As you may have heard, we had a few weather-related issues over the weekend. I kept a journal…
Saturday, 7:15am: I go to the bank to get some cash because that’s what all the people on TV are saying to do. They haven’t said why I need cash (tipping?), but I get it anyway. I also fill my car up with gas, because the TV people also said to do that. I have no idea where I would go during a hurricane, but I’m ready to go there.
My wife Barbara has also been following the TV people’s instructions. She went out to buy “non-perishables.” This, to Barbara, meant about a dozen bags of assorted chips and one container of guacamole, which, I guess, she figured would be long gone before it could perish. This is actually an improvement over her stock-up strategy for Y2K when she bought cans and cans of mandarin oranges.
Saturday, 8:20am: We feel as though we should start battening down the hatches, but we’ve searched our new house and it doesn’t seem to have any hatches, which is just as well, because we have no actual idea what the verb “to batten” means. Instead, we put all the patio stuff into the garage. This includes the grill, so I’ll have to cancel the Hurricane Barbecue that I hadn’t scheduled for tomorrow.
Saturday, 9:13am: A truck pulls up and carts away the huge–and uncovered–dumpster that had been sitting in our driveway as a result of the kitchen renovation. I wonder about the 1950s Thermidor over that’s still out there. It’s pretty heavy, but then I think about all the videos I’ve seen with cars getting blown around in hurricanes. Or were those tornadoes? Anyway, I’d hate to see the thing redeposited in our kitchen through one of the new windows.
Saturday, 10:00am exactly: I make my weekly call to my mother in Ft. Lauderdale. Mom is geographically-impaired and will call to make sure we’re all right if any thing happens anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere. Most recently, she called about the earthquake, which was in Virginia, and didn’t even cause much damage there.
Of course, when she picks up, I make all sorts of wind noises into the phone. “Shrooo, shrooo, Casey watch out for that window! That tree’s coming down! Shrooo, shrooo” and so on..
She is not amused.
Saturday, 11am: It seems like the day before the hurricane is a good time for a nap.
Saturday, 1:22pm: I am awakened by loud banging. The kitchen guys have come to cover the new windows. They also cart away the oven.
Saturday, 3:37pm: It occurs to us that we’ve spent all afternoon in the house for no apparent reason, which is particularly stupid since we assume we’ll be spending all day tomorrow in the house.
Saturday, 5:30pm: We decide to go out for an early dinner, preferably somewhere with valet parking. I need people to tip. On the way home, we hear a weather forecast on the radio: breezy and rainy. I believe the weather forecaster would have called Hitler “an unpleasant fellow.”
Saturday, 10:00pm: The first hurricane victims in our area are undoubtedly local TV news reporters who have been providing “extended coverage” since early this morning without really having anything to report. (“The storm is coming. The storm is still coming.”) On WNBC, reporter Katy Tur has resorted to interviewing a couple solely because they brought her a cup of coffee. New Jersey reporter Brian Thompson, famous for measuring snowfall with a yardstick, has literally just asked a passer-by for his rain slicker. From the studio, Sue Simmons asks Brian if he will spend the evening asking people for their clothes.
Saturday, 10:17pm: I take my dog Toby out for his evening walk and he drops a mountain of poop that makes me think he somehow knows this might be a difficult activity tomorrow. This is called the “crap before the storm.”