Finally arriving home in New York from two glorious weeks in Spain Thursday night, the last thing I was hoping to do was wake up jet lagged at 4AM, feeling immediate pressure to fill my bathtub with water, stock up on batteries, and procure actual shelf-stable food for the girls to eat. This doesn’t include the single container of expired sour cream that stood guard in our refrigerator.
Unfortunately, the entire city of New York had the exact same idea, rendering the possibility of battery-buying impossible.
My colleague Jayme bragged about using Amazon Prime to overnight a new flashlight, and I snatched up his brilliant plan immediately as my own. Look how clever I am! Look at me, smarter than all the rubes running from Duane Reade to Duane Reade begging for non-existent flashlights. Lalalalaaaaaa…
Yep, I ordered that fancy Maglight, no problem. What I didn’t do, however, is add batteries to my cart.
So there’s that.
I’m wondering which is more valuable in a blackout, and whether I should just go and trade someone the flashlight for the batteries.
Who wants to write a short story about that?
Oddly, after racing home early from work to stock up on essentials like hummus, I found the need to spend 3.5 hours furiously cleaning my apartment. Yes, it needed to be cleaned, suitcases unpacked, and illegal contraband KinderEggs from Europe stashed in a safe hiding place–but right before a hurricane?
An unscientific Twitter poll indicated that about 77% of you also felt the need to clean, and 10% of you actually used it as en excuse not to. The other 13% just made fun of me.
Fine. So when our windows all get smashed, and we’ve got fewer wayward game pieces and DVD’s without a case blowing around, we’ll see who’s laughing.
Annoying things happen in fives
I’ve noticed Nate perfectly follow the 5 Kubler-Ross-Sam Champion Stages of Hurricane Acceptance over the last 24 hours.
Denial: I’m not giving into the ridiculous, widespread media-caused panic! Are you kidding me? Have you ever seen a hurricane in New York? I have. Big rain, a couple of trees down, whoopie. In fact, I’m going to work at my new job tomorrow at 11. Restaurants don’t close for anything, trust me. Not blizzards, not blackouts, and certainly not this. We are a breed apart, Liz. You should know that by now.
Anger: I can’t believe you’re making me look for bottled water while you’re at work. I’m jet lagged too, you know. And how can Bloomberg shut down the subways at 12 on Saturday? Doesn’t he know I have to be at work at 11? This is all the media’s fault.
Bargaining: Fine. I’ll get the bottled water. But I’m still going to work tomorrow. I’ll take the car.
Depression: I can’t believe it – they actually closed the restaurant. I bought a new knife bag and everything. I think I’ll fall asleep on the couch early. You do the dishes.
Acceptance: “So they closed the restaurant, huh Nate?”
“I told you this was a big deal.”
“I guess so.”
“So once in a while I know what I’m talking about?”
“No, not really.”
Yesterday I observed on Twitter that the way dogs act all twitchy and strange before a storm, that’s just the way all of New York seemed to be. Walking through Chelsea Market was somewhat surreal; the chatter was extra nervous, and people seemed determined to buy things they really needed–but they weren’t quite sure what. Judging from the lines, the answer was Amy’s Bread, Jacques Torres chocolate, and lobster salad.
(New Yorkers: they’re not like you and me.)
The city really did feel like those opening scenes of Zombieland or The Stand, only instead of fearing Zombies we were fearing a whole weekend without sushi delivery and Stumptown Roasters. I’m not actually sure which is worse.
On Facebook, my normally level-headed friends, Julie Pippert and Stephanie Himel-Nelson, were whining that the weather forceasters were only talking about New York and South Carolina and had totally forgotten about Virginia, Maryland and DC. I had to remind them that duh, one New Yorker is worth like twelve southerners.
I have no idea why they were talking about South Carolina though.
Not that there’s anything wrong with it.
My kids are already getting creative with their time stuck indoors. Last night they insisted we “line up for the parade!” Thalia rode a Svan scooter like a float, waving at the crowd, and Sage lead her around by a bathrobe belt in one hand, a microphone in the other.
Judging from the outfit, the theme was Gay Pride.
I’m excited to see what’s on their agenda for today. I hear we have a lot more time to kill.
Stealing is the sincerest form of flattery
I have to mention that the headline of this post was written by the always clever Alicia Ybarbo. She told me the New York Post should use it, but then, I thought why should they get all the good puns? Follow her on Twitter. It’s the least I can do for stealing her headline. Maybe she’ll write a good headline for you too, someday.