Fay, Please.

It never even looked like it might rain today. I knew August was coming. I knew it the whole time. But we have gone dry. Once, in my twenties, at Christmas, I had the flu, and I was at home, and my dad took me to the doctor. I had trouble climbing the curb from the parking lot. I was in pain. We waited, and then the doctor looked at me, and then he went down the hall to get some kind of Cub Scout doctor, an intern or something, and he brought the kid in, and he said, Look. This is body pain. So: Look: This is dry.

Come on, Fay. We're on official FayWatch here at ANYLF. Earlier today the NHC had her kicked too far west to really do us any good, but the late-afternoon and evening charts have her back east, back us-ward. Come on, Fay.

The dry is helpful in one regard: It makes it easier, come September, for me to pull the impatiens and put in the pansies. I'll need it then. It's just that I'm not quite finished with this growing season. I want fall and all, sure, but we've got tomato vines with clusters of flowers on them. If we can get Fay, or if we can just get some of the three-and-change inches we're still owed for this month, or the inch and a quarter July shorted us, then we get more tomatoes, more impatiens, more not having to go back to school. Right now, it feels a little like every day is a February Sunday, where you're dreading the week in front of you. Gimme some rain and what I can work on instead is how I really ought to weed the tomatoes one more—one last—time.

Oh, August. I know how this ought to work: If I love the weather, I ought to love all the weather. But I love some weathers more than others. I'm not apologizing for that. Instead, I'm looking to the tropics. The Tropical Update on the Weather Channel, new desperately dumbass graphics and all, is currently my favorite fucking thing in the whole world. Come on, rain. Come on, weather. Come on, Fay.