November rainstorm

when rain comes around, i talk about it all the time, take pictures of wet pavement, jump in puddles, sleep in a little longer and write endless draft posts about how i heard it pitter patter or storm at night. rain makes me wax poetic and spurs on some serious introspection. it stops me in my tracks. it’s a serious thing people, that rain.

i find that i’m very agreeable with the automatic permission i grant myself for the consumption of baked goods and hot chocolate during a storm. and this is all best accompanied by log burning fire scent. it’s a particularly wonderful thing when, on a saturday night, you find james and i in a mess of blankets on the couch, lit only by the buzz of an iphone in the far off other side of the room land, watching joe fox tell kathleen kelly not to cry at the 91st street garden and the rain starts to pour (here, not there).

mind you my husband was in and out of sleep and tearing up a little, which i made up for by straight up weeping. and for some reason, we felt dmx and stephen seagal in exit wounds was an appropriate followup movie, cause that’s how we roll.