Hurricane’s a comin’. I have done a teensy bit of trash talking around these parts about my Floridian-ness and capacity to withstand hurricane-force winds with only my Cuban eyebrows to protect me. But I will level with you because we’re pals. I bought water and ice and a ridiculously expensive flashlight from a camping store because it was the only place that had any left. I’m pretty sure I could use it for Morse code with my mother in Tampa. That mess is strong.
I also went to three different stores before I could find C batteries for our 38-year old flashlight that I am certain will not last past a heavy slamming of the front door, much less our gal Irene. So that’s why I got candles, too. Target only had really random scents left. For the next 7-14 days our apartment is going to smell of Grandfather’s Cigar Hanging from the Chair of His Rocker Near the Fireplace and Load of Laundry Washed with Generic Detergent that Could Have Used a Pre-Soak. I know, total score.
Hopefully we don’t lose power at all and I can update you with minute-by-minute reports of hiding out in our master bedroom closet with my dog for 21 hours. Or maybe an “I’m a’ight” tweet would be more appropriate. Gonna play that one by ear.
If you are anywhere near this cranky beast, stay safe and don’t judge that girl traipsing through the wreckage in those fabulous galoshes. Maybe she bought them last year and has been dreaming of irrefutable justification for wearing them in public. Tidal flooding = irrefutable.
Them’s my hurricane boots. And my silver lining.