It goes ding when there's stuff.

Move the decimal and it's just A THOUSAND DEGREES, and between living on the sun and being derechoed (TM outta mind outta site) life in my nation's capital is all kinds of sticky and feathered in bits and pieces of just about everything. Some time during dinner with Uncle Mitchy Paws our power melted out of commission, and two hours later I watched in awe as the front lines of The Great Storm marched steadily down Fifth Street and smashed face-first into my house, the wind hollering "FIRE!" and "GERONIMO!" and I think I even heard an "MOLTO BENE!" mixed up in there. Some time past midnight we all passed out in a heat coma, and some time 'round 2:45 in the a.m. our air conditioner mercifully kicked on. I wandered 'bout the house turning off lights and closing windows, found Winston sitting out on the upstairs back balcony in the rain. Kid had the right idea, I think. My beefsteak plant had fallen sideways and the sungold branches were splayed in a most unladylike manner, but after a wee bit of tidying up we all seem to have fared pretty well. Thank Santa for city living.



But oh, the aftermath. We nearly missed Winston's ultrasound appointment so snarled by not just fallen limbs but felled trees was suburban traffic. Homeward bound our hunt for banh mi was met by empty parking lots and dark storefronts, so we "settled" for prosciutto and mortadella. And... that's about it; official Independence Day festivities are still a go, but since Canada's Pants's birthday falls on Wednesday and I have to work on Thursday (and I fall asleep by 9:30 every night anyway and also I can't drink alcohol or gingered ale or eat anything of any value except cookies (cookies have value)) I have no plans to be interrupted. Such is the life of this sickly old lady anyway; I do hope your Fourth is very merry and bright.