Mama's in the House

My mommy is coming!

And, to be fair, my dad is, too.

Tomorrow, in fact.

I'm super excited. They're not coming for me, though.

They are coming for her.
Because, let's be honest, if my mother had her way, she'd come up here, take Ella, and never give her back. If it weren't for the fact that the baby needs my boobs, I'd probably never see my daughter again.

Still, for now, I'm OK with her hogging for the weekend. After all, they haven't seen her since she was a week old.
And, boy, how things have changed.

***

Hurricane Irene is, of course, skirting us, thank God, but we will be getting enough weather today that, likely, we'll lose power.

Especially considering this week alone, we've lost power a grand total of four times - only one of which was due to weather.

Because it's totally normal to lose power at 1 p.m. on a bright and sunny summer day, right?

Uh, yeah.

Sigh. Welcome to military housing, where construction is always done by the lowest bidder and thus, the reason why we currently live on what can only be described as one archaic, and extremely temperamental, power-grid.

Regardless, we're prepared. I've even put my precious Ella's behind in disposable diapers.

And you all know how I feel about those.

Let's just say that the idea of dirty cloth diapers sitting for days on end without the electricity to wash them?

Not anyone's idea of a good time.

Even this earthy, crunchy mama's.

Hopefully, the landfills will forgive me.

And hopefully, you will, too, should I have no Internet to blog come Monday.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Where I Show Uncharacteristic Calm

I am a classic worry-wart.

I see the gas light go on in the car, and I'm sure we're about to be stranded on the side of the road for hours with dead cell phones and not a gas station in sight.

I hear a thud in the house, and I'm sure someone is trying to break in and steal that horrific flat-screen TV my husband bought, which is four sizes too big for our home.

I feel Ella's hot little cheek while she's nursing, and I'm sure she's about to get some horrible bout of influenza because once, just once, I stuck her paci back in her mouth after using only my own spit to wipe it off instead of one of my baking-soda pacifier wipes.

Like I said, if you can think of a bad situation, I've dreamed up an even worst-case scenario a thousand times before.

A stray dog could be rabid; a sinister stranger could be a rapist, and a cough could be whooping.

What can I say? I'm a worrier.

However, there are some things - very few of them - that really don't strike that much fear in me. Things that I don't find alarming. Things that, I realize almost instantaneously, are out of my control.

Case in point: Hurricanes.

Now, I'm a Floridian. I have a healthy respect for natural weather patterns that can wreak havoc on a city.

We only have to look to Hurricane Katrina to realize the potential devastation that can befall an area thanks to these cantankerous storms.

And, yet, I'm uncharacteristically calm when it comes to facing the inevitable hurricane season that befalls the coastal South every June through October.

Maybe it's because I've sat in my house while hurricane after hurricane blew over as my brothers and I made forts in the dark. Maybe it's because I've lived without power for days on end, so much so that we sought cool breezes by sitting outside, mid-day in Florida, and barbequing all the meat in our freezers that was sure to go bad without electricity. Or maybe it's because I spent a night in my parents (very small) walk-in closet, with my mother, father, two brothers, and a golden retriever, so as to avoid a rogue hurricane that defied expectations and went straight up the state.

Who knows why I'm so calm? After all, I've seen trees downed. Power outtages. Families eating tuna fish straight out of the can.

I've seen and lived through enough hurricanes that I could easily name one for each year of my life.

So, earlier this week, when the news started bombarding us with weather watches and warnings for the impending Hurricane Irene, I quite literally adopted my normal, "Eh, we'll wait and see" attitude.

When things began to look more dire, we purchased some bottle water, disposable diapers, and a few requisite cans of tuna - along with a tank full of gas for the car - just in case.

And when word spread that the area was considering an evacuation on Friday, I calmly replied, "All right. We'll wait until they tell us to, and if we have to, we'll leave."

Not once did I feel my blood pressure rise. Not once did my heart beat fast. Not once did I panic.

Now, being a veteran of such weather systems, I kindly obliged my fellow military wives from Boston, Ohio, Arizona, and the like about what they should do to prepare and what they should/shouldn't worry about.

Mostly, I just kept re-iterating that it was too soon to tell, and that no one need freak out about anything until we get closer to it.

It seemed so straight-forward to me.

But apparently I didn't get the memo.

By Monday afternoon, people were literally freaking out all around here. The melodrama was endless.

