Rain, Rain, Reindeer

OK, so this post was supposed to be titled, "Let it Snow." You see, we had a little treat on Saturday. It was a bit colder than usual, and it began to snow -- the fluffy flake kind that's sticky enough for fun. It doesn't snow much here, so when it does, people go outside and play with wild abandon. And that's just what we did.

Michael was so happy to have the chance to release his inner-Minnesotan. I was able to get some use out of my cute green hat. And the boys? They got some hot chocolate. About half-way through the outdoor merriment, I went inside and excavated some old packets of Swiss Miss instant hot cocoa. You know, the kind where you pour hot water and stir. When the boys came in and sipped some of that, they said, "Mama! How did you ever learn to make such good stuff?" "Boys," I said, "I am a domestic diva. This is my special, secret recipe."

Anyway, when it snows in the Pacific Northwest, it's BREAKING NEWS. All of the newbie news reporters get sent out to various suburbs, and they have to stand around and report on whether or not flakes are falling in that particular location. Actually, the funniest thing is when it's supposed to snow but then doesn't. The poor reporter has to stand by the side of a busy road and say things like, "If it were 10 degrees colder tonight, it would be snowing. But, as you can see, it's not."

This time, those young reporters were in for a little fun. The snow gave us an hour or two of winter excitement, but slowly, slowly, the temperature crept up. Our snowmen began to lean into each other and droop. By Sunday night, it became clear that we were in for a teeny tropical storm. Oh no, wait, not just a tropical storm, the remnants of a TYPHOON. Fabulous. On Monday morning, it was nearly 60 degrees and pouring buckets. I had my nice hour long commute to work that morning, which ended up being an even longer commute through standing water on the freeway. 24 hours later, some bridges are gone, and several schools are flooded and closed. The road we take to the beach has washed away.

I was lucky that my mom was taking care of the boys during my hellish commute. However, when I pulled up outside the house after my crappy day, I heard an odd, piercing screech. Imagine the sound of a sick cat, and combine it with the noise generated by 30,000 nine year olds shrieking for Hannah Montana. I covered my ears and walked into the house. This is what I found:

I'm thinking that this particular gift was delivered with a touch of hostility. What's the matter, mom? Are you getting me back for that driving trip to Cape Cod in the early 80s where I made you play my cassette tape of Rick Springfield's Working Class Dog over and over and over again? I'm sorry, OK? I will never sing "Jessie's Girl" again.

To those of you who saw the grim coverage of our local weather situation on the Today show, fear not. We are fine. Michael is not travelling to the office in a rowboat. A river did not swallow up our house. But if you happen to hear the wails of a musical toy reindeer as it disappears down a sinkhole, I take full responsibility.