Several years ago, my wonderful brother-in-law gifted my mother, sister and I a day of pampering at a local salon on the north side of Houston.  It included a facial, massage and pedicure.  Sadly, I’d never experienced two of the three.  Pedicures were a staple in my life.  I’d come to know and love them while living in New York City, as it was one of the few inexpensive perks afforded a poor Advertising employee…that and pizza by the slice.  But facials and massages, never.  They were (I thought) well out of my price range, seemingly too self-indulgent, and, because I was (and admittedly still am) a bit of an odd bird, the thought of lying on a table half naked caused me great stress and the possibility of a major panic attack versus the intended total relaxation.

So, as you might suspect, the morning before the big day at the salon, I was a mess.  It was Saturday, but I woke before the alarm.  I needed preparation time.  Just as others clean house prior to the maid’s arrival, I scrubbed my body from stem to stern.  Outside of the head, arms and face, every last inch of my person was clean shaven.  Tags were pulled from a beautiful, matching set of bra and panties, and I carefully applied a “natural” coat of makeup in an effort to appear as if “yes, this is how I look when I roll out of bed”.  A thousand scenarios ran through my brain as we entered the salon’s parking lot…worst case scenarios, of course.  Would they examine my skin and gasp in horror?  While massaging me, fully exposed and wearing only my birthday suit, would I be scolded for the little pot belly or my blurred “yin and yang” tattoo (ironic, I know).

As if in another dimension, I could faintly hear my mother and sister giddily conversating about how excited they were to finally enjoy some “me time”.  I considered leaping from the car and racing home.  But the thought of ruining their moment stressed me out further.  I unsuccessfully practiced some breathing techniques I’d seen earlier on the weekend edition of the Today show, opened the car door, and walked, in a terrified haze into the bustling salon.

“Hello, ladies!” a slight woman behind a massive oak desk exclaimed.  “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

I tried to respond, but had lost the ability to speak.

My sister took over.  “Yes, we have ten-o-clock appointments.  We each have certificates for a spa day.”

“Well, lucky you!” the young girl responded.  “You must be Carolyn, Kim and Nikki!”

I nodded, relieved that at least my body was still functioning.

“Follow me,” she said.  “We’ll get you started.”  She turned my way.  “Are you Nikki?”

I once again nodded.

“Great!  You’ll go in for your facial first with our Aesthetician, Nancy!  You’re just going to love it!”

I had a pool of saliva in my mouth, but was unable to swallow.

“Just head to the bathroom over there,” she pointed.  “Strip down - you can leave on your undies - and wrap yourself up in one of the provided towels!  Nancy is in Room 1.  Enjoy!”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I attempted to smile at my family and pleaded with my body to successfully walk me to the electric chair…I mean, bathroom.  I opened the door, turned on the light (so bright…why so bright) and proceeded to strip down to my lacy, never before worn underwear.  I draped my clothing on the provided hangers, wrapped what seemed like a dish towel around my shivering (but very smooth) torso, unlocked the door, and made a bee-line to Room 1.

I knocked.

“C’mon in!”

It was a friendly enough voice.

I slowly opened the door and entered a dimly lit room with flickering candlelight and soft music.

“Hi, Nikki.”  She was so calm.  “I’m just finishing setting up.  Would you like something to drink?”

Is this woman hitting on me?

“No, thanks,” I squeaked.  She appeared not to notice the fear in my voice.

I sat in a low, comfortable chair as Nancy placed what looked to be a large water bubble at the top of the massage table.

Oh, God.

“Ok, all ready,” she said.  “Just lay here…you can keep on your towel.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“Just make sure you lay your shoulders and upper back on the warm water pillow.”

I fumbled about for a bit, sloshing the water from side to side, before finally positioning myself, stiff as a board on the surprisingly comfortable table.  It was adorned, much like a 5-star resort-style bed (i.e. Shutters in SoCal), in piles of white linens.  Nancy placed a pillow under my knees and covered me with more linens.  She brushed my hair back, much like my Momma used to do, and placed her hands on my face.

“First time?” she asked.

“Can you tell?” I replied.  We both giggled.

“It’s a breeze,” she teased.  “Just sit back and let me do the work.  You can even sleep if you like.”

Yeah, right.

“Just so you know,” she said.  “I don’t speak once we get started.  It’s just a policy of mine.”

Relief poured from my body.  I could literally feel myself sinking further into the soft sheets.  No longer did I have to carry the stress of “what the hell do we talk about”.  I had, as you might imagine, a long list of topics in my head in case speaking was required - ranging from my love of animals, to my lack of love life, to the perils of greenhouse gases.

“Do you have any animals?” I couldn’t help myself.  The silence was, well, unexpected.

“Oh, yes…I love animals,” she said.

Good sign.

“Ok, time to get started.  Try to relax, Nikki.  And no talking,” she smiled.

I must admit, the first few minutes were a bit odd.  Most women are nurturing.  It can be tough to calm down and be nurtured.  And let’s face it, this was a new and foreign situation.  The unknown can be a bit scary, but I felt much better when I saw a trash receptacle nearby.  If I needed to hurl, I wouldn’t mess up these pretty sheets. 

“Ok, we’re just about finished.”

Huh?

“You fell asleep, sweetie.”

“I did?  I DID!!!  That’s amazing!”

And it was.  Nancy had achieved the unachievable.  I’m still convinced she’s not human.  I mean, I can’t sleep on a 15-hour flight, not even for a second.  But Nancy, with her strong, but gentle, hands had actually relaxed me to the point of slumber.  The thing is, this was no ordinary facial, I know that now.  It was a dream.  There were sweet (but not too strong-smelling) potions and lotions, hot towels, gentle exfoliants…in the end, my face felt like the quintessential baby’s butt…really.  But that was just the beginning.  Remember that warm water pillow I was so weary of?  It had become my best friend, it’s possible I fell in love with it.  Why?  Because it allowed Nancy, while I was still lying face-up, to massage my back - her hands sliding effortlessly between the pillow and my shoulders and backside.  She then massaged my arms, legs AND FEET!  Yes, you heard me right.  Somewhere in this process, I dozed off.  It was that good.  When I woke, I wondered….was this the facial AND massage?

I found out later that this was not the massage.  It was simply Nancy’s facial.  The massage, it turned out, was handled by a babbling teenager with little experience.  She was what I had feared.  But because my time with Nancy had been so incredibly relaxing, I didn’t care.

An hour later, as my mother and I received side-by-side pedicures, we cooed about our dream facial.  We kept glancing at Room 1, poorly hiding our jealously that Kim was, at that very moment, receiving the magic treatment.  When my sister later emerged, fresh-faced and sleepy-eyed, the three of us floated back to the car, relaxed and revived, and ready to conquer the world.

It would be three years before my next facial with Nancy.  Times had been tough, and, in my mind, facials were a luxury I could not afford.  Little did I know, it was exactly what I needed.  Had I visited Nancy from time to time, some of the obstacles sent my way might not have seemed so insurmountable.  Or, at the least, I might have handled them with a bit more patience.  And, ironically, Nancy was, and is, quite affordable.

For my mother’s birthday last October, my father bought her a year’s worth (of monthly) facials.  He later called Nancy to tell her that in all the gifts he’d bought his wife - from jewelry to clothing and beyond - he’d never seen her squeal quite as loudly as when he presented her with that year’s worth of pampering.  Nancy told me this story when I went to see her last week.  I was not surprised.  And, for a moment, I dreamed of receiving my own free year of facials.  Did you hear that, Daddy?  Daddy?

I decided to return to Nancy for many reasons.  One was my Mom’s constant pontificating about her monthly visits.  Another was the special she was extending through March.  A freaking hour-and-a-half slice of heaven for $75.  I could have chosen an hour for even less.  But it’d been three years, and my face was showing it.  Plus, it was $75!  I found a way to work it out.  And it was even better than I remembered.

Nancy is now on her own in a quaint little commercial condo community near Willowbrook Mall.  The atmosphere is calm and beautiful and, well, perfect.  I rarely, if ever, highlight a business, but this blog is about us.  What makes us the same.  What makes us laugh.  And what makes us happy.  Well, Nancy at Perfecting Skin Care makes me happy.  And so it’s only fair that you know of her, too.

Last weekend, I was planning on attending a friend’s shindig (a “Passion Party”, aka - a party with a Mary Kay-like sales pitch of sex toys).  Nancy had offered up a door prize to be handed out at the party, but at the last minute, I had to cancel.  So now I have this Perfecting Skin Care certificate burning a hole in my purse.  It is…drumroll…a certificate for a NINETY MINUTE FACIAL/MASSAGE!  In other words, it is a certificate to heaven.

This is what I was thinking.  Times are a little tough.  People are stressed out.  Some more than others.  And they need a break.  So, I am giving this certificate away to one lucky reader.  For a chance to receive it, all you have to do is this…send me in the reason why you or a dear friend or loved one deserves some “me time”.  Unfortunately, I only have one, so I will only be able to choose one reader.  If I had more, I would give them all away…but I don’t.  Think about who would most benefit from this and tell me why.  And for my guy readers, remember Valentine’s Day is just around the corner…I’m just sayin’…

***Sidenote, for those who do not receive the certificate, Nancy’s special runs through March.  She even had a special on microdermabrasion when I was there - TEN FREAKIN’ DOLLARS - so you might check into that as well.  Her name is Nancy Hetzel (Perfecting Skin Care) and her numbers are:  (W) 281-586-8838 and (C) 713-557-5059.

Okay, folks - the comment section is open!  Send me the reason why you, your husband, wife, sister, mother, brother, aunt, teacher, butcher, favorite Passion Party salesperson, etc. should receive this well-deserved gift.  I’m listening…

Okay, so, we all know the definition of irony.  The classic definition (or at least dictionary.com’s 5th defintion):  “an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected”.  But, in each of our lives, we have our own personal theories related to events we’ve experienced.

My most recent definition could not-so-concisely be represented in these words - “when a 30-something single woman decides to embark on a new writing project chronicaling the trials and tribulations of her solo life, and then, out of nowhere, meets a man.  A good man.  A sweet man.  A hot man.  A creative man.  And her life is turned upside down.”

Many of you are aware of my latest life twist.  Via Facebook photos, or word-of-mouth, a phonecall or even a face-to-face meeting with the man.  And I’m sure you’re hoping I open up a massive can and spill all the details (Bill S. - I’m talking to you).  But the thing is, single women beyond a certain age have learned a few key life lessons.  And one of those is:  shouting new, exciting experiences to the world in an untimely manner (especially related to dating) can have devastating consequences.  You know what I mean, don’t you, ladies?  Let’s take, for example, a recent re-meeting of mine…with my Navy pilot from the past.  We (he and I) cooed of our new refound love to the world.  Family members rejoiced.  Premature wedding plans were hatched.  The quintessential love storyline buzzed through phone lines and cyberspace, and, in the end, it freaked us both out to hell.  Because, the reality is, no matter how exciting the circumstances, grasping coupledom after years of independence can be a scary prospect - even in the most solitary of circumstances.

So…because I do understand the pain of waiting on juicy information, I will reveal some snippets.  This new man and I met at a sports bar (or so we thought).  That’s confusing, isn’t it…the “or so we thought” comment.  And I would try to explain it, but I’m not sure either of us fully understand the reality of what happened.  But, let me just say, this very blog was a catalyst to our meeting.  I knew it was good for sumthin’!!  Okay, okay, I’ll try to elaborate.  Here’s the deal.  Stephen (yes, that’s his real name) is in a band.  I didn’t know this when I met him, but something tells me a few of you (or more) reading this are not surprised by this reality.  I like me a creative man.  But, no offense to my fellow creatives, most can be a little, well, interesting, possibly difficult.  So, finding someone passionate about what they do who isn’t a raving jackass can be, well, damn near impossible.  But it appears the good ones do exist.  It appears you can stumble across creative, passionate, driven, responsible….and sweet.  Jackpot.  Or so it seems.  Time will have to prove that one way or the other.  Hence the need to hold back a bit.

Alright, so back to our meeting.  My belief is that I randomly met him watching football at The Tavern.  Reality - or so we’re trying to uncover - is that the lead singer in his band (along with his crafty girlfriend), found my blog, read it and decided that the two of us should meet.  And so they made it happen.  Somehow.  We don’t know how.  But it happened.  Of course they deny it all (with suspect smirks on their faces).  So, it’s possible there’s more to this story.  Regardless, it’s a good one, and whether we ever find out the real truth or not, it resulted in our meeting.  And I’m happy for that.

All is going well.  Goo, goo, gaw, gaw, and all that good stuff.  I saw Stephen’s band a couple of weeks ago, and was blown away.  Really…I’m being as completely unbiased as I can be here.  They were - UNBELIEVABLE.  And it appears they are on the precipice of something.  Which, to be honest, is a bit scary to me…but I’m up for rolling with the punches.  They deserve it.  Check out their MySpace music site when you get a chance…I think you’ll understand what I’m talking about:  http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=80721565.  If this link doesn’t work, just plug “pale band houston” into Google, and it’ll bring up the MySpace link.  The name of the band is “Pale” and my little punkin (I know, I know) plays bass.

