BRING ON THE FIREWORKS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

The 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays. There are flags flying everywhere you look. Plus, we get the day off from work. For those with pools, the day is spent bobbing and floating, the scent of sunscreen in the air mixing with the smokey but sublime scent of hot dogs, hamburgers and ribs on the grill. For those without pools, you still get the thrill of the grill, but it’s in shorter bursts as you dodge the 99 degree heat threatening to cook YOU.

My family has a traditional celebration on the 4th. We go to the Country Club (pronounced the way Thurston Howell III would say it). At the Club, we join about a million other party-goers at tables decorated in red, white and blue, feast on fried chicken and anything that stood still long enough to get grilled.

As dusk falls, our little party of 14 or so heads outside with the other 999,986 festively dressed guests to jockey for a position from which to watch the fireworks. Somehow, this always works out remarkably well for us. I credit my stepfather who can clear an area with the simple gesture of squinting and putting his hands on his hips, although I’m not sure he’s aware of his super power. I also give my husband credit. He can locate chairs and line a dozen up like nobody’s business. We end up at the top edge of the grass overlooking the golf course, yet conveniently close to the bar.

After being seated we train our eyes on the flares moving beyond the creek, where final preparations are underway. Around us, giggling, excited children chase each other, waving glow sticks and necklaces – like little miniature rave attendees.

In the past, there have been what I would call some dicey choices made with the music that accompanies the show. For YEARS they kept playing that country song by Martina McBride – Independence Day. I don’t know whose idea it was to adopt a song about a woman who burns down her house with her abusive husband in it (and herself), leaving her child an orphan – as a song celebrating our country’s freedom, but I hope to never meet them. Here’s the chorus:

Let freedom ring
Let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is the day of a reckoning
Let the weak be strong
Let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away
let the guilty pay
It’s Independence Day

Ugh. It always took a few patriotic songs after that before I could stop scowling and muttering to myself.

Lately, someone at the Club blessedly took that particular song off the play list. Now we have a medley that includes Neil Diamond’s “Coming to America,” the ever popular, if a bit tired, “Proud to be an American” by Lee Greenwood, “Born in America” by Bruce Springsteen, and if I’m not mistaken, “American Girl” by Tom Petty. It’s an interesting combination, to be sure.

The fireworks are fantastic. They burst directly over our heads, within reach of our fingertips. The 999,986 others disappear, and my family remains. When they play the National Anthem and everyone stands and sings while watching the last of the ghostly firework trails disappear in the night sky, I tear up. For a brief moment, across the country, I feel like we’re all on the same page.

But I know we’re not. I can tell, because SOMEWHERE, at a firework show near you, SOMEONE is playing THAT STUPID SONG.

PRELUDE TO A REVIEW OF ROCK OF AGES

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My husband entered me in a contest to win tickets to a pre-screening of “Rock of Ages,” which was strange because he had no interest whatsoever in seeing it – which must mean he wanted me out of the house so he could play his new Rush CD over and over again at ear-splitting decibel levels, or “11” as he and Spinal Tap like to say.

I believe when I originally told him I wanted to see the movie he said, “That is every band and every song that I absolutely hate.” Go figure. I however, am quite fond of Night Ranger, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi AND Def Leppard, so when he told me I had actually WON two tickets I was PUMPED. Until I realized I needed to find someone to go with. But then I had a brilliant idea. Since Sandy lives too far away to play on a “school night,” I called… MAX!

So, our guest reviewer on 2fortheshow this week is the adorable, talented, creative, multi-faceted, Max.

On a side note, Max has a little trouble with his filter regarding what you should and shouldn’t say in public. We had been in the theater about 5 minutes when I realized the best part of the show was going to be him. As other contest winners and “regular people,” began strolling into the theater, I was treated to a running commentary on attire, nationality, cleanliness and personal appearance in general. While Max snarkily commented about buses, subtitles and Bosnia (don’t ask), I attempted to hum or cough to block the hearing of the gentleman directly to my right whom I felt wasn’t happy to be there in the first place and just MIGHT be happy to kick somebody’s butt. And I’m pretty sure Max is not a fighter.

And THEN, the movie promotions company did the unthinkable. They decided to host an air guitar contest. I think this was intended to up the energy in the auditorium prior to the movie viewing, which made me immediately suspicious. I typically enjoy movies WITHOUT needing a warm up act. So Max and I huddled in our seats trying to become invisible, which we successfully managed, as neither was chosen as an air guitarist.

Try to contain your disappointment.

They chose people based on whether they looked like 1980s roadies. If I had been selected it would have been the second worst insult of the week. The first being the comparison of myself with Carole the receptionist from the original Bob Newhart Show. But I digress.

For the next 15 minutes (or lifetime), however you prefer to see it, we watched 5 people be publicly humiliated, then rewarded with barely a smattering of applause. We should have just voted on which one we thought really HAD been a roadie. They were eventually given t-shirts with the name of Tom Cruise’s fake “Rock of Ages” band on it – Arsenal. Max predicts they will never see the light of day.

Everyone settled back into their seats, and they dimmed the lights to start the film…

To be continued on 2fortheShow, as soon as Max and I finish writing the review.

Now THAT’s a teaser.

Insert air guitar solo here. And take a look at the preview, if you haven’t seen it yet.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ON YOUR SANDWICH

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

Thanks to my informant in the UK, I understand the Viscountess had a new food experience this weekend, and I’m jealous. I’m not sure if the Diamond Jubilee brought on such frivolity or what, but it was crazy. The Crisp Sandwich.

You heard me. Two pieces of bread, buttered, with a layer of, in this case, sea salt & vinegar chips. According to the responses on Facebook to the announcement, it’s not something new. I also don’t think it had anything to do with celebrating the Queen, unless they were implying she’s a crusty/salty/tart little dish. And we’re not saying that, are we?

The whole crisp sandwich idea reminds me of the scene in The Breakfast Club when Ally Sheedy pours Captain Crunch cereal on bread and smashes it all together with a few Pixie Sticks sprinkled on top.

My own personal weird sandwich recipe – the one I didn’t bring out until I’d been married well over a year – and I still tried to be secretive about it, but got busted – is a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich.

Delicious. Seriously. Hey, at least it’s a step up from my elementary school daily luncheon of mustard and white bread sandwich. Just mustard. And bread. It’s a wonder I didn’t get beaten up on a daily basis.

How about a banana & mayo sandwich? Just banana and mayonnaise. Sounds hideous to me, but Max swears by them.

I really have to give the Brits credit here for getting to the heart of the issue. I’ve heard from others today in the US who add whole or crushed chips to everything from bologna & cheese sandwiches to peanut butter. But across the pond, they cut out all that middle of the road, “I’m still eating decently because my sandwich has ‘real’ food on it,” mumbo-jumbo. They just went for it.

Bread. Potato Chips. Butter.

Carb, carb, and butter (which is actually a beverage at my house).

Bring it on! Just THINK of the other food sensations out there I haven’t even considered! Has anyone had a popcorn sandwich?

Perhaps a taste test is in order. Salt & vinegar chips, barbecue flavor, nacho cheese, and… suggestions?

SUPER

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Since superheroes are in the air lately (The Avengers), I started thinking, which is often dangerous, and realized I know enough superheroes to make up my own band of Avengers.

First, there’s The Viscountess – (Not a nickname, but a real Viscountess.) The Viscountess flew thousands of miles back and forth from the UK to Dallas, eventually sitting vigil virtually around the clock at the side of her dearest friend as she lost the battle against breast cancer. The Viscountess acted as protector, keeper of sacred confidences, guard, and eventually as the voice for our Leah when she could no longer speak for herself. This was not a glamorous job, nor was it easy. It took strength, courage and determination. I also believe, had she the power to fly, the Viscountess would have circled the Earth at such a speed as to reverse time.

Next, we have The Duchess – (Which IS a nickname.) The Duchess doesn’t even like to be tagged in Facebook status updates.) If you love animals, The Duchess is the superhero for you. The woman has rescued more dogs than I can count. And I don’t mean by adopting them from a pound. I mean, she is driving down the street in her “alter ego” costume – designer suit and heels, when out of the corner of her eye she sees a four-legged furry critter darting through yards and headed directly toward a traffic-heavy street or highway. At this point, The Duchess slams her SUV into park and with superhuman speed, chases down the dog, (in her heels – through rocky terrain, sometimes across fields, and several times through a cemetery.) After snagging the cavorting canine, she contacts the grateful owner, and with a wave of her manicured hand, drives off into the sunset leaving a relieved owner and happy dog behind. Most recently, the rescuee was a 17-year old basset hound – almost completely deaf and blind – that was trotting steadily down the street at dusk. The Duchess admits her superhuman speed wasn’t needed in this case, as Humphrey wasn’t particularly spry, but still… a rescue is a rescue.

(Not actually Humphrey, but she was too busy rescuing to snap a pic.)

My mother is on this hero list. She drives back and forth – over 30 miles each way, at LEAST once a week and often more, while still not 100% recovered from a broken pelvis, to see to the care of her 95+ year-old mother. My aunt and uncle are similarly engaged in witnessing, managing, and trying to somehow ease the winding down of their mother’s life. And as you know, superheroes don’t always work that smoothly together. Even in the best of times. And this is a process that is, as one would imagine, emotionally exhausting, frustrating, sometimes unbearably sad, and underappreciated. At other times, it appears Grandmother must be a superhero herself, who will outlive us all.

I also have a mother-in-law who volunteers at the homeless shelter when she could simply write a check and not get personally involved. My father-in-law does his part by allowing her to smile upon these downtrodden souls. She also tutors kids who probably don’t have anyone at home who cares whether they complete their studies or not.

The littlest superhero of all has been undergoing chemo since January. He is doing well, and the prognosis is as good as it can be, which is a 90%+ chance the villain will not be seen again. While battling cancer he has managed, at the age of three, to master bike riding (sans training wheels), and to maintain his charmingly happy personality.

There are plenty of other superheros I know. In their alter ego existence that are taking the first tentative steps into the caregiver role for aging parents. Others are squaring off against depression, loneliness, health problems, or loss. Thank goodness they have the super powers of optimism, humor, grace under pressure, and loyalty in their arsenal. (Not to mention STYLE.)

If I could, I would have a cape made for each and every one of you.

FRAXEL THURSDAY

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Thursday afternoon, I will be submitting myself (my face) to a little procedure called Fraxel. If interested in what THAT’s all about from a purely medical point of view you can check it out here: OUCH.

I titled that link ouch, because I have done this before and I know what’s going to happen.  You go in to the office for the treatment and they have you wash your face, then they smear numbing cream all over it. The numbing cream takes about 45-60 minutes to really kick in, which results in your skin feeling about an inch thick. Sounds weird. Feels weirder. Kinda’ like your face is made of this:

Somewhere along the way, if you are really freaking out, they have you take a little pill to help you relax a bit.  (Doesn’t this sound awesome so far? What could possibly go wrong?)

Years ago, after learning my lesson during my first session, I took a couple of those little mini wine bottles in and I’d drink them while reading and numbing. One of my special gifts is the ability to self-medicate.

After you’re numb, (from the cream, not the wine) they have you lie on your back on a table. Then, they hand you a hose. “What’s this?” 

“It’s a cooling device,” the nice nurse tells you. “As the laser wand is slowly rolled around your face, you’re going to want to follow it closely with this hose that blows cold air.”

Well, sure I am. Actually, at the time, I thought I would not be using that little hose. I was wrong. That hose became my very best friend. BEST FRIEND. Why? Because this laser treatment, this Fraxel thing, feels like…

…feels like…

…it feels like that nice nurse who was so sweet a little while ago is now taking scalding hot bits of broken glass and raking them over your face. Slowly.

I am not kidding.

