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.

I’m thirty-hmm-hmm years old, and I have a curfew.  Yes, you heard me right.  A curfew.  Of midnight. 

Did I lose my job?  Am I living with my parents again?  Did I get caught sneaking out to meet up with the cute senior at that abandoned cul-de-sac in Colony Creek?  Nope. None of the above, folks.  This city-enforced torture is another result of our lingering friend, Hurricane Ike.

Ike has caused countless problems…those around the country, and possibly the world, have no doubt seen the devastation on Galveston Island - specifically the east end and Bolivar Island areas.  Where countless beach homes stood tall, only barren land and piles of debris now exist.  Inland, as far as Huntsville, TX (a good 100 miles north of Galveston) strong winds and torrential rains wiped out power, slammed trees on homes, ripped off shingles, tore down fences, etc…causing billions - if not more - in damage.  The day after his wrath, Ike had wiped out power to 99 percent of Houston and its surrounding area residents and businesses. 99 percent!!  As of the writing of this blog - two weeks after landfall - a good 30 percent are still without.  That’s somewhere around 700,000 customers!  Thank beJesus I am no longer one of them.  But my parents are…and many other friends.  I, personally, was without power for a week…and as the temperatures rose…as every last bit of food was tossed from my refrigerator…as the mosquitos hatched and attached to every patch of exposed skin…violent thoughts did occasionally enter my brain.  Ok, they were there 24/7.  If I had been subjected to another week without?  Well, let’s just say it wouldn’t have been pretty.  So, kudos to those still hangin’ on.  Humidity has increased.  Temps have risen.  And still you wait - sometimes even patiently - for that elusive Centerpoint truck to putter down your street and return you to civilized living.

It is strange to think that a Category 2 (almost Cat. 3) hurricane could cause such widespread damage, and I think in “normal” circumstances (if there is such a thing when it comes to Mother Nature), the consequences would have been less dire.  The difference?  This thing was a monster.  Huge.  It took up most of the Gulf as it barrelled toward the Texas coast.  That created an unexpectedly forceful and early  storm surge.  The water had nowhere to go but straight ahead…shoved along by the enormity of this beast, and strong winds reached far north - even before landfall when weakening usually occurs.  It was a strange phenomenon, caused by a tireless bastard who had already ripped his way through the still-recovering Cuba and Carribean islands.  If my power was still out, I’d probably track the remnants of this bully down and show him what a Texas whoopin’ feels like. I’m just sayin’…

So, okay…back to the curfew.  I do understand the reasoning behind it.  Many are still without power.  Looters do exist and law enforcement needs a legitimate reason to get them off the streets…before they wreak havoc.  But if you can, just for a moment, imagine being cooped up in your home…for days on end, even weeks.  No one is working.  For many, power is still out.  The term “stir crazy” doesn’t even begin to describe one’s state of mind.  Social interaction is necessary, and so we gather at our favorite restaurant or watering hole (preferably one with air conditioning).  We rehash recent events, offer comforts to those still without, and just as relaxation begins to creep into our bones…”LAST CALL, FOLKS! CURFEW STRICTLY ENFORCED! TIME TO GO HOME!”

What? But, I’ve just…I can’t go home.  But you have no choice.  A horrible memory from high school returns. You’re at that great party…the really hot guy’s house…the one with the long hair and guitar (or the letterman jacket…pick your poison). You’re playing quarters…he keeps glancing your way…and then your Mom walks in and drags you out.  And you’re humiliated to the point of death.  It was midnight.  And today, almost 20 years later, it’s also midnight.  And the city is ripping you away from your friends…and the drummer, or the basketball player (again, pick your poison)…and you wonder, does anything ever really change?

I’m going to see one of my favorite musicians on Friday night…and he’s scheduled to go on about 11:00 or 11:30.  I need this outing now more than ever…an escape from the constant reminders of Ike, the constant press conferences, the constant pictures and video and now rushed work deadlines. I need this.  But the curfew has still not been lifted, and I worry that the show will be cancelled, or that I’ll only get a precious 30 minutes to listen to the sweet music.  Maybe Daddy (Mayor) White will come through…maybe he’ll see that we’ve been responsible children and tack on an hour or two.  Or maybe Centerpoint will get a fire under their butts and save the remaining 30 percent from darkness.  If not, I may return to my teenage persona and risk punishment.  The adrenaline’s already pumping…

Apparently my warning to Ike fell on deaf ears.  He bore down on us like a programmed dart to the bullseye…and we are now suffering the aftereffects.  The family is all okay and intact…thank God.  No major damage to homes - just lots of little stuff caused by the gazillions of trees down from Galveston to Huntsville.  It really is an unbelievable sight.

