She’s coming. Soon, by our best guess.
Hurricane Irene is creeping our way. Based on the radar it should start raining in the next hour or so, with the worst of it hitting around 5am or so. It doesn’t look like we’ll get wholloped as badly as the City is, mostly just some wind and a metric ass-ton of rain.
But that’s the thing. We don’t know. We could be in for a serious ass kicking. Flooding, power outages for several days, debris damage to our cars, a tree coming crashing through our roof. Or it could be just another rainy night. We could be left sitting in our fully lit living room, surrounded by flashlights and candles, and feeling like jackasses. We just don’t know.
Which is why we’re not huddled in the basement next to the dryer. We aren’t at Walmart dropping elbows over the last case of Fiji or the last loaf of bread. My plants are still out on the porch and our bikes are still leaned up against the back of the house. Sure, we located the flashlights, and we decided not to go out to the bars tonight and risk getting caught in a downpour. But other than that, it’s any other night in the Van Sandt house.
Because the thing is, I’m not really worried. Come hell or literal high water, I know we’ll see it through to the other side. We’re strong, we’re flexible, and we can adapt to damn-near anything. Besides, we’re totally prepared.
Bring it, bitch.