This procedure takes about 45 minutes or so, then you are free to go home, whine and hold ice bags on your red, swollen face.

Let me just say that by definition, a swollen face has very few lines or wrinkles, so the effect is somewhat immediate, if not terribly attractive. Over the next few days, the skin starts to dry and flake, but after THAT, you are left with a smooth, healthy, glowing complexion.

I signed up for 3 sessions, one every three or four weeks. Because I’m obviously insane.

The last time I did this (5-6 years ago), it greatly reduced acne scarring I’d had since my teens. Scars that every dermatologist my whole life told me I could not get rid of without basically scraping my face off. But that’s not all. After having my face scraped off, I would need to remain in seclusion for 2 weeks to avoid any nasty facial infections resulting from having my face scraped off. It sounded like a terrible, terrible plan. Even to me. Two weeks in isolation is not exactly on my to-do list, unless it’s on an island in Hawaii with an excellent wine cellar and a box of puppies.

Thus, I lived with my scars until finally, FINALLY, they came up with the Fraxel laser. The only downside is that I managed to schedule the first appointment for three days before Mother’s Day. Genius.

The good news is – the boys can satisfy any Mother’s Day gifting with ice packs and some mini wines. And by telling me I look ten years younger. And well rested.

Happy Mother’s Day weekend to all!

You look FABULOUS!

REST ASSURED

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

I was thinking about death recently -because that’s one of the weird things I do – and I had a strange vision of my funeral. My husband had selected the music for the service, resulting in a medley involving Rush and the Foo Fighters.

That’s when I came up with a genius idea: Rest Assured.

In the “As Seen on TV” ad for Rest Assured, we’d freeze frame as the Geddy Lee vocal goes full throttle into “Fly by Night,” then a trusted celebrity pitchman (maybe someone like Dan Aykroyd in Driving Miss Daisy) would step into frame and say, “Don’t let this happen to you.”

DAN: Do your loved ones know what you want when you’re gone? Do they know what music you’d like at your funeral? What flowers? What type of casket? Can they compose an obituary?

(Dan looks directly into camera doubtfully.)

DAN: Do they even KNOW your birthday? Really? (He shakes his head.) Do they know if you want to be buried, cremated, shot off in a firework, or donated? Do they know what you want to wear? No. They don’t. Trust me, I’m an actor. Your family knows none of this. That’s why we’re offering you, Rest Assured. Rest Assured is the all-in-one kit that assures you a funeral that won’t make you die of shame.

(Dan makes his way over to a small table that holds a decorative box.)

DAN: The Rest Assured kit includes a questionnaire that asks the pertinent questions your family needs answered before you croak. And, best of all, it’s in the form of a game, so you can make your wishes clear while enjoying a little light-hearted competition.

If you purchase now, you’ll also receive this companion mini-kit, Friends to the End. The mini-kit contains a key ring, trash bags and notebook. Give this kit to a trusted friend who will act on your behalf in case you’re taken from this world unprepared. ‘Unprepared’ meaning you didn’t have advanced notice and need your friend, upon notification of your death, to race to your home, use the house key you’ll have attached to the key ring, and follow the instructions, also noted here.

(Dan taps the notebook and smiles.)

DAN: …Important instructions like, open drawer to bedside table and remove anything battery operated, inflatable, or ingestible. Go to spare bedroom closet and remove box of videos, magazines and DVDS. Go to kitchen drawer and remove emergency ‘cigarettes’ and matches. Place empty wine/vodka bottles in neighbor’s recycle bin.

That’s right. Friends to the End enables your friend to protect your reputation after your death. Think about it. Your family members rummaging through your possessions. Think hard. Do you want that? Haven’t they been traumatized enough by your death? Do they need to know about your late night snack stash? Your collection of attractive yet impractical women’s shoes? No.

Do they need to read your journal? ABSOLUTELY not.

That’s why you need Rest Assured, and the companion mini-kit, Friends to the End.

(CUT to Dan looking sympathetic.)

DAN: What would YOU pay for peace of mind?

