I used to tell Hubby off for buying that antibacterial soap for the dishes.
"We're sterilizing ourselves to death!" I'd exclaim, regurgitating the latest fad to hit the airwaves.
"We use too many antibiotics - we ARE biotics!" I'd rant, well-versed in the lingo. "Use too much of this stuff and eventually we'll get mutated superbugs, and penicillin will no longer work, and we'll have people dying in the streets! Our super-clean fetish will kill us! Just use soap! Plain old soap!"
Hubby would ignore me and buy all the antibacterial stuff he could carry.
Antibacterial hand wash (alcohol, and if you're lucky, a bit of glycerin so your skin doesn't fall off in a week). Antibacterial soak for your clothing. (Just wash the shit!) Antibacterial tile spray (chlorine bleach). Antibacterial countertop wipes. (Moist towelettes with alcohol).
Lemon juice and baking soda and vinegar could do all this stuff for us, but we'd have to rinse out the cloth, rather than throw it away so we can worry about our garbage/landfull crisis.... but I digress.
I was up on the ladder today, washing the ceiling fan. I'd just rinsed the cloth and put a drop of Hubby's antibacterial soap and some lemon juice on it, and, back atop the ladder I was rubbing away, when it hit me....
All those people with these super-clean environments, all those scientists who are worried about us growing a new generation of superbugs...
None of these people have ever seen MY HOUSE.
Hubby now has permission to buy as much antibacterial crap as he wishes.
What was I thinking?!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
K A - B O O M ! ! !
What was that?
That was the sound of me shooting myself in the foot.
Why do they let me talk to people? Here at work? The boss is on the phone,his boss is bringing people around for an unscheduled tour... I've been in this scenario before, and it's not pretty.
I start off just answering the questions. But sooner or later, as I develop a rