You remember that PT chick from your randy youth. She goes on a date, gives a few lingering kisses, lets you fondle her boobage through her tight sweater. The next date she shows a little thigh and leaves you excited, overheated, and wanting more. The “more” is never delivered. That is the way Mother Nature has been lately. She darkens the sky with some clouds. Sometimes she brings on the wind and thunder, but never more than a light mist of rain. She teases us with that long soaking we need, but laughs as we get all excited for nothing.
Apart from the fact that no such chick appeared at any time during my decidedly unrandy youth, this description works pretty well down here on the scorched Plains: the oh-so-slight chance of rain yesterday morning dissipated almost as quickly as you could point and say “Were those clouds?” and we still wound up with a record for the, um, century. Since 1891 we’ve hit 113 degrees F, which may or may not mean “Fahrenheit,” exactly twice: 11 August 1936 and 3 August 2012.