I laughed at all the people in my area scurrying about Friday night in preparation for your imminent arrival. As guests go, you are one unmanageable bitch, and Northern Virginians were ready to placate you by any means necessary.
I, however, was having no part of it.
I don't mind unexpected guests as long as they understand I won't be serving a feast or setting out hotel-quality towels. Poor timing gets you nowhere in my world. So, I refused to stock up on milk, eggs and toilet paper, which by the way, are the most ridiculous items to hoard during a hurricane. I neglected to tie down my deck furniture, and I stopped watching the news where the next Anderson Cooper wannabe was reporting live totally unaware he was knee deep in sewage overflow not sea foam. Instead, I downed three glasses of water in your honor, set out my running shoes and eagerly awaited your arrival.
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| WTTG-TV reporter Tucker Barnes, you are either an idiot or a PR genius. I hope the shit storm you bathed in was worth it, and you get your own show after this hot mess circulates the Internet. |
You see, I grew up in Panama, and minor hurricanes in the tropics are the type of things you just get used to. I was just too young to really enjoy their potential for mud-sloshing fun. When Hurricane Isabel hit Virginia in 2003, I was newly pregnant and once again missed out on an opportunity to be adventurous and brave her wrath. So, this extreme weather junkie was not going to pass up the challenge of testing whatever insanity you planned for our state.
The thing is you were downgraded to a Category 1 hours before hitting Virginia, and I just figured my little adventure would turn out to be rather anticlimactic. Regardless, I laced up my trail shoes early this morning and headed out to the woods in the wind and relentless rain to see what you had to offer in the way of adrenaline rushes.
Let me tell you...running in a hurricane, no matter the size, is no joke.
Thanks, Irene, for bitch-smacking me again and again over eight miles of vomit-inducing adventure. I quite enjoyed sliding down the mud-engulfed hills and nearly breaking my ankle twice. And, there's nothing like jumping over and crawling under fallen trees while simultaneously doing the duck and cover every time I heard a crick, creak or crack from above. The flying tree bark was extra special, and I will savor every bruise and scratch from the ones that actually met their mark and hit me in the head. Thanks for limiting the head beatings to bark; I'm not sure how well tree limbs would have gone over. In short, Irene, those hours alone with you kicked my ass, which I quickly realized as I humbly crawled back to the car dead tired but filled with a certain elation I can't even begin to describe on paper. It's just one of those awe-inspiring moments I may just have to keep to myself. I will tell you this...Irene is one big bitch, but I guess this proves I can handle the major ass kicking bitches dish out.
So, let me be clear, Irene...thank you for teaching me a stiff lesson today in humility and respect. I would like to say I learned it well enough to avoid your cousins should one decide to visit our woods in the future, but the truth is, I'm stupidly addicted to a little bit of danger and suspense, and so I WILL run with the winds again...I just won't laugh about it next time.
Hoo-ah,
Mary
(DISCLAIMER: Before you send me hate mail about my apparent disregard for the destruction and devastation Hurricane Irene wreaked on nearly every populated area along the coast, please understand my lax attitude toward her fury was only acceptable because I live far enough away from the coast to avoid what could have been a horrible disaster. Much love to all those who are rebuilding and regrouping after the big bitch blew through your neck of the woods.)
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