the sound of rain is welcome

 
Not five minutes ago, the sky opened up. The dogs--one ours, one that we have on what is essentially perma-loan for the summer, since his owners just had a baby--hid under the desk. We were supposed to go for our five o'clock walk. Instead, I opened up the back door, even though the air is still on, because right now, the sound of rain is welcome.

It's been a surprising few days. I have been trying my best to be normal but feel, for various reasons, out of sorts. The summer classes ended without any tears or blood, and I bid farewell to students I hope to see back on campus in the fall and maybe even in my classes this coming spring. Then we went up to the city, to see this guy, and we drank beer and ate cold pasta salad outside and stayed the night in a fancy hotel. I have been getting around to the mundane tasks that summer permits--dutifully compiling a list of serial numbers for our renters' insurance, and reading all those books I ordered as my birthday present to myself, and sweeping the floor, and being rejected from every single magazine, fellowship and job I've ever applied for, HA HA HA, and even futzing with a poem that might be three poems. But it turns out that all I really want to do is sit in the armchair by the window, as it pours, and have the sky go gray for a few days and let me watch eight hundred old episodes of The Office and eat barbeque kettle chips.

Over the weekend, we had brunch with my brother. When we walked outside, it was 90 degrees at 9 am, and he sighed. It's official, he said. I'm fucking sick of summer. 

Maybe that's it. (Okay, that and the being rejected from every single magazine, fellowship and job I've ever applied for, HA HA HA, STILL HILARIOUS, UNIVERSE.) The heat hasn't been brutally oppressive, except for the day that it hit 108. We were driving back from the beach, and we stopped on the way to do the South of the Border thing, and it felt as if we were standing in a wet, hot oven. Compared to that day, I suppose, these days have been fine.

But it is summer, and the South, and sitting outside is not exactly pleasant. I'm not ready to go back to school--I just ended classes on Thursday--but I am ready for something a little different. Which sounds indulgent, I know, since this summer was also the one of the Great Upnort Road Trip. But this is what happens every summer. The novelty wears off, I get tired of looking at my legs in shorts, and the idea of snow and early sunset seems novel. It's come early this year, but then again, it's been eighty degrees here since March, so I guess I shouldn't feel too bad.

Here's what we're going to do, then. We are going to have a snow day party. We will draw the blinds and turn the ac down to 61 degrees. We will put on jeans and hooded sweatshirts. We will line up the movies and television shows that have been knocking around the Netflix queue, and we will make big batches of carbohydrates--chili with cornbread, butternut squash ravioli, cheesecake brownies--and pour big glasses of porter and dusky red wine. We will stake our claims on the various sections of the couch. We will pretend that it is February, and to go outside will be to die in snowdrifts, and we will sit inside like fat happy bears who woke up a few months early.

See you there. Don't forget to bring a blanket, because it's going to be chilly.