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They enter the house and want the tour. Jews always want the tour, "This is the master bath, this is the guest room, this is where the dogs sleep".  It gives the guests something to talk about on the way home, "What a shit hole they live in." So, I give the tour and we sit in the living room and talk and talk and talk.... way over an hour.  Finally I say, "Are you hungry?" and head for the kitchen where I learn I have set the oven incorrectly. This marvel of electronic wizardry did not shut off at seven. God is NOT good.  From a six-pound brisket, I'm left with about one pound of shriveled, blackened, shoe leather. Estelle walks in and looks over my shoulder, "We'll make do. We have rice and veggies".  I insist we can salvage the meat and put it on a platter. On that huge platter the brisket looked like a refugee raft floating in from Cuba. I get the meat to the table and Estelle says, " I smell burning plastic."  I had forgotten to put water in the steamer and the steamer has melted... more like fused itself to the burner.   I pull out some untouched veggies and throw them in the microwave. They come out like petrified wood. The entire meal is now a science project.
     
    Back at the table Estelle's husband is attempting to cut the brisket. "No No... Allow me." I make the first cut; the knife slips and a piece of meat shoots across the table into Estelle's lap. I get all the food on the plates and watch as Estelle pushes it around like its radioactive..., which at this point I'm not sure it isn't.  "The rice is good." she says pulling a hair from her teeth. We make small talk, "So, wanna go out and get something to eat after this?"  Their faces smile; their eyes tell a different story....  they just want to flee for their lives.
     
    As if things weren't bad enough the dogs have opened the bedroom door and joined us. They take their position in the corner of the dining room, hovering like vultures. Within three minutes Estelle covers her nose with a napkin, "What the hell is THAT? Did your cow die?"  Apparently oatmeal and the dog's digestive system don't mix. They are farting up a storm to beat the band, long, deep, farts that linger in the air and will not dissipate.  I turn on the a/c. Estelle is freezing. I shut it off. It's smells like the pound.  Estelle and her husband are truly good, wonderful people and make the best of a horrific situation.  Then, suddenly, a huge crash from the kitchen. What now? A porcelain turkey platter has fallen off the shelf and shattered into a million pieces. "What was that?", Estelle shouts from the other room. "The dishes are committing suicide. " is all I could get out.
     
    I won't even tell you about the dessert but suffice it to say it entailed sprinkling paprika on vanilla pudding instead of cinnamon. And to this day, whenever I'm with Estelle, no matter whom we are with, no matter where we are she'll turn to the person next to me and say, "Did you ever eat dinner at his house? NO? God is Good."
     
     
    9:29 P.M.
     
    The rain has been pounding on the roof for hours. I used to love that sound but, since the muds lide one year ago last week, it now petrifies me. I've already moved this year's tax receipts and the more expensive art pieces out of my office and onto higher ground.  I have a rash on my hands, a knot in my stomach and a brown spot in my underwear.  Guess what. I have posttraumatic distress disorder. It's not enough you go into shock when the mountain starts flowing through your house.... a year later you get to relive the fear when the rains come.  Think of it as a gift with purchase. I would have preferred a wallet.
     
    Did I ever tell you what happened the day of the slide? I had been sitting at my desk when I got up to pace.  The rain had been making me very nervous. My neighbors were building an Ark.  I walked down the hall, about six feet from my desk when I heard a loud explosion, like someone had dumped a load of gravel on the roof.  I turned