Here comes the (wind and) rain again.

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It ain’t pretty.  This is the ugly underbelly of an improved drought situation here in  California.  The drenching and quenching rains of the last several weeks have generated an embarrassment of riches: A robust Sierra snowpack 170% of normal. Reservoirs topped off, and then some, with drinking water for the masses. And…a wind-blown scattering of chicken bones and cardboard boxes spilled from overstuffed curbside compost and recycling bins. 

Don’t get me wrong, we need the rain.  Big time.  Our Governor declared a drought emergency back in 2014 — the subject of my 2nd blog post ever, in fact.  Here in our little flat, we reduced our own water consumption by waaaaay more than the suggested 25%.  My wife and I still bear the psychological scars from the “if it’s yellow, keep it mellow” toilet war that my sons have waged these past three years.  I have evidently developed a new phobia associated with lifting a toilet lid to see what horrors reveal themselves.  So we as a family are definitely pulling our weight, when it comes to helping out with the drought. 

Which is why this morning felt like such a kick in the ribs. Well, a kick in my 10th grader’s ribs, to be precise.  I am already burdened by my toilet seat peekaboo phobia.  So it’s high time Max cultivates his own debilitating aversions, and the terrors associated with our compost bin offer fertile ground.  As it turns out, I’ve covered said terrors in the past, too. So I know of which I write. Long story short, Max was emotionally and physically unprepared for his civic duty this morning.  Soaking wet and shoeless, trudging through driving rain and puddles.  Perhaps 5 minutes on from being woken up for school (never a fun period of time in the morning).  Irked and disgusted by the street spray of our household refuse from wind-blown bins overturned.  And harboring murderous ill will towards our inconsiderate upstairs neighbor — she apparently views Max as her new houseboy.  Needless to say, Max’s curbside antics this morning are best left forgotten — obscured in the fog of compost war, if you will.  Now we are all equally traumatized, it is fair to say. And the snowpack is looking good. 

Thanks for reading. 

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