This is a test. This is only a test. Do NOT touch your dial.

If there were any damn dial to touch, I'd turn the rain off. One week later, one mustard yellow bathroom later, one expensive trip reservation later, one rotten Western flick on the Encore channel later, 500 washed-away dog turds later, I have finally announced to Bill that I've had enough.

I have, at long last, flunked my test on maintaining a patient, positive, calm, accepting attitude about the importance of our abundant moisture. It's time for people to stay out of earshot from me and cross over to the other side of the street if you see me coming. My grumpy-old-womandum might scare you otherwise.

I issued my proclamation to my husband last night when he came in the door with a plastic bag full of books, checked out from the local library. Usually you don't get your library books in a plastic bag, but as we continue to get the rain that promises a new wet record for Seattle, plastic bags, hip boots, confused Iris bulbs and rained-on Winter Carnival parades have entered the discussion circles.

I heard that last night's parade in honor of SNOW lasted about 15 minutes from one observer, while another suggested maybe it was more like seven minutes. I wondered why they were throwing out all those Mardi Gras beads. Was that possibly to remind everyone who might have forgotten about Hurricane Katrina that it could be worse?

A few brave, wet parade revelers waltzed into Second Avenue Pizza last night with their beads and fogged-up glasses. One chastised me for not watching the parade, to which I responded that my parents had instilled in me long ago the instincts for being smart enough to come in out of the rain. That didn't impress my critic, but, at least, he shut up and got in line to buy his beer.

The trip to the Post Office to mail off some photos for a story and my sandwich and beer at Second Avenue kept me from going raging mad yesterday. Of course, a trip to the post office is not often the best way to soothe one's irritations.

After waiting in line for a long time with a bunch of people you've never seen before ('cept Marilyn Anderson yesterday) and then stepping up to the counter where the postal clerks have been beaten into submission to ask you if you want those 37 things--or is it 39--- the U.S. Postal Service is trying to hawk, it's hard to be in a good mood. But you feel so sorry for the clerks, who once enjoyed the liberty of acting like an ordinary human beings, that you feign a happy face just to make their day.

Now, today I'm banking on an hour or so spent at the coffee cult where we'll talk about that highway that caved in to Chuck Slough, thus closing off one of the main roads to Sandpoint. Kiwi and I happened to be on the bike path day before yesterday, looking over that very spot where all of Chuck Slough's headwaters have eaten away the fill and created a muddy mess in the river right next to the McFarland estate. At the time, cars were zipping by without a care in the world. I've heard that a mere two hours later, the road had buckled and was closed down. I have a feeling that situation's gonna get worse before it gets better.

The Seahawks game this afternoon and the Zags game this evening will provide something of note to anticipate after I leave the coffee cult weekly discussion at Di Luna's. I do have to talk to my Texas friend on the phone one more time today, so that'll keep my mind off the rain for about 20 minutes. By the way, every time I tell him about the rain, which has been frequently lately, he says to send some down their way cuz they don't know what it looks like anymore.

And speaking of Seattle and its impending rain record, my daughter called me yesterday from I-5. She had just left her Seattle apartment and was driving to Mt. St. Helens, where she figured that at least a change of wet scenery would help her mood. She was also holding off hope that if she went far enough south, maybe she'd find a dry spot of ground. I kinda doubt that she did after seeing that parking lot in Portland on the news clips, where a bunch of funny things were sticking up in the water; they were cars.

I tried this morning, while sloshing my way through the driveway, to think happy thoughts about the rain. I came up with a few. The rocks will be clean. Most November, December and January dog turds will disintegrate, leaving very few brown blotches to avoid during March. I'm wondering if those turds are floating into the Pend Oreille River off toward exclusive Dover Bay via Chuck Slough cuz I think that's the drainage path for our water here in the Bonner County boghole.

Back to the positives. The frogs are happy. There's harmony in town because for once, most people have something of mutual agreement to cuss about. Tom Sherry won't be able to annoy us for some time by issuring dire warnings about a water shortage and a bad fire season on his weather report. The grass is green. I haven't had to fill the horse trough in nearly a week.

I'm sure there are many other good reasons to like the rain. I just haven't taken time out of my complaining schedule to think of them, but I do know the number-one, all-time best reason ever: when it quits, people will once again love one another and smile on their brothers--even at the post office.