I have to admit, I'm loving this monsoon. I'm a sucker for a rainy day, a fire and an old leather couch, preferably at an English hunting manor with servants, tea sandwiches and some mysterious Scotsman with whom I have bickering sexual tension.
That was not the fabulous rain I experienced on Saturday however. Mel, Tara and I spent the morning and subsequent day lounging around the Brians' perfect home, nibbling on fresh baked scones and begging Brian to make us pasta from scratch while we watched the West Wing marathon. When he finally kicked us out, subtly offering to call us a cab at 5pm, we decided to walk the 6 or 7 blocks downhill to the Castro and grab a drink at the Midnight Sun.
"You guys!" Brian screamed. "It's raining!"
Oh! Someone's a meteorologist! Thanks, Al Roker. I think we can handle a little rain.
We must have been one hell of a sight by the time we made it to Castro and 18th. My blazer was both stuck to me like a wetsuit yet had mysteriously grown 5 sizes. Tara and I wrapped our scarves around our heads, much resembling Muslim refugees and speaking of Muslims, Mel was the only one bright enough to bring an umbrella, though she made her relatively dry trek in flip flops.
I'm amazed those queens let us in.
As we sipped our drinks and attempted to dry off while watching Cathy Dennis videos, I got a call from Big Chris. Hmmm, drenched with no make-up, dry clothes or discernible hairstyle? Why, yes we'll come meet you!
Much like the time in college I learned that snow is pretty from the inside but shitty on the outside, I rallied my troops, grabbed a newspaper to use as a hat and ran outside, cursing this goddamn rain I claim to love so much...