It’s possible you might have concerns about my book project.  Will she put it aside due to recent events?  Is the whole thing now null and void?  Absolutely not.  In fact, I feel these realities and unexplained happenings are what life is all about.  For early marrieds.  Perpetual singles.  Or those inbetween.  The book will press on.  It just may have a more interesting ending :) 

Talk to me, people.

(P.S. - Still having trouble uploading photos into blog posts, so you’ll have to go to the Paparazzi link to see a pic of the boy)

Yes - I know.  I owe all of you -  my loyal readers - a sincere apology.  I have been severely lacking in the blog-writing arena.  I wish I could blame it on an incredibly busy schedule, but, well, that would be a bold-faced lie.  And I’m not a good liar.  I get all fidgety and red-faced.  It ain’t pretty.  The truth is, with the finishing up of my 2nd book, the editing process and all the other responsibilities that go along with it, I temporarily lost my fervor for the writing process.  I just didn’t want to do it.  No desire.  Like a stale relationship that needs a kick in the ass.

But today, as I hoped it finally would, I woke up with renewed vigor to get back to the one thing that I love.  So, not only will you see and hear much more from me, I’ve also decided to start a new project.  A new book.  One on my terms, aimed at fine folks like you.  No more children’s books for me.  I adore those little readers, but it’s not where my passion for writing lies.  So, what is the subject of this new endeavor, I hope you’re asking?  It’s pretty simple actually.  When you need to find what works, what interests you, where the real humor and endless stories reside, you need look no farther than inside yourself.  And, as you can imagine, the stories, trials and tribulations, romantic foibles, etc. of a thirty-eight year old single woman are limitless.

I think the title - which came to me like a marquis sign this morning - explains quite a bit of what is to be expected from this book.  Single life- the pressures, the joys, the misconceptions, and - something that is important to us all - single or not - what drives and inspires us.

I hope to complete a draft of (get ready for it) No, I’m Not Gay…But Sometimes I Think It’d Be Easier - in the next few months, and I’ll likely test some of the material out on you as I work through that process.  If you have any interesting experiences of your own, pass them on…I’m sure they’ll trigger some more of my own similar experiences as I work through the challenging, wonderful and sometimes frustrating world of book writing.

Take this, for example.  At a recent Christmas party, I was, of course, one of the few singletons in attendance.  Actually, it’s possible Susan and I were the only single gals.  Santa was also in attendance and each person (or couple, in the majority of cases) was asked to sit on his lap for pictures.  When my time came, they called both Susan and I to share Santa’s lap.  I’d never met half of these folks.  And now Susan and I are sitting on Santa’s lap, prompting more than a few sideways glances…and nods that “yes, we too can be cool with the lesbian couple”.  I certainly have no issue with lesbians, for God’s sake, I live above two of them and reside in a predominantly gay neighborhood (also not always the best way to prove your heterosexuality).  But I ain’t gay.  It just is what it is.  And eight years ago, this was not an issue.  Not even a thought.  In fact, I was more often called ‘boy crazy’.  But then I turned thirty, and was suddenly thrust in the position of defending my sexuality.  So, anyway, Susan and I are each sitting on one of Santa’s knees, working hard to make no girl-on-girl physical contact, and we actually had to say “Just friends!  Not a couple!”  Yes, we had to say that.  Well, we didn’t have to, but if we hadn’t, we would have forever been seen as ‘those lipstick lesbians at Christine’s 2008 Christmas soiree’.

Wish I had the picture folks.  If I do find it, I’ll post it.  Because in all the drama of defending ourselves, I didn’t realize that my zipper was undone.  And Susan is upset with the angle - afraid it makes her butt look twice the normal size.  And Santa’s eyes?  Well, let’s just say he looks like we’re shocking him with our larger-than-life asses.  Now, that’s a Christmas card that would get the family talking…

Glad to be back.  Let me know how your lives are going.  Merry Everything!

So, this past Sunday, after a much needed nap, I peeled myself out of bed and drove in the waning light of dusk to my favorite place in the world (if we lived in a world of opposites).  Kroger.  If you’ve been following The Anomalous Life for any length of time, you know my fairly unhealthy dislike of grocery shopping…namely grocery shopping at the Kroger on West Gray.  You probably also know about my somewhat significant change in eating habits recently (to aid my struggling thyroid and, well, you know, because it’s not good to eat peanut butter and gummy worms four times a week).  Anyway, this new, healthy, organic, very adult regimen gratefully pulled me away from the “meat market” (and I don’t mean ground beef and chicken cutlets) aisles of Kroger into the (deep, fresh breath) heart-healthy pathways of Whole Foods.  I can’t say I necessarily looked forward to grocery shopping, but I no longer compared it to pulling out an abcessed tooth…without anesthetic…with rusty pliers.  You get the picture.

