I love drippy weekends. Even though they cut into my convertible drive-time, even though they make my rosebuds ball up and rot, even though they make my friends unhappy because their plans for beach-days or BBQs or mountain drives or afternoon walks get washed out, despite this I still love drippy, rainy, dreary weekends.
Rainy weekends mean I don’t have to mow the lawn.
Rainy weekends mean I don’t feel guilty about not washing the car.
Rainy weekends mean I can let my glass of red wine breathe for a bit while I sit on the deck overlooking the greenery, smelling the fresh, moist air, listening to the birds at the feeder and the drip, drip, drip of the water falling from the trees.
Rainy weekends mean bundled up mornings with warm coffee and a perhaps shot of brandy.
Rainy weekends mean spending time with those closest to me.
Rainy weekends mean quiet.
And I like that all to pieces.