Flip Flops

Across the country people are gearing up for Memorial Day weekend, breaking out the lawn chairs and beer coolers and sunscreen and flip flops (which were called thongs way back the last time I wore them, which is definitely not what it means now, though I still remember the misery of having a blister between my toes and have no desire to experience the same sensation, um, elsewhere).

I intended to celebrate the three day weekend by competing in a rodeo. It sounded like a good idea at the time. It even sounded like a good idea yesterday, when I was out strolling around town at lunch, admiring the spring blossoms.

On the drive home I was greeted by a massive wall of black clouds, rolling down off the mountain front. There was rain. Thunder. Lightning. More rain, pounding for most of the night on the metal roof of my bedroom which is conveniently located only three feet above my head (do I have to tell the my-house-is-a-chicken-coop story again?).

It rained all day today. Over two inches, at last check. Somewhere toward late afternoon, my husband gave up checking the rain gauge. Probably because this is what greeted me when I got home:

If you think they look thrilled, you should see the people around here. Now this is what we call a Montana Flip Flop.

Oh, yeah. The rodeo was cancelled. We must be getting wimpy.