Every time I talk to someone about the weather, I feel like Oscar Wilde is standing there right next to me, fully judging my level of creativity, and how my pants fit and my ugly hat.

I don’t know if I get any credit for my tall green rainboots, probably not.

 I think they’re the kind Gwyneth Paltrow wears.

But dirtier. I’ve failed him, and I just want to go back inside and watch another episode of Chopped.

Would he have worn a rain coat like mine, if gore-tex had been a thing then?

Probably not. I don’t know if he had dogs that needed to run, crappy weather or not.

Once it’s raining, that’s kind of it for me. I focus on the moist. And breaks between the storms. I don’t think Oscar would understand. But his ghost still hangs there on my every word, and it’s probably a good thing, in the long run.

They don’t really care. They just want the ball, and enough time to run before the next big squall blows in.