Back in my younger days, I spent Parade Day…yes, capitalized like a holiday…running around the Southside wearing my Irish sweater and probably some sort of shamrock beads. I would be with a group of friends drinking…and throwing up…green beer. Using disgusting port-o-potties was a luxury because you usually copped-a-squat wherever you could. Meandering up and down Western Ave was a right of passage.
It rained last night. Not the gentle soothe you to sleep kind of rain. But the type of rain that tosses a floodie into a panic. Streets were watched to be sure the water was draining down the sewer. The radar was checked to see if the worst of it had passed. We briefly chatted about how we really should have installed the new sump pump last week. Fingers are crossed that there is no lake under the new house this morning.
We battled over her skirt this morning. Who knew that an-almost-two-year-old could have such strong opinions about a skirt? I chose the wrong one. Her choice was much too short. How is a too short skirt even an issue already?