Rita (and we're not talking Marga...)
The thought of a copycat Katrina is making Houstonians nutty. I don't blame them for worrying, though, because Rita is supposed to be a category 4 hurricane like Katrina was, and Katrina obviously had devastating results. Allow me to set the stage: Gas has sold out at all the stations near my house, and I'm conveniently at 1/8th of a tank. There's no more bottled water at most grocery stores. There are tons of car accidents, as it's a rush to get out of town, and survival instincts have set in. I witnessed two crashes just in my drive home from school. And as you'd expect in a large city, the highways are clogged. I almost wish the radio personalities would stop instructing people on the "best" ways to leave, so everyone wouldn't gravitate toward those routes.
Amid this mess, my apathetic friends have been speculating that we'll just be dealing with flooding and smashed windows. Houston is, after all, far more inland than New Orleans is. One of my law school friends even sent out an E-vite suggesting that we all stay at his apartment (with a 4-story parking garage) this weekend and BYOB (bring your own bottled water, batteries, and beer). So you can see where some people's priorities lie. I tend to be hopeful about Mother Nature, but I could just be deluding myself as a reaction to the panic that has set in at my own home.
My mom's a natural worrier, and nothing drives my dad crazier than when my mom starts freaking out. Now they're both nuts. They've been shouting things like, "How can you think of going to work tomorrow?? You may not even have an office to go to!" and "Why didn't everyone buy batteries?? We need more batteries! How else are we going to operate the travel-size black & white TV (that has never worked)??" They've anticipated everything, including how we're going to relieve ourselves (even the cat) if our drive to Dallas takes twice as long as it normally would. Sorry to be graphic, but the planning is getting a little ridiculous.
When you were a kid, you probably played the hypothetical game, where you had to decide which 3 things (not people) you'd want with you if you were shipwrecked/plane-wrecked on a desert island. I used to give dumb answers like CDs (and a boombox to play them), sunblock (so I wouldn't get skin cancer), and a knife to kill things to eat (like I could handle hunting and skinning animals. Ha!). Now, when I'm forced to pack as if I'm never returning home, it's actually a really simple question. The only things I truly need are photos, some clothes, and my laptop. Everything else, while sentimental, is much easier to replace.
It's surprising how much crap you accumulate that you never use. Most things seem so meaningless when it comes down to it. However, the way the rest of my family has been packing reminds me of a scene from The Jerk in which Steve Martin's life has just fallen apart. Steve's depressed about leaving his wife and his wealth. And his pants are around his ankles, which makes him all the more pathetic. Here's the dialogue:
Well I'm gonna to go then. And I don't need any of this. I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. I don't need anything except this.
[picks up an ashtray]
And that's it and that's the only thing I need, is this. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need. And that's all I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one - I need this. The paddle game, and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches, for sure. And this. And that's all I need. The ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair.
[walking outside]
And I don't need one other thing, except my dog.
[dog barks]
I don't need my dog.
I think my family will realize how much we're going to have to pair things down when we actually start loading the car. Well, good luck to my Houstonian friends. Let me know if there's anything I can do. Stay safe!
Amid this mess, my apathetic friends have been speculating that we'll just be dealing with flooding and smashed windows. Houston is, after all, far more inland than New Orleans is. One of my law school friends even sent out an E-vite suggesting that we all stay at his apartment (with a 4-story parking garage) this weekend and BYOB (bring your own bottled water, batteries, and beer). So you can see where some people's priorities lie. I tend to be hopeful about Mother Nature, but I could just be deluding myself as a reaction to the panic that has set in at my own home.
My mom's a natural worrier, and nothing drives my dad crazier than when my mom starts freaking out. Now they're both nuts. They've been shouting things like, "How can you think of going to work tomorrow?? You may not even have an office to go to!" and "Why didn't everyone buy batteries?? We need more batteries! How else are we going to operate the travel-size black & white TV (that has never worked)??" They've anticipated everything, including how we're going to relieve ourselves (even the cat) if our drive to Dallas takes twice as long as it normally would. Sorry to be graphic, but the planning is getting a little ridiculous.
When you were a kid, you probably played the hypothetical game, where you had to decide which 3 things (not people) you'd want with you if you were shipwrecked/plane-wrecked on a desert island. I used to give dumb answers like CDs (and a boombox to play them), sunblock (so I wouldn't get skin cancer), and a knife to kill things to eat (like I could handle hunting and skinning animals. Ha!). Now, when I'm forced to pack as if I'm never returning home, it's actually a really simple question. The only things I truly need are photos, some clothes, and my laptop. Everything else, while sentimental, is much easier to replace.
It's surprising how much crap you accumulate that you never use. Most things seem so meaningless when it comes down to it. However, the way the rest of my family has been packing reminds me of a scene from The Jerk in which Steve Martin's life has just fallen apart. Steve's depressed about leaving his wife and his wealth. And his pants are around his ankles, which makes him all the more pathetic. Here's the dialogue:
Well I'm gonna to go then. And I don't need any of this. I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. I don't need anything except this.
[picks up an ashtray]
And that's it and that's the only thing I need, is this. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need. And that's all I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one - I need this. The paddle game, and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches, for sure. And this. And that's all I need. The ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair.
[walking outside]
And I don't need one other thing, except my dog.
[dog barks]
I don't need my dog.
I think my family will realize how much we're going to have to pair things down when we actually start loading the car. Well, good luck to my Houstonian friends. Let me know if there's anything I can do. Stay safe!