We had flood watches, tornado watches, ridiculous downpours, and I never did leave the house to go birthday shopping because trudging through city streets in this outburst just seemed dumb. Instead, I made baguettes and Vietnamese summer rolls and stared out the window at the relentless weather.

Now we've arrived at Monday morning and the rain has stopped and a chickadee is singing. Supposedly the day will be hot and sunny, which is hard to imagine. I've got errands to run and desk work to muddle through, and tonight I'll walk out to my poetry workshop, and my wedding anniversary is coming up this week, and T and I will have been married for 32 years, and that is a fat chunk of life. I don't know how we'll celebrate, or if we'll even remember it. We're not very good at our wedding anniversary. We weren't particularly good at getting married either, though on the whole we've done a decent job of being married, bar a few sulks and explosions.

It's so, so wet outside--another inch or so of rain yesterday on top of inches and inches and feet and lakes of rain since the beginning of June. We're lucky: our neighborhood isn't in a flood zone, and our basement seeps here and there but isn't terribly wet. Still, the saturated soil is worrisome. I don't know how much more water it can take before the downpours simply pool up on the surface and turn the place into a marsh.

There's nothing I can do about it, however, other than mow the bionic grass and yank the bionic weeds. I did harvest the first handful of pole beans yesterday. The blueberries are beginning to ripen. With a week or so of sun the garden could still be productive. It's not too late for summer.