FADE TO BLACK.

_____________________________

Great idea, right?

I KNOW.

A few sample questions included in the Rest Assured kit include:

Where do you hide the GOOD jewelry?

What is the combination to your lock box? Do you have money hidden in Swiss Banks?

What’s your favorite flower? (List names and colors.)

Who do you want to give the eulogy at your funeral? (What if that so-called friend of yours – the one with no brain-to-mouth filter decides to tell the Vegas story?)

Do you really want to spend eternity in a suit? Wouldn’t jeans be more comfortable?

What kind of casket do you want? Wood? Fiberglass? Eco-friendly? Decorative?

Where do you want to be buried – or scattered? (Do you think it’s wise to trust your kids to keep you safe in an urn on the mantel?)

Bag pipe or non-bag pipe interment?

Music: Rainbow Connection or Highway to Hell?

Amazing Grace?

Gloria?

THESE are questions that, once you’re gone, some funeral director will fire at your bereaved relatives. And they’ll HAVE to answer. Even if they don’t know. THINK ABOUT THAT. If it scares you silly, place your order now. Operators are standing by.

If you don’t get things sorted out now, you could end up the victim of an overly enthusiastic funeral director with an overstock of these:

It could happen.

SHOP ‘TIL YOU DROP

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks6 Comments

Each morning of my work week I get up, shower, brush my teeth and step into the abyss that is my closet and think, “Who is this person and why does she dress like this?”

How have I reached this age without having a style that I’m happy with? Seriously. Why is this so hard? I need help. And a personal stylist. And a shopper. And possibly medication.

I approach shopping like most people approach the dentist’s office. It has to be done. It’s going to be uncomfortable and probably even painful. It’s going to cost more than I thought. There will be bad news, and there may be blood. There will definitely be an urge to spit.

There’s something about all the options or the way the stores are laid out that elicits an impending sense of doom in me. All those racks and racks of clothes stare at me, mocking, “You will never sort through us and find the hidden items that are flattering and make you feel good.”

“I know,” I whimper in response, starting up the aisle as though I’m taking the steps to the guillotine.

For this reason I tend to shop maybe once a year, or every two years. You can see why this is not a good solution. If I were shopping regularly, like normal people, I might pick up items here and there – accessories, maybe a blouse to toss into the rotation. But that’s not how I work. That would imply I know what I am shopping FOR, which is the whole problem. I have NO IDEA what I need, or what style I wish to adopt. My standards are low. “Is it clothing? Yes. Is it dry clean only? No. Does it fit? Sort of. SOLD.”

Many years ago, my dear friend, Sandy, attempted an intervention. She shoved me into a dressing room, said, “Stay there and try to keep the whimpers to a minimum. You’re scaring people.” She then did whatever it is people do to make selections from all those rack and racks of clothes and began hurling items over the top of the door for me to try. If I protested, she would say, “JUST TRY IT.” I complied. After all, what else could I do in that little room with all the mirrors and the bad lighting? Karaoke?

After about two hours of this, which included probably more cussing on my part than was absolutely necessary (think Linda Blair in The Exorcist), I emerged with 4-5 outfits for work. Crossing my heart and hoping to die, I swore that I would return for casual clothes at a later date, (never) and off we went to reward me with a nice adult beverage.

If only I could have that service on a monthly basis. Isn’t there someone out there who will drag me out of the house on weekends, force me into a mall, lock me in a dressing room and toss clothing at me? Is that too much to ask? Doesn’t that sound like tons of fun? When was the last time someone called you vile names in public?

Imagine bringing a feral cat into your house to give it a bath. The growling, the hissing, the spitting, the scratching. You could have all that with me. Without the rabies.

So, who’s in?

THERE BE DRAGONS

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This week’s LetsBlogOff asks: What is the edge of your world?

As I considered my response, the thought that kept returning, in a nice, thick, menacing brogue was, “Beyond here, there be dragons.”

That’s what lies beyond the horizon, right? Just out of sight, lurking there…waiting…

When I look into that distance and my stomach does a little flip-flop, it’s about one thing. The next 20 years.

