I'm only happy when it rains

My husband just found me on the porch in a frantic race against the rain, swishing water out into the garden with the most useless of tools. It's not raining cats and dogs. It's raining cattle, and there are cows of rain on my porch; my safe spot. This is where I’m planning to sit on my wicker furniture, curled up drinking tea and reading a good book during the rainy holiday. This is not supposed to be the set for Water world. I was battling the puddles threatening my doorstep with such enthusiasm I raised my heart rate to cardio-training levels. Wearing cropped pants and beach slippers in the cold, I think I scared him when I turned around to explain what I was doing.

I stood there breathless with electrified frizzy hair, face pink with determination and soaking wet, holding my weapons of choice. The name eludes me now, but in one hand, I was holding that thing you use to swipe water of your shower glass door. To a passer-by I must've looked like a mad hockey player seized with dementia.

"What are you doing?" he asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" I answer waving my other tool, the spade-ish thingy that comes with a matching brush.
"Farah, you're going to get sick! What you're doing is pointless."
"Well, somebody has to save the house from "The Flood". Hand me that bucket will you?" I answer hysterically.
He walked back into the house shaking his head, wondering if when he wasn't looking someone switched me with a look-a-like maniac.

Three Hours Earlier

"I love it when it rains...Isn’t it amazing?" I sigh staring out the window of the car.
It felt so safe driving around, dry inside and wet and splashy outside. It's especially wonderful if you're the front-seat passenger and the executive DJ.

I had bullied my husband into plugging in my iPod, because my music was cooler. He listens to old Arabic songs that go on forever and sound to me like someone is wailing from a prison cell. I can't take it more than 3 seconds. When we were engaged I used to drown out the sound by humming in my head, trying not to be one of those people who have to have things their way. Now that he’s legally bound to me, I decided to tell him the truth.

"Nayef, I can't. It's killing me!" I mutter through clenched teeth.
"What's wrong with your face? Why is it scrunched up like that?"
"It's the music. It hurts my ears. I will die if you don't change it.” I begged, looking like a constipated Pug.

So with good music as our soundtrack, we marveled at the rain’s strength and felt the thrill of driving through big puddles spraying the sides of the streets. However, the peace I found in the rain earlier today was immediately erased when I saw my own porch flooding with pools of water gathering at the threshold, soaking up the make-shift Welcome mat. My domestic safety was vulnerable and I immediately started drawing up architectural solutions to this leakage into my covered porch, while rushing to grab for the nearest squeegee. (I just remembered the name)

Looking out of my window now, I see that the puddle has been revitalized and is collecting smugly in the corner of the porch. I realized that my insane thrashing at it earlier was futile, but either way it was satisfying.

Enjoy the long rainy weekend and “Be one with the puddles…”