As luck would have it, I am still without power - and will likely continue to be so through the weekend and possibly into next week.  Only about half of the 2.2 million homes/businesses, etc. are back up and I haven’t seen a Centerpoint truck in the vicinity…not a good sign.  The normally stifling heat of Houston in September has been suprisingly mild.  A “cool” front came through the day after the hurricane and is hanging on, which is good.  When the temp starts climbing and millions of folks are still without power…that’s when we’ll start to see tempers flaring.  Let’s hope the weather cooperates for a few more days - or, dare I ask, a week.

At a local coffee shop now…one that is normally about 1/4 full, but packed today…Ike victims desperate to leave their deafeningly quiet homes and reconnect with the outside world.  Might explain my all day/night “happy hour” yesterday…packed with a hyper / loopy crowd of eclectic folks.  Natural disasters bring out the goofballs in us all, and show even the most hermit-like that we truly are social creatures, and can only handle chatting with ourselves for so long.

Gotta cut this short…there are others looking to use the highly coveted electrical outlet. Keep your fingers crossed that power will soon be restored.  I’ll provide a bit more detail on this past week in my next post, and try to take some pics so you can see the craziness of the aftermath.

There are so many positive things that come with getting older. We grow in confidence. We become more comfortable in our own skin. Great friendships become deeper, and the toxic ones have a way of falling by the wayside. In short, it’s easier to hone in on what’s truly important. Life just becomes more, well…more genuinely fun. One drawback however, is the toll that fun can have on a slightly more mature body.  Take, for example, the socially-packed weekend.

To a twenty-something, a weekend full of activities is an expectation. Missing even the most ridiculous of events is unacceptable, because responsibilities and recovery time are fairly nonexistent.  But to the thirty-something, a weekend full of social commitments - although just as entertaining as always - can wreak havoc on the body and the early week’s productivity.

I just had one of those weekends. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast…more fun and interesting than most of my recent social outings. But boy am I paying for it now. Yes, I am still paying for it.  Can I get a “hell yeah” from my fellow gal pals!

Let’s break this down. Friday night was meant to be quite tame, and by all accounts it was just that. Susan hosted our 3rd Girl’s Night Out…a low-key eating/sipping soiree at her seemingly professionally decorated apartment. We each brought our own little dish (so very mature of us) and settled in for a night of chatting and Olympic viewing. We did both, of course, but before I knew it, the intended “early night” had turned into not so early, and with big plans looming for Saturday, I finally peeled myself away and attempted to turn in before late night became early morning.

Saturday was a different story. Susan and I had been invited to a “Party Like A Rockstar” event held at Warehouse Live - a music venue just across the freeway from Minute Maid Park.  After getting lost and arriving an hour or so later than expected, we dragged our slightly tired (and costumed) bodies into the crowded building full of Jim Morrisons, Gwen Stefanis, Sono Bonos, and (my personal favorite) Bret Michaels (I’m posting one of those pics just for you, Dawn). 80s Madonna (Susan) and Sheryl Crow (me) weaved through the crowd and bellied up to the bar for a “free” Coors Light. An hour or so into the festivities, as we continued to critique costumes, Susan turned to me and said:

 ”Are you bored?”

“A little bit, yeah. But let’s stick it out.”

Well, we certainly did that. Moments later, we met up with a crew of interesting and fun folks (shout out to my new reader, Ramesh, and his buddy Omar)…and, as often is the case, things took off from there. Before I knew it we were illegally shuttled into the private after party, full of interesting characters and the third band of the night. We literally partied like rockstars…with rockstars. That, of course, was not enough, we had to leave and continue the party. When we finally took our leave for the night - tired and ready to crawl into our respective beds, Susan gasped.

“What? What is it!” I said, fearing something had gone terribly wrong with her car.

“Nikki!  It is 5 a.m.!”

“It can’t be!” I shrieked.

Susan pointed at the dashboard clock.  And that’s when I knew. I knew I was going to be in hell for the next two days. So, here I am on Monday night, still fairly listless, and dreaming of tomorrow. Because, I know, as I’m sure you do my darling thirty-somethings, that one full night of sleep does not a recovery make. These days, we need a full forty-eight hours to return back to our fully-functioning human form.  As the classic Broadway songstress, Annie, croons: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow.” I, for one, can’t wait. I need my wits about me to start planning for the upcoming weekend. A girl must have her priorities.