Birmingham, Cut It Out.

We're floating away here. Not float on pool, but thunderstorms and rain and rain and thunderstorms. Makes me glad for the good dry indoors, even with the ceiling leaks here and there. The roof repair guy seems to have slapped the tar on in the right spots. I keep looking up for drips; just the ugly yellow stains look back at me.

Birmingham, do us a favor and keep your thunderstorms this week. Just keep your rain over there. We don't need any more. I promise. Ask the oak tree in the front yard, ask the weeds, or ask my old dog whose hot spot sprang up from the dampness.

See, I have a kid who's spooked of tornadoes, and she's starting to spook me too. I think I hear sirens now. She's in my bed waiting for me. And it's only sprinkling now. Just cut out all the rain and wind and thunder, and we can shake hands and make nice over the state line.

That's the last time I'm asking nicely.