Whole Foods is great…but there’s only one problem.  It ain’t cheap.  And it doesn’t carry my little ladies’ favorite brand of kitty litter.  So, as fate would have it, the grocery store hater now has to make two stops…one being the pricey prima donna palace, and the other…the packed pick-up joint. 

Since Sunday night’s trip was driven mainly by my gals’ need for more than a centimeter of kitty litter, Kroger it was.  I did mention that it was a Sunday night, right?  The night which, in the West Gray grocery world, is on par with the grand opening of Hyde in LA or Pure in Vegas.  In short, parking spaces are scarce and tempers are short.  That’s why, when I saw a space up front that didn’t have a handicapped sign in front of it, I felt like this dreaded errand may not be so bad after all.  I pulled in, powered down my newly rebuilt Honda (that’s a story for another time), and stepped out with my head held high.  Not high enough, however, to miss the large handicapped sign painted on the ground beneath my car.  Shit!  I rush back to the Honda to get back in line behind the throngs of others vying for the limited spaces.  But in my rush…as I threw open the door and swung my body toward the driver’s seat, I miscalculated my height, and, well, I rammed my head, with remarkable force into the unforgiving metal - just below the outer edge of my right eyebrow.  Crack!  Literally, it made a noise…a loud noise…and I briefly saw stars, right before the searing pain set in.  I grabbed my face and slithered into my seat.

My first thought:  “Ouch…ouch…go away, pain.  Please, go far, far away…”

My second thought:  “My God, I have to go in this grocery store full of hip-dressed suitors, flashing solid proof (in their eyes, at least) that I am a victim of domestic abuse.”  I abhor you, Kroger.

The small goose egg hid itself fairly well under strategically placed makeup, although I constantly pulled out my compact mirror - sure that my damaged noggin would soon turn an uncoverable shade of black and blue.  Of course, fellow shoppers assumed I was checking myself out to ensure a “competitive edge” amongst the hords of single sassies.  When in reality, I was working to save myself from the looks of pity or passing suggestions for nearby ‘women’s centers’.  Had the scenario presented itself, I had a prepared rebuttal:

“I DON’T HAVE A DAMN HUSBAND…HELL, I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!”  That should shut ‘em up.  But folks want to believe the dramatic…they don’t want to hear about the unfortunate meeting of an innocent Honda door frame and a slightly accident prone lassie.  They want the dirt.  If it ain’t a husband or boyfriend, maybe it’s a jealous lesbian ex-girlfriend.  Yeah, there’s the dirt.

No matter…I picked up all the groceries before the growing bump became too noticeable and I raced out of the parking lot.  I needed Kroger in my rearview mirror - fast.  Kroger! (Newman!)  Argh!

Once home, I packed away all the groceries…all except a frozen bag of edamame which I carefully placed on my sensitive, swollen (that sounds risque) brow bone.  I’m two days out now, and still a bit painful to the touch.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe Whole Foods is worth every penny…maybe it’s time to switch the girls to organic, unscented litter.  Maybe…

I’ve been having the same dream since I was a little girl.  The stress dream.  What I had to be stressed about at eight years old, I have no idea…maybe I was upset about not getting that Ms. Pacman game at Christmas, or broken up about the stolen strawberry scratch-and-sniff sticker. As I got older, the dream came to visit when I was contemplating a break-up, or suffering through my latest bout of writer’s block (looming deadlines will do that to a girl).  But it’s always the same.  I’m in a strange house.  In the middle of a sprawling field.  And in the distance is a massive, swirling tornado.  I’m panicked.  It’s headed straight for me, and the width of this twisting cyclone is enough to blow away a whole town, much less my meager shelter.  I stare out two large bay windows…heart pounding…ready to be sucked up in its vast blackness and thrown halfway across the continent.  But somehow, when I’m feet from death’s door, it dissipates…disappears.  Poof…just like that.  Miraculously, I’ve been saved.  I’ve escaped the monster.  I slowly lower myself onto the floor until my breathing returns to normal.  And then I look up, only to find a string of twenty more tornados headed my way.  Sometimes I narrowly survive several more.  Other times the dream ends after the first near miss.  But always I wake up with a silent scream, pop up into a sitting position, eyes searching the dark room for any sign of a green, forboding sky.  It’s only when I see a startled cat careen from the bed that I realize where I am…and that I’m safe.

So why all the talk about stress dreams and leaping felines?  Because tonight, as I prepared a dinner of sauceless spaghetti noodles (so sue me, I haven’t been to the grocery store in awhile) and leftover Ziggy’s take-out salad, I heard the dreaded high-pitched beeping noise on the TV.  It was a weather alert.  Tornado Warning.  Not a Tornado “Watch”…a Tornado “Warning”.  What’s the difference?  Put it this way…if a “Watch” is Tiny Tim, then a “Warning” is, well, a lot bigger than Tiny Tim…like Hulk Hogan or Yao Ming (that one’s for you, Momma).  This, as you might imagine, does not sit well with the woman with lifelong tornado stress dreams.

I look out the window.  Nothing.  No rain.  A few clouds in the distance, but they look fairly harmless.  So, I stroll back to the kitchen to tend to my flavorless meal, and soon sit down to the anti-entertainment of a Wednesday night TV lineup (clearly I don’t have HBO).  Then I hear something.  A slight rumble in the distance.  My first reaction is to not react.  Ignorance is bliss.  But you know me better than that, don’t you dear readers?  It’s there.  In the back of my mind.  Sumthin’s this way-a-comin’.  I feel a slight flutter in my belly. Pawly whips her head to the side and leaps off the couch and out of the room.

“That can’t be good,” I think.  “Don’t animals have a sixth sense?”

I look out the window again.  The clouds in the distance aren’t so distant now…and are they taking on a green hue?  Oh God.  And look at the birds!  I think they’re panicking!  Sixth sense.  Oh, sweet Jesus, this is gonna be the big one.  I call Carol, my downstairs landlord.

“Did you see the weather alert?” I cry.

“Yes, but I think it’ll just be alot of rain,” she replies.

“But the alert said Tornado Warning…not a Watch…a Warning!  And have you seen that wall of clouds outside…behind the AIG building?  I think I see a tail coming down out of one!”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” She’s laughing.

“But are you outside…do you see it???”

“I’m downstairs on the porch…right below you,” she says.  Why is she so calm?  We could be moments away from a close-encounter with an F5!

“It looks really green, and it’s so calm…the calm before the storm!”  I’ve lost all rational thinking.  Carol is feet from me, but we’re still talking via the phone.  And she’s still laughing at me.

“You’ll be fine,” she chuckles.  “And if something forms, just get in your bathtub.”  She’s starting to believe it could happen…that’s not a good sign!  I picture myself in the confines of my cast iron tub, a cat under each arm, a comforter over my head. Maybe knocking back a cold Bud Light.  Right before the floor caves in and my tub lands on top of Carol and Leslie, huddled in their own tub in the apartment below.  It could happen.

The rain has started.  The sky is black.  There is no sign of a swirling cloud, but my mind creates some gyration (what a great word) in the cloud now directly above us.

“If I’m pounding on your door in the pouring rain and howling 300-mile-per-hour winds, please let me and my two pet carriers inside,” I say to Carol as I walk toward my back door.  She snickers again and heads for cover.

I hear the beeping again. Another weather alert.  Just “small stream flood advisories” now…nothing about a tornado. I can’t be calmed.  At one point they predicted Ike wouldn’t even enter the Gulf.  And we all know how that turned out.  The rain is pouring down now.  I go back to the couch and my untouched meal, turn up the volume and slide back into ‘ignorance is bliss’ mode.  A loud thunder clap.  The cats have leapt to the floor and hunkered down.  I look out the window.  The wind is whipping.  This is it.  I call Susan to warn her about the impending doom and bid her farewell.  She doesn’t answer.  It’s clear the tornado has already ripped through her side of town.  I’m alone.  The dream has become reality.  I grab my comforter and head toward the bathroom, but wait, what is that?  Silence?  Has the giant tornado sucked all the air out of sky? I slither to the window, and…nothing. Just some drizzle and a moderately clear sky.

I call Carol back.

“You alright?” I ask.  “You were pretty freaked out down there.”

“Unlike yourself?” she mocks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…just a little rainstorm…nothing to be worried about.”

“Uh huh,” she replies.  “By the way, did you see that huge tree roach?”

“WHERE! WHERE IS IT, CAROL!”

And more giggling.  Bitch.