We’re having an SBP (Storm of Biblical Proportion) as I type this. A minute ago, the deck door blew open with a bang, the lights went out, and Veronica peed on the floor. I’d have yelled, but basically, it was only by drawing on my fifty-eight years of accumulated maturity that I kept from joining her. It’s times like this that I think, as I look out at the massive trees tossing in the wind as the temperature drops and the hail begins to fall, “All this glass. All these trees. Who thought that was a good idea?” At least I’ll go with a magnificent view.
So I ate a pint of Ben and Jerry’s “Everything But . . .” which I think they make by combining everything that’s left over at the end of the day: Heath bar pieces, peanut butter cups, different kinds of ice cream, chocolate chunks, nuts . . . . It seems like a good idea but it ends up tasting like Los Angeles: there’s no center to it, you just drive around tasting things that are pretty but have no meaning in context. I never realized how important theme was to ice cream until I ate the stuff while Death pounded at my plate glass.
Of course it’s not just the wind, we also get flood warnings. People think a lot of rain here makes the Ohio flood here. Not so. It’s that damn West Virginia rain that builds up and rushes down here that creates all the havoc. Our rain just heads for the Mississippi along with most of the other water draining from the upper states while we do the backstroke from West Virginia’s runoff. So now I’m watching as the shore disappears on the other side, soon to be followed by the tree trunks. At least there’s still some light outside, which is good because as I said, the power’s gone here, Jon Stewart cut off in mid-sentence. But my computer battery is full strength so I type on, a real trouper. I’m not making much sense, this is the “Everything But . . .” of blog entires, but by damn, no storm will keep my cold damp fingers from my keyboard.
The light is weird. It’s that greeny-storm-at-dusk light that makes the world look like a fish tank that needs cleaned. And the good news is that it’s a new moon tonight which means that it will be blacker than ink out there once the sun finally sinks through the algaed skies. I know because last night, in the middle of another SBP, I opened the door to encourage the dogs to go out and looked into the Pit. I assume it was the Pit. It was blacker than hell with absolutely no definition. The dogs looked at me and I said, “I’ll put down paper.” I wouldn’t go out in that, either. When it’s so bad that not even Milton will run into it, it’s bad.
Added to that my knee is screwed up again—okay, I screwed up my knee again—and the place is full of Bob’s leftovers. He didn’t even take the rest of the M&Ms, so of course I ate them. The Doritos are still here, but it’s only a matter of time. You’d think if somebody requested junk food, he’d take it with him, but no. He said he had too much to carry already. We’re talking M&Ms, Green Beret. How heavy could they be? Doritos are mostly air, orange dust, and fat. Come on. Still, if this turns out to be the end of the world and I have to hole up here until the undead come for me, the M&Ms would at least have been protein had I managed to ration them. They were peanut M&Ms, of course. What do you think we eat, junk food?
Plus I have this bed to put together. It came after Bob left or things would be very different now. For one thing, I’d have a bed. For another, I’d have good knees. Yes, that’s how my knees went, carrying the twenty-seven pieces of this bed up the stairs. It’s more pieces than twenty-seven but I carried several at a time. I don’t think it’s a good idea to put a bed together in the dark, or even in the dim. Especially with your knees taking their revenge for what you did to them last night. (How are you doing there, Roben?)
The phone just trembled. It didn’t ring, exactly, it kind of whimpered once and then stopped. The last gasp of AT&T. After this it’s blood on the sun and lions whelping in the streets.
Aside from the apocalypse outside, things are going well. Bob put the loveseat together even though the manufacturer had labeled the parts wrong. (I have a picture but as we all know, WordPress has decided I am never to post pictures again.) We brainstormed/wargamed Wild Ride until we were dizzy. We went to the Olive Garden for dinner where our waitress told us she had poison in her foot so she was leaving early and somebody else would be bringing our food. We watched the last four episodes of Supernatural. (Somebody on that show really doesn’t like little girls.) Bob walked down to the river which meant scaling down wood steps that are falling apart, fighting his way through river brush to concrete steps that have pulled completely out of the ground, and then making his way along the narrow exposed shore where the currents are deadly. (I have pictures of that, too.) He said it was very peaceful. He should see it now.
So this SBP is supposed to go until seven and it’s now seven fourteen and we still have storm, although I have a noticed a lessening in the fury. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, and the thunder now sounds more like grousing than the Four Horsemen. Veronica has gone to sleep. And I must finish my Supernatural essay without my notes since I can’t see anything but the computer screen, but at least I’m no longer wondering if This Is The End. It isn’t. I’ll have to put the bed together tomorrow after all. And then there are the Doritos. And the essay. And the two books I’m working on. The important thing is that I didn’t let the storm stop me. I soldiered on. I didn’t pee on the floor.
I take my victories where I can find them.