Recently, I started thinking about my current position and wondering how much longer I see myself doing what I do. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. I do. I REALLY do. 

BULLETIN: (This is where I assure anyone who reads this and works with me, for me, or employs me that I love my job and have no plans of departing before they drag me out the door kicking and screaming. I am merely exploring the topic at hand. Do not send your resumes.)

I spent most of my life pursuing success. I’m ambitious. And competitive. It’s what I do. I always wanted to be considered the brightest person in the room. Still do. “The problem solver.” “The creative genius.” If that didn’t work, I’d accept “the quickest witted,” or in a pinch, “the most sarcastic.”  I once received a thank you email that said, “It is such a joy to know that any level of sarcasm need never be worried about or ruined with explanation in a dialogue with you!!”

So that’s how I pictured myself for the past 25+ years. Ambitious. Bright. On the road to success. But I look around me these days and there are a lot of very eager, very intelligent and talented people around me.  I am by far the oldest person in my “department.”  I just can’t picture myself working here with all the young’uns in another ten years. (Really, I can’t even see it for another five, but that thought makes me freak out and hyperventilate, so I’ll stick to ten.) 

What would I do after that? It’s REALLY another 20 years or so before retirement should even become an issue. (Not to mention the vast number of years required to financially make retirement a possibility.)

How would I spend that time if not here?

Why am I freaking out about working or NOT working for another 5 years, or 20 years?

What happens after?

Do I do what I always WANTED to at that point?

What DID I always want to do?

(Be Sally Rogers – writer on the Alan Brady Show?)

(Be Erma Bombeck – great American humorist?)

(Be the female Indiana Jones? But with looser fitting clothing. And less boobage.)

How DO I want to spend the next 20 years?

THAT’s the edge of my world, and every day I sail a little closer.

Beyond, there be dragons.

Big, scary, dragons.

To read other takes on today’s topic – click the logo – and enjoy.

ANGRY BIRDS AND THE LOST WEEKEND

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My name is Ann and I am addicted to Angry Birds.

I’m late to the party on this. My brother had already long conquered all the thieving, good for nothing pigs when I first downloaded the free version of the game on my iPhone. It wasn’t long before I upgraded to the full version. And the rest is history.

For those who are unfamiliar (if anyone out there is), Angry Birds is a game in which these cute, crafty, snuffly green pigs have stolen the birds’ eggs from their nests. Now, the birds are understandably angry. The Flock consist of red birds, yellow birds, black birds, blue birds and white birds. As you get further along, a few new additions come into play. There’s a very frustrating boomerang bird, an orange bird that blows up like a balloon, and a big brother bird. Each jumps hopefully into a giant catapult to be launched at the pigs’ fortress in order to squash them. Each bird has its special trajectory and talent for destroying the various parts of the fortress, depending on how you draw back the catapult and aim.  

It’s awesome.

The game has been downloaded 50 million times. No, not by me alone. According to Paul Kendall at The Telegraph, everyone from Dick Cheney to John Hamm are playing. And you don’t need a smart phone for it. It’s available for PC and Mac as well.

Yesterday I played for probably – uhm, way too many hours. I refuse to calculate specifically for fear I will become depressed and launch into a productive frenzy to counteract my wasted Saturday.

I did realize somewhere along the way that my left hand was cramping from holding the phone and I was starting to list to one side from trying to encourage the falling lumber,  steel or rocks to land on just ONE MORE stinkin’ pig.

That technique doesn’t work, by the way.

There’s just something so satisfying about crushing those little green guys and having one or two birds left (who do little celebratory flips, by the way, and shout Wheee!) that makes me indescribably pleased.

The problem is, how am I supposed to answer on Monday when people ask how my weekend was?

“Great! Got stuck on the Birdday Party level 18-2, but think I’ve got that goofy orange bird sorted out now and fully expect to kick butt on Surf and Turf by Tuesday.”

People will talk.

In whispers.

