Tropical depression

Thunder. Lightning. Torrential downpours. And a tornado.

Not a few of my favorite things, mind you, but the last 24 hours on the eastern edge of Tropical Storm Isaac.

I’ll be working all damn night on a project that was conceived Thursday but I was too frickin’ busy on seventy thousand other things to be able to start it till today. Seriously, people. I love that y’all count on me but if I do manage to pull this off, I am officially changing my name to Miracle Worker.

Stayed in the house today. Which was a stroke of genius since everything was open till midday. I miss following the federal government’s openings and closures. We need an OPM-like group down here that looks at a fucking map and can see that, hmm, old people driving plus 8 to 12 inches of rainwater, plus oh hey could that be a tornado too? equals STAY THE FUCK HOME, PEOPLE.

What this pseudo-hurricane party has taught me is 1. wine made from carambola probably tastes like my cat’s tongue after washing her ass (which explains why she DOESN’T) — consider the parallel between the star fruit and the puckered star-shaped asshole on a kitty, 2. personals sites suck and apparently there’s no one in my chi-chi town who has the (not overly ambitious, I promise) education and income I desire them to have, 3. just because you are captive in the house with a lot of food doesn’t mean you have to consume it all (oops) and 4. DAMN I WOULD GIVE ANYTHING TO BE TRAPPED IN HERE WITH A HOT MAN.

Could be worse. Could be married to some dumbass who was sweet till I married him and then I realized what a hot mess he was. Gotta give thanks to God for showing you earlier rather than later what you’re getting into.

Anyway, just to jump in the wayback machine for a minute, torrential downpours remind me of parking at the Metro station, meeting a gentleman friend there, riding into D.C. and dashing from museum to museum in the rain, laughing and kissing and shivering in remote, darkened corners of the hallowed halls of the Smithsonians we loved most.

He loved me more. I knew that. I was so resistant, and with good reason. But the passion, damn. Never would have guessed.

THAT is what I want to feel again. Hiding in the basement of the Hirshhorn, watching a black-and-white flick in a darkened room, my head on his shoulder and an absolute inability to concentrate on anything but the butterflies in knowing that all I had to do was look at him and be swept away by how he was looking at me … waiting to kiss me for when I was ready.

How could I come in and create such feelings in someone else? And when will I be able to do it again … this time with a forever or at least a more-appropriate-for-where-I-am-in-my-life someone … someone who makes me feel the same way I did in those precious, stolen moments on the Mall?

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