There were text messages and Facebook statuses flying around that basically alluded to, "Dear God. A hurricane is coming right for us. It's so big and strong, it's going to pick up all our babies and blow them out to sea while simultaneously crushing every single one of our houses, setting fire to our grocery stores, and crumbling our churches, schools, and government buildings with its figurative massive fists. We're surely all going to perish in the face of the great Irene! (sob, sob) Dear me! Whatever will we do?"

Now, I get it. Hurricanes can be scary. And if you're not a native, the uncertainty of such a weather system could, literally, drive you to drink.

But then the weather anchors and journalists are re-iterating, "Stay calm. We don't know what will happen. We'll keep you informed. Don't panic."..

And you hear, "Freak out. I'm sure the worst will happen. I'm blatantly going to ignore all the well-informed pieces of news I am able to access with my TV, cell phone, and computer. I. Am. Panicking."..

Well, my friends, I am here to tell you, it's driving me absolutely crazy.

Lord help me, I think I might scream.

People who feel the need to be melodramatic about everything; act personally persecuted by a weather system, no less; and then manage to incite fear in others, should be the ones evacuated in situations like this.

For the safety and sanity of the rest of us, at least.

***

Better yet, the storm appears to be far enough out nw that it's going to miss us.

The sheepish responses of those around me who were freaking out is almost laughable.

Meanwhile, I'm just grateful.

Grateful and a little more wary, and weary, of my neighbors.

***

For those of you still worried about Hurricane Irene, you are in my prayers. I hope the storm continues to move further out to see so that none of our coastline receives much damage.

Meanwhile, until we know, everyone take a deep breath. Prepare and remain calm.

Panicking will get you nowhere.

Trust me, I'm an expert at it.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Opportunity? Missed.

I lived, for 25 years, in Florida.

I was a student there. I was a teacher there.

I've seen a lot of things there.

For instance, I've actually seen snow fall. Yes, in Florida. Sometimes, pigs do fly.

Still, even with the occasional Florida snow flurry, it's never really enough to stick, and thus, I've never actually seen a snow day.

Inclement weather that cancels school in Florida? Hurricanes.

You wake up to find that you can't go to school that day because several trees have flown through the block, obstructing the roads, and your neighbor's roof has a satellite dish clear through it.

So you sink your lawn furniture into your pool, board up your windows, fill your bath-tub up with water, and hunker down in the largest closet located in the middle of the house with your brothers, parents, and family dog, listening for that familiar whistle caused by hurricane-induced tornadoes, which basically means you or your neighbor is about to say good-bye to your carport and/or screened-in porch.

It's not exactly restful. In fact, sometimes, it can be downright dangerous.

But snow days? Snow days are the stuff that Florida dreams are made of.

While the logical adult in me realizes that blizzard-like conditions can wreak just as much, if not more, havoc than a hurricane, I still view the occasional snow day with nostalgia.

I imagine little kids waking up in their footie pajamas to find they can't go to school that day, so they slip between their warm covers, snooze for another few hours, and then cuddle by the fire with their house-bound families, sipping cups of cocoa, and watching the white flakes falling outside their windows.

So sue me, but it seems nice. To a Floridian, anyway.

Still, that being said, I'm just not used to them closing school in the winter.

Which is why, when I watched The Weather Channel Sunday night and observed ice warnings for the our new home in the Charleston, S.C., area come Monday, I wasn't shocked.

I simply turned up our heat and went to bed.

And, when I awoke the next day, I put on an extra layer of clothes and ventured out.

Granted, I thought it was odd that the grass cracked and crunched when I walked on it. And, yes, I made fun of my dog when he lifted a paw gingerly and then startled himself while de-thawing said grass while peeing on it. I even peered bemusedly at the icicles hanging from our mailbox, rain gutters, tree branches, and neighborhood benches.

But I simply put on another layer of clothes, hopped in my car, and went to work.

The first true shock of my day was that all the trainer's offices and the room I use with my post-partum clients was closed. I'm not the first trainer in on Mondays, and I'd never found a locked door at that time.

Still, I proceeded to unlock the door and begin setting up circuit stations.

While doing so, I happened to peer over at the main area of the weight room, where I saw one lone 50-year-old man lifting weights.

It was prime time, in January, and there was one man at the gym.

Odd, I thought, but figured the dreary weather made it hard for people to get out of bed, and therefore, they weren't exercising that morning in the droves they normally were.

In walks my first client, and we get started.

Push-ups, sit-ups, wind sprints, shuffleboxes, the usual.

It's only when I realize another trainer is standing next to me, quietly waiting for a moment to interrupt me yelling, "Come on! You've only got 10 more!" that I got my first clue that something was up.

I looked over my shoulder, and he says, "Do you know if we're even supposed to be here today?"

I peered back quizzically, mentally reviewing my mental calendar, assuring myself that next Monday, not this Monday, was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

"Of course we are," I replied. "The holiday is next week."

He shrugged and walked away.

And I kept on working.

I was yelling at my second group of post-partum women for the day when I realized that it was past 10 a.m., and none of my bosses had so much as flicked on their office lights.

But meanwhile, I was too busy training four women and running back and forth to the bathroom getting sick (yesterday brought on another mini bout of morning sickness) to really care.

It was only when I'd worked five hours and began packing up my bags to head home that I realized no one, truly, was at work.

Half the trainers were missing. Only one soul sat at the front desk. And of the 10 fitness directors I work under, only two had even made an appearance. And only one of them had stayed.

Then, I saw the T.V. news., blaring to no one in particular, in the weight room.

"School is canceled due to ice on the roads...government buildings are closed...major roadways and all area bridges are closed...Due to unusual snowy and icy conditions, only emergency government employees need report to work today..."

And I stood there - a non-emergency employee of the government - mouth ajar.

I'd been working for five hours. Granted, a huge portion of my clients were no-shows. But I'd still been working for five hours!

I turned to the only other trainer around, slumped behind our front desk, and asked, "Are we even supposed to be open today?"

Her reply?

"I don't think so. But no one told us otherwise, and we can't get a hold of the directors."

It was only when I walked back out to my car, which had meticulously frozen over with a coating of ice and had stalactites hanging from the undercarriage all the way to the ground, that I realized why no one was at work.

Southerners are skittish about icy roads. And with good reason, as they don't know how to drive on them.

So, considering things were only getting more and more frozen throughout the day, it made sense to keep everyone off the roads and away from school and work.

Much like a Florida hurricane, you might say.

Except for the fact that I went to work.

I. Went. To. Work!

It was my first certified snow day - in 26 years of my life, it was my absolute first snow day! - and I went to work like the idiot Floridian I am.

I also proceeded to freeze my hands off breaking ice off my car for 30 minutes straight just so I could drive the five minutes home, but that's neither here nor there.

All my life, I've dreamed of skipping school/work, curling up in my footie pajamas, sipping hot cocoa by a crackling fire, and watching the flakes fall.

And instead, I spent the morning throwing medicine balls at women in a hot, sweaty gym, while my own bosses remained snug in their beds.

Argh.

This Floridian wants her darn snow day back.

***

This situation only gets worse, as I ended up back into work that afternoon to teach my cycling class because again, none of the powers-that-be could figure out if the gym was actually supposed to be closed or not.

So, being that not a soul was answering their phone, and I feared leaving several die-hard clients out on the frozen cement if I didn't go to work again, I put on my big-girl, Floridian panties and my warm gloves, chipped the ice off my car once again, and went to work.

Where not another soul showed up.

Because government buildings were closed yesterday.

Argh.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Tire Tracks and Snake Skin

Being a Florida native has done nothing for my tolerance of deep-rooted Southern traditions.

And, no, I'm not talking about our propensity for saying "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am."

That, I love. That's what makes the South a worthwhile place to live.

I'm talking about the natural elements that come along with living in parts of the country known as the Hot-as-Hades Deep South.

Case in point: Humidity.

Having lived in the world's most humid state, you'd think I'd learn to enjoy it.

Not so.

I hate it.

Air that presses down on you with the weight of 1,000 burning boulders? No. Thank. You.

I dread August. I literally grit my teeth as every slow, hot, humid day ticks by during the month, knowing that in September, there is hope on the horizon, but that it's 31 steaming days away.

Thank the good Lord above we have fried chicken down here, because otherwise, this heat wouldn't be worth it.

But it's not just humidity that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and die down here in the South.

It's all the things that thrive in the humidity, and thus, crawl out of their skin down here all the flippin' time.

Namely, snakes.

Ew. Ew. Ew.

Snakes.

Heavens, I hate them.

I hate them with a passion of a thousand Southern humid suns. I have since I was a kid.

I don't know exactly what it is about the disgusting creatures, but they just irk me.

Gators? Lizards? Turtles? Frogs? I can handle all of them. I'm not exactly crawling into a swimming pool filled with them, but I can look and, if required, touch one. In other words, I won't run screaming in the other direction when a tree frog jumps on my bedroom window. (Which, in Florida, happened a lot.)

But snakes? They freak me the heck out. My skin is crawling right now just typing out their name.

Gah, I can't stand them.

I won't go in the Reptile House in the zoo; I won't touch one. I close my eyes when they appear on a television or movie screen.

If I owned a shotgun, I would shoot one. In plain sight. At close range. Mercilessly.

But since the only weapon I currently own is a large shovel and a husband, I instead choose to - upon seeing them - screech, run inside, climb on my bed, cry, and then beg my husband to chop it into little pieces if he ever wants me to get off our bed again.

I know. It seems heartless, but I can't help it. I just hate them.

Ick. Ick. Ick.

You can imagine how living in Florida - the unofficial Land of the Snake - affected my little phobia.

I basically never walked through nature without carefully watching my feet. And I refused to swim in any and all Florida fresh water. I have seen poisonous cotton mouths actually chase people in Florida freshwater lakes. So don't tell me how cute and sweet and pet-friendly snakes are. I've seen different. Those reptiles are mean little buggers.

So, to avoid said mean little buggers, between the months of April and September, I stomp loudly when walking anywhere, so as to scare away all snakes with my ground reverbations - a trick a park ranger taught me when I was a little girl after I hysterically broke down crying when my home-schooling mama took us on a hike, and we stumbled upon a harmless black racer.

Graceful, it is not. But a stomping woman is better than one on the verge of hysteria if she so much as hears a "sssssss."

Needless to say, I was grateful to leave Florida for at least one reason. I could say good-bye to swamp country and the overabundance of snakes that populate it. (True story: Since the hurricanes that hit in 2004, Florida has had even more snakes than is normal for the area. They are often found in residential areas and cities currently.)

Now, I realize Florida doesn't have a lock on the Southern snake population. But anything had to be better than Florida, South Carolina included.

Which, it seems, is true. I haven't found snakes on our neighborhood streets here, like I used to back in Florida. I haven't found snake skin decorating your garage floor, like I used to back in Florida. And I haven't found a nest of baby snakes outside our front door, like I used to back in Florida.

Hallejuah!

One snakeless month here, and I had begun to think I was free and clear.

Until I headed out for some afternoon shopping at - where else? - Target.

I bought my necessities - boxer briefs for the hubs, dog food, a new sports bra - and then retreated back to my car and pulled out of the parking lot.

Feeling accomplished, I began to be-bop along, alone in my car, singing my cares away with the radio, and waiting at the stop light to turn right out onto the main street.

Then, I saw movement.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the slightest shift.

So, turning my head just so, I gazed in the direction of the black tarmac, where the aforementioned shifting had occurred.

And there, I saw it.

Slithering it's way across the road and up onto the white sidewalk.

A huge, long, icky, moving, black-as-night snake.

Locked safely away in my mini-SUV, I did what any normal woman would when faced with a situation in which she has no chance of experiencing bodily harm.

I screamed.

Loudly.

I then began to keen and shake, as if I was trying to shimmy away all thoughts of the reptile that was literally three feet in front of the wheels of my tire.

Just like that, South Carolina had let me down. I was thoroughly disgusted.

Until I had an idea.

I stopped screaming; I stopped shaking; I stopped keening. I felt a peace wash over me.

I sat patiently still and began to watch the red light.

"Turn green; turn green; turn green," I begged it. "For the love of all things holy, turn green!"

And, then, it did. The blessed light flashed as green as the grass.

That was my cue. The starting bell had rung.

My moment had come, and I was ready.

I revved the gas.

And, without looking back, I accelerated, swerved slightly to the right, and ran that snake over like my life depended on it, yelling as I made the turn onto the main street, "Take that, sucker!"

And, no, I'm not even joking. I actually ran that snake over and dissed it while I did so.

Now, I know what you're thinking:

"Brittany, that's one of God's creatures. Who are you to take its life? It wasn't doing you any harm, and you just killed it in cold blood."

Technically, you're right. I know, I know. And, in every other animal brutality situation, I would totally agree with you.

But not now. Not when it comes to the creatures that torment me in my dreams, on my lawn, and in the evening broadcasts of Animal Planet.

Those snakes - those things - are not animals to me. They are, instead, some sort of satanic slithering beast sent to torture me out of my ever-loving mind.

I adopt homeless dogs; I feed homeless cats. I don't even kill bugs, but instead escort them out of my house humanely.

But with snakes? I show no mercy.

And so, yes, I killed me a snake. I killed me a snake, and I'm proud.

And you know what? I'd do it again if I had the chance.

Take that, suckers!*

***

*This is not a reference to you, the readers, but is instead referring to all snakes worldwide, so that they know to steer clear of me and the front tires of my car. I would never call you all suckers. Unless you were, actually, a snake.

**At this time, I'd like to apologize to all animal and reptile lovers I may have offended with this post. I realize this post may have hurt the more sensitive souls out there, and I want you to know, that was not my intention. You all are simply better people than me, as my animal-loving heart does not extend to snakes. And, yes, I'm aware that snakes eat bugs and mice and keep our ecosystems in check, but I have to say, I'd rather have a few extra mice running around than a snake.

***I'm sure, at this point, PETA is planning on staging some sort of intervention, so I'd like to go on the record as saying that I do not wear fur, leather, or snakeskin, and do not condone the killing of animals for clothing. I do, however, condone the killing of snakes that dare to cross my path. Because I will hate them till my dying day, and there's nothing you, PETA, or they can do about it.

Happy Friday, everyone! Hope you all have a wonderful, snake-free weekend!

Not Me Monday: The "Give Me a Break; I'm Cold" Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

***

I'm sure you've NOT heard.

I'm sure you've NOT gotten wind that it snowed in Florida this weekend.

Yes, indeed, it did NOT rain down scatterings of icy, white stuff in the state normally known for its sandy, white beaches.

Now, I do NOT know that everyone who lives above the Mason-Dixon line or out West did NOT giggle - nay, guffaw - at the thought of the Sunshine State NOT freaking out at the blustery droplets of snow.

I'm NOT sure they laughed out loud at the panicked voices they heard on the news, telling tales of people NOT freezing because - miracle of miracles - we experienced single-digit temperatures in the north part of the state.

And I'm certain NOT a one of my fellow bloggers had a good chuckle at the thought of me and my students NOT freezing our tushes off last Friday because - shocker of shockers - more than half our classrooms don't have heat - or even enough space heaters - capable of handling these temperatures.

But what all of you Northerners do NOT fail to understand is that we have little to no experience with temperatures measuring at 8 degrees down here in this normally balmy peninsula.

We do NOT lack the clothes for it; we do NOT lack the heaters for it; we do NOT lack the car tires for it.

So, when NOT forced to brave freezing, middle-of-the-day temperatures, we do NOT make rash decisions.

We do NOT let all common sense - and, for that matter, fashion sense - fly out the window.

And we do NOT walk outside our door wearing sweat pants, four shirts, a jacket, scarf, knit cap, and these...
Oh yes, I am NOT wearing Harvard ankle socks (Thanks, Lauren!) and slip-on canvas shoes.

Together.

Go ahead; laugh. I know you do NOT want to.

But believe me when I say this:

I did NOT run out of clean socks, and I did NOT soak my sneakers coming back from the gym yesterday afternoon.

And I my tootsies were NOT cold.

And I did NOT have to go to the grocery store.

And I was NOT about to wear one of the 11 pairs of flip-flops or ballet flats that serve me well - normally - year-round.

So laugh, but don't judge me, you cold-weather experts, you. Don't judge.

Because while you all are NOT currently bundled up in wool socks and coats, and NOT sitting in toasty houses and places of work, I'm NOT sitting in a classroom - along with 28 other students - next to a space heater that will NOT (hopefully) raise the temperature of the room a crispy half-degree.

All while NOT wearing five layers of clothing, a scarf, and a hat - none of which, mind you, are wool.

And oh yes, I am NOT still rocking my canvas shoes and Harvard ankle socks.

Because my toes? Still NOT cold.

So laugh all you want.

All my dignity (and fashion sense) is NOT gone.

Here's hoping it returns when I begin to thaw out.

***

P.S. I think God is getting back at me for writing this post. Proof once again that the Lord has a sense of humor.

P.P.S. For those of you that remember how we swore off the heat this winter, well, once again, we made plans; God laughed. We've since turned it on. Stat.

I hope everyone had a wonderful (slightly warm) weekend! I'll be back tomorrow, hopefully without frostbite and a little more thawed out!

Happy (Not Me!) Monday!