While rolling their eyes. Their little piggy eyes…

I should seek professional help.

And maybe go do some laundry or something constructive.

Just as soon as I get to the next level.

Wheeee!

“You’re goin’ down, pigs!”

TORNADO TOWN – DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME

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Yesterday was a big day in the metroplex. We had a dozen tornadoes reported on the ground. Being at work in the downtown area, I had little clue so much drama was taking place. We DO have floor to ceiling windows on the North and South sides of the building, so I have a good view of the sky most of the day. But as far as I knew yesterday, the weather was the norm for Texas this time of year. Major thunderstorms. Big whoop.

I may have even said “Big whoop” at some point.

Then, I noticed our automatic blinds were closing, which irritated me because it was storming and I like to watch the clouds as they form little puffs or tails. I had just rounded the corner muttering to myself and heading for my boss’ office when one of our IT guys stepped off the elevator and announced, “There’s a tornado on the ground. We need everyone to take shelter.”

I have not heard these words at work before. I’m in a three-story office building on the edge of the West End in Dallas. Near the highway. A couple of highways. And Reunion Tower. I guess ever since that tornado struck downtown Fort Worth in 2000, tornadoes are cocky enough to pop up anywhere they feel like it.

Wondering why our PA system was a human being rather than a PA system, I followed him around the corner to my work space and listened as he told our side of the office the same thing – and to head for the West stairwell or the break rooms. Now.

Strangely, I grabbed my purse. Then I stood a moment trying to decide which sounded better. Stairs or break room. I made eye contact with the “boss man” who happens to be one of the architects who designed the building. He says, “Break room.” I follow.

A crowd had already gathered. It was just tight enough to bump elbows with people, which from what I hear means it’s a good party. “It’s not a party until your elbow is in someone else’s drink.” See? Like I said.

Standing in the middle of a room during a tornado went against all the training I received as a child in Texas. Even though I was safely away from windows and potentially flying shards of glass, homeless people and debris, it just felt wrong. I know my tornado alley friends can relate. At some point during our academic careers we spent the better part of a day crouched on the floor of the hallway at school, foreheads touching knees and hands covering our heads – like little yoga turtles, while outside the sky turned green.

For a brief moment yesterday as I stood there like Queen Elizabeth, holding my purse on my forearm, I considered getting a Sharpie and writing my name and my “In Case of Emergency” contact on my arm. I also giggled a little when I thought of taping my driver’s license to my chest.

It does not feel like an emergency when you are standing in a crowd of people who are updating their Facebook status (John Doe is “Huddled in a break room with lots of people I work with but barely know – waiting for death, or a coffee, whichever comes first.”) The ability to watch radar images on an Ipad was a new twist to “Storm Watch” for me. Everyone’s screens were very RED.

After about 5-10 minutes we were told to return to our workspaces but be prepared for “round two” any time. I never even realized that in addition to the tornado I heard about in Lancaster – the one with the giant trailers flying through the air – there were many, many more. I contacted my husband and he said he thought they tested the sirens on the first Tuesday of the month, and therefore had pretty much ignored it.

I called my mother, who worries, to tell her I was alive and well and that my employers were keeping us informed.

Me: Hi, mom. Just got out of the break room where they had us huddled.

Mom: You were in a lunch meeting?

Me: No. We were seeking shelter. From the tornadoes.

Mom: There are tornadoes? Are any near Sarah’s school??!
(Sarah, the adorable grandchild who is the first priority. As she should be.)

Me: I’m fine, thanks. And no. I think Sarah’s in the clear. As are you. Now.

Sigh.

All in all, over 800 homes were damaged by as many as 12 tornadoes. That’s impressive, even for Texas. Even more impressive – somehow we seem to have escaped without any loss of life. Let’s keep that up this Spring, shall we?

Oh, and in case you were interested, the new drainage system Hubby dug works great. He was wandering around in the backyard during the “siren serenade” a.k.a. “the attack of the viral spirals” yesterday to confirm it.

He may not be that bright, but he’s cute, and his drainage work is impeccable.