After a week of obsessive compulsive unpacking, I can now say, on the 7th day after move-in, that the closets are full, the pictures are hung, and my house looks like I’ve lived here for years.
For starters, there’s this big bitch named Hurricane Sandy that’s supposed to slam into us around midnight tonight. They are calling for massive flooding, 60 mph winds, and power outages across the grid. Fucking awesome. Now, being in OCD unpacking mode, I did not even turn on my TV or communicate with the outside world all week. Friday someone asked me, “are you all ready for the storm?” I was all like storm shmorm, people get too hyped up about a little fucking rain. Then another person asked me if I needed any help preparing for the storm? WTF? At that point I turned on the TV and saw what all the hype was about.
Yesterday between coaching soccer tournament playoffs, I dragged all of my patio furniture into the garage. All set, right? Nope. You see, I’m a dumb ass. Our old house had a built-in whole house generator (because we lost power so much) so when Irene fucked us all in the ass a year and a half ago, and most of the state was without power for a week or more, we were buzzing away on full-throttle, rationing out showers to our dirty powerless neighbors. We were suffering, however, because we did not have cable for a week. It was rough, but being the survivors we are, we powered through it.
So it hits me last night, fuck, we don’t have a generator here. I should probably shop for some water, toilet paper, bread, candles and shit, maybe fill my tank with gas at the bare minimum. So I went to bed thinking we would do all of that crap today.
But the universe had a different plan for me. I woke up with NO voice. None, zero, zilch. I sound like a tracheotomy patient without my trach in. My body feels like it weighs 4,000 pounds, I’m dizzy and there is a bonfire in my throat. It hurts to talk, even more to smoke. And I know that somehow, I have to drag myself and my kids to the store(s) to get out minimum requirements because Sandy is a dirty whore.
When Irene hit, my first and probably only stop was the liquor store. Mommy loaded up on Vodka like I had been told prohibition was being reinstated.
Anyway, I flip open my laptop, and a friend had just posted this from the local Wal-Mart this morning at 7am:
I wish he’d posted a photo of the cold medicine aisle. I feel like I need a wheelchair. If I can actually drag my sorry ass anywhere I’m totally going to ride a motorized cart, and my kids are going to be jealous and throw shit fits because they will want to ride a “scooter” too. I will let them, because I’m too tired to care. They will smash into shit and piss people off. I will ride up to the service desk and ask for a carton of smokes with sign language because I have no voice, which makes buying cigarettes just that much more awesome.
This sucks. Normally I would whip it all together and somehow finagle the whole escapade into a fun-filled adventure now that I’m a sober participant in the world instead of using my 20-something attitude of “It’s a Hurricane party!” and drinking around the clock.
So my friends, my bar is set pretty low, if I can get a bra on and wipe the mascara from under my eyes then that is good enough to justify leaving the house. Kids can wear their PJ’s, and ride “scooters” in the store and eat as many donuts as they want, because Mommy is just too sick to care.
Sandy, you’re a real cunt.