raining frogs and locusts somewhere no doubt. Sure, climate change sucks -- but it does punch up the elevator weather talk, and gosh, Auntie Em hasn't been name-checked so much in, well, forever, probably.
If I can't bust out with a soaring rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow tomorrow, I'm going to have go all wicked witch on someone's ass and release the flying monkeys, and snatch your little dog, too, my pretty.
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