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.

So I was watching Dancing With the Stars tonight, and because of a minor personality affliction of mine, I spent more time changing the channel than actually watching the full dances.  What is this affliction?  Well, the thing is, I hate to be embarrassed. I can’t even handle watching someone else’s embarrassing moment.  Case in point:  Rocco DiSpirito’s awkward movements and goofy grin (channel changed); Cloris Leachman freakishly spinning around on a cape on the floor (couldn’t handle it or the possibility that one wrong turn would snap one of her 83-year-old brittle bones - channel changed); and Lance Bass making out with his (female) partner at the end of their Paso Doble (now that’s acting…but still embarrassing - channel changed).

I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for my extreme discomfort when witnessing such moments.  Maybe it’s an overcharged empathy chip (I did grow up with a Psychotherapist mother), or some sort of weird transferrence thing (wait, I think that’s empathy, too)…or maybe it’s just that there are enough real-life uncomfortable moments, that I don’t need to be subjected to more when I sit down to lose myself in mindless entertainment.

With the explosion of reality TV, it’s near impossible to escape those channel changing moments (or at least a bury-your-head-in-the-couch-pillow moment). I’m surprised I don’t have calluses on the pads of my fingers…really.  Think about it. The girl singing opera to The Bachelor on the initial meet-and-greet night (it makes my stomach hurt - channel changed); the early episodes of American Idol…the William Hung moments (kill me before I die of embarrassment - or hand over the remote); and let’s get away from reality for a moment.  I saw a snippet tonight (because I quickly changed the channel) based on the premise of Meet the Fockers. To me, this is like the perfect storm. One hideously embarrassing moment after another. I lasted 45 seconds.

The odd thing is, I’m no wilting flower…don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that. I’m not afraid of public speaking, or defending a position I feel strongly about, learning a new skill, or dreaming up new ways to keep life from becoming stale or boring.  But if you force me to watch some horrible Fear Factor moment, or witness a star stumbling on the dancefloor, or watch someone get his “goods” stuck in a zipper…do that, and you’ll see a woman writhing in emotional agony. It’s on par with tossing a roach in my path, or putting a deadly virus on my computer (ok…maybe not that bad, but you get the point).

For those of you wondering - “How does this girl ever find anything to watch?” The truth is, I do change the channel…but I don’t stay away.  I allow a sufficient amount of time to pass (usually about 30 seconds - during which - in the specific case of Dancing With the Stars - the cringe-worthy dance has completed and the bad comments from judges have been doled out) and then I switch back - hoping the next dance will be inspiring and tear-worthy. But, oh no! Oh, God, it’s Cloris Leachman…where’s that damn remote!

This odd trait must be linked in some way to my inability to see anyone, or anything in pain. Historically, I’ve taken in the wounded birds (literally - and figuratively). Momma: remember the crippled blue jay that shit all over the chair in my bedroom? But I healed that mean little bastard and he flew away…that’s gotta count for something. Or the countless stray puppies and kittens.  A few “wounded” boyfriends as well.  The woman of steel with the mushy heart.

I fear I may soon be the butt of one of life’s ironic little jokes. Like I’ll meet Johnny Knoxville, we’ll fall in love, and I’ll be forced to witness his antics for years to come. A life full of stomach-churning, nail-biting moments. Or I’ll become a well-known author…well-known enough to be asked to be a contestant on DWTS. And then I’ll be personally living the weekly embarrassments.  Oh, well…at least the rigorous dance schedule will help me sculpt a great ass.

Ike…my dear, sweet, Hurricane Ike.  It was just a week ago that the threat of your massive winds and torrential rains were but a far-off blip deep in the Atlantic. But tonight, as you inject the steroids of the warm Gulf waters into your swirling veins, the Texas coast holds their collective breath and begs you to go away…return from where you came…or simply “poof” dissipate before our very eyes.  But you’re a mean bastard. A bit like an old college boyfriend of mine who refused to go down without a fight. You’ve already left destruction in your path, but it’s not enough, is it, you angry fool?

So, now we must prepare.  For what, we’re not certain.  Because you refuse to scurry along on a defined path. You have our friends at the weather bureau in a tizzy…their spaghetti models and “cones of uncertainty” changing with each passing hour.  Do we escape only to find that you’ve chosen to veer north (or south) and spare our fair city?  Or is your evil sister, Rita, so fresh in our minds that the thought of 18 hours on a jammed road keeps us in town…holed up in a local bar, drinking your howling winds away?

Tomorrow I must fight the crowds at the local gay Kroger. For bottled water, you ask?  Oh, no. I’ve plenty of that. I must wade through the throngs of frightened citizens to stock up on more important essentials - like toilet paper (only one roll left here…and you ain’t gonna catch me in a candlelit bathroom without the bare necessities), and kitty litter (yes, there is a theme here). And because this is a frightening and atypical situation, I believe chocolate and full-fat sour cream and onion chips are just as (if not more) important.  If the threat of nightmarish destruction is not enough to temporarily throw away my healthy ways, I don’t know what is. That’s my logic, and I’m stickin’ to it.  Ooooh! I wonder if gay Kroger has Twizzlers…the strawberry ones!  And Skittles!  I should also get some popcorn to mix with the chocolate.  Wait, microwave may not be working. I’ll just buy the cheesey bagged kind.  Yes. Good plan.

Anyway, back to you Ike. Please spare Galveston and her inland friend, Houston.  But if you can keep us guessing for just a bit longer, enough for me to legitimately stock up on the above mentioned “supplies” and worm my way out of that Friday night date with “the talker”…it’ll be much appreciated.  Then if you could just suddenly and unexplainably weaken to a minor tropical storm before landfall, that’d be perfect. 

Don’t defy me, Ike. I can be a mean bitch. I’ve got throngs of mean bitches around me.  And you know what they say about pissing off a lady. Times that by 20 if you piss off a lady from Texas. Trust me. You don’t want to go there. Back it up, buddy. YOU. DON’T. WANT. TO. GO. THERE.

Last night, Pawly (my elderly kitty), began racing back and forth along the back wall of my apartment.

“Well isn’t that cute,” I thought.  “She’s having a kitten moment.  The ole girl’s still got it.”  And then an internal alarm exploded in my brain.  Fear raced from my tailbone to the tippy top of my lifeless hair.

“Pawly doesn’t get bursts of energy at 10:22 p.m.,” my voice quivered.  “In fact, Pawly rarely peels her sweet, chunky little body from the white, wicker rocker in my bedroom.  Something is in this house.”

Pawly screeches to a halt, and stares obsessively at the curtain hiding the back door (don’t ask…it’s a weird set-up).  This isn’t a good sign.

“Pawly…sweetie,” I nervously coo.  “Whatcha got over there?”

She glances my way, an evil sparkle in her eye.

“Pawly?  What is it, girl?”  Bella joins her.  Their bodies are frozen…their heads whip from the doorway to the far corner…simultaneously…like furry fans at Wimbledon.  I repeat:  something is in this house.

(Musical aside) “Poppa?  Poppa can you hear me?”

I tip toe back to the couch, scanning the room for that which I do not want to find.  Nothing.  I sit down, prop both feet on the coffee table and attempt to focus on the news.  Then I scream at the top of my lungs…a blood-curdling cry…just before passing out.

When I come to, the horrible memory of a gigantic roach racing under my feet toward the entertaiment center replays in my mind.  I shake my head and calm my racing heart.  The girls are standing guard beneath the television…they’ve cornered the beast.

My first thought:  “I cannot see it…therefore, it does not exist.”

Follow-up thought:  “Boy - ain’t that the story of my life.”

Follow-up to follow-up thought:  “Think I gotta change that.”

And really…don’t we all?  How often do we cast aside our gut to keep the waters calm?  Think about it.  Really think about it.  How often do we ignore the obvious to save ourselves (temporarily) from heartache/disappointment/fear/failure?

“Was that annoyance in his voice…because I brushed my teeth the wrong way?  Nah.  He loves me.  He’s just tired.”

“So her eyes are bloodshot and her grades are dropping.  But my kid wouldn’t do drugs.”

 ”If I don’t go to the doctor, they can’t find anything. So it isn’t there.”

Boy, I bet you didn’t think I was gonna switch from roaches to deep thoughts.  Gotta keep you on your toes.  Us women (humans in general, really)…we’re complicated folks.  Laughing one minute.  Crying the next.  In love this year.  Bored the next.  There is no right answer.  There is no perfect path.  But I do believe, if we continue to grow…if we’re eventually honest with ourselves - about love and life, challenges and triumphs - we’ll end up on the right track…learning whatever it is we’re put here to learn.  And what is that?  Who knows.  But I can venture a guess.  It’s likely about connections, “moments”, love, acceptance…because those are the ingredients that make our lives a hearty, homey, memorable stew, aren’t they?

I’ve started to get my body healthy…my energy level has shot from a pathetic 20 to a bouncing-off-the-walls 200.  It’s tough to realize where you really were - how difficult and frustrating it was - until you’re climbing out of it, until you catch a glimpse of the other side.  But I’m starting to grasp it, and now all I want, all I can think of, is that I need to experience it all…everything.  But first…I’ve got to get real.  I’ve got to face the fact that, if I don’t approach life openly and honestly, I’m not (as Queen Oprah would say) living an “authentic life”.

So, no more ignoring the “signs”.  No more brushing snide comments under the rug…ignoring when the kiss seems different…pushing aside that internal voice booming “Wrong guy!  Wrong friend! Flippant career move!”  I’ve learned a lot over the years, and it’s time to put those lessons to good use.  Not just on occasion - when it’s convenient or easy…but everytime…every single time that internal voice yells “Danger” - I gotta buck it up, stand my ground and move on.

Whew!  That felt good!  Maybe I should become a motivational speaker.  But I don’t like being on stage.  See that!  It’s already working!  Flippant career move halted by listening to voice of reason.  Of course, there is something to be said for conquering fears…

Oh, Jesus…there’s the roach!  Oh, God!  Get it, Bella!  Get it, girl! (panic, heavy breathing, almost inaudible screech).  Struggling roach now back under entertainment center.  No longer exists.  Cannot see.  No longer exists.

Give a girl a break.  Change doesn’t happen overnight.

Yesterday afternoon I had a moment.  A not-so-great one.  And it’s possible that not-so-great moment caused me to admit that it’s occasionally nice to have a man around.  Let’s backtrack a little…to when it all began:

Tuesday, April 22:  I mindlessly shuffle through my early morning routine…brush teeth, turn on kitchen light, power up computer, put scoop of food into overflowing bowl to silence psycho kitty, throw hair into loose knot and turn on Today Show.  Return to kitchen, grab water bottle and head to office to check email.  Received utility bill receipt…need to print out.  Damn, no paper in printer.  Swivel in ergonomic chair to face paper supply in bookcase.  Notice slight movement in peripheral vision.  Frozen.  Heart pounding.  No…it can’t be. 

Pivot ergonomic chair slightly to left.  World slows.  I hear Matt and Meredith talking about aging gracefully…are they underwater?  I see it again!  The movement - almost immeasurable - like a tiny piece of black thread twisting in the wind.  Deep breath.  Time to focus in on reality.  And reality (I still find this difficult to repeat) is a tree roach the size of a toy poodle.  The prehistoric insect/dog is on his back…legs twitching.  He’s waving his last goodbye to our lovely planet, and I wonder why he chose to do so in my sacred space.

At this moment, I need a man.  It may seem sexist, or helpless or 1950-ish, but so be it.  I can support myself - monetarily and emotionally.  I can fix the vacuum cleaner, replace light bulbs in my ten foot ceiling and open my own bottle of beer.  But I will not, under any circumstance, graze, squash or attempt to pick up a dying dog-sized insect (blood pressure rising).   

Before removal of giant tree urchin can be considered, death must be ensured via carefully conducted test.  While shrieking, devil-insect must be poked by long stick no less than three times - without so much as a shiver of the antennae or final kick of a creepy, ridged leg.  Premature removal increases chance that Satan’s spawn will, in last ditch effort at survival, penetrate massive wad of toilet paper and crawl on hand (resulting in cardiac arrest…mine).

Test is not needed.  Subject is clearly on “last leg”, but still twitching.  Must ignore and proceed with work.

I just glanced at survivor for 82nd time…insect rubbernecking.  Impossible to ignore.

Wednesday, April 23:  Morning brings with it the possibility of Beelzebub’s demise.  There is no movement as I enter the office.  I check email.  Still no movement.  Pawly and Bella walk past insect (without so much as a sideglance…useless felines).  I pull myself together and muster courage to take a closer look.  I am bending over subject, heart pounding.  Nothing.  I grab massive wad of toilet paper and approach dead roach.  Through short bursts of breath, I lower wad and…STILL ALIVE!  STILL ALIVE! OH. MY. GOD. STILL ALIVE!  Cats flee from room while toilet paper (containing clinging insect) falls to floor.  I run to other side of office, sweating profusely.  Why didn’t I marry *Mark?  He wasn’t so bad, was he?  I mean,  he did have those crazy mood swings and all, but he ALWAYS took care of invading insects.  Where IS his number?

No, Nikki, you can do this…yourself.  First thing tomorrow.

Thursday, April 24: Roach is clearly dead.  Legs are frozen and no amount of poking or prodding elicits movement.  I have errands to run…a new dress to purchase (for friend’s wedding on Saturday).  I can’t deal with this now.

Shopping for dress turned into shopping for dress PLUS cute “going out” shirts (I am going to Vegas in two weeks), casual t-shirts (bless you Urban Outfitters), black summer pants, two pair of sunglasses a wide belt and a shimmery scarf (a “must have” in blistering heat of Houston summer).

Upon arrival at home - high from recent purchases - I proceed to hang new items in office closet.  Oops…almost slipped.  Must be cat toy on floor, but made weird crunching sound.  Don’t remember crunchy cat toy.  Realization.  Heart pounding.  Can’t look…can’t look.  Must look.  I’m gonna be sick.

Send Susan instant message:  “JUST STEPPED ON DEAD ROACH! JUST STEPPED ON DEAD ROACH!!”

Susan:  Oh, dear God, no!

Me:  Yes!

Susan:  Deep breath, my friend.  Is he still alive?

Me:  He’s squashed!  I’m gonna be sick.

Susan:  Sweet Jesus.

(Sidenote:  Love that fellow single friend understands depth of fear…and shares it.)

Susan (cont.):  Ok…grab huge wad of toilet paper (big enough that there is no remote chance in Hell roach can touch your bare skin)…

Me:  I can’t pick it up while it’s all squishy.  I won’t survive it.  I need to let the mess dry.  I think I should wait until tomorrow.

Susan:  Good plan.

Friday, April 25:  D-Day.  The time is here.  Let me just tidy up the kitchen first.

Beeping phone alerts me to text message from Susan:  “Just killed a huge roach!  I am shaking…WTF????”

I need a man.  It’s time for a man.