The thing is, it can go nine months here without raining. I used to forget that it rained here at all, and every November I’d be freshly startled, like a goldfish swimming round and round in its bowl. “Oh look, a little plastic castle.” “Oh look, a little plastic castle.” “Oh look, a little plastic castle.” I liked to point out that I had been assured in song that it never rains in California, and that apparently I was misinformed. This is the sort of joke that never gets old, chiefly because it wasn’t funny in the first place.

Last night as the first drops hit our Sutro Tower-facing bow window, husband, cat and I were sprawled on the futon watching South Park.

“Ah, rain. Must be November,” I said. “See what I did there, honey? I maintained state!”

“Very good,” said J.

This morning Hedwig the wonder car was festooned in scarlet threads washed from the bottlebrush trees.

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