Rain on Me

No reason to visit the far ends of the earth for climate extremes—just come to Chicago. Want heat? Chicago can do anything in the 90s, no sweat We don’t hit 100-plus much like in Phoenix, but we can throw in Miami humidity, free of charge. Don’t want to go all the way to International Falls for a nice chill? Well, then come to Chicago in January. Sticky snow sure to work its way inside your boots? No charge. Oh, and monsoon rains. They came yesterday morning as Michele and I were driving out to Clare’s baby shower. (Monsoon-shower, how droll.) Lucky for us we were off the expressway before it flooded. And lucky for us we didn’t end up in a ditch courtesy of torrents of rain that made seeing more than five feet in front of you impossible. The White Sox game was suspended in the bottom of the third inning. I wonder how many fans went home to find what we did, a basement full of water. But we‘re “blessed” with seepage and not sewage. Forty-five minutes of shop-vaccing, and I was done. I had Michele do weather patrol by checking social media and watching Ch 9; none of the network stations could be bothered before 5 PM. NBC is trying to build an audience for the Olympics, so you know they won’t interrupt coverage for anything short of the Second Coming, and even then… So, now I wait to see if more rain will find its way into the basement. If not, maybe all the rain that fell will have washed away the Sox hitting woes. After all, it’s an ill-wind that blows no one some good. And, in Chicago, the rain comes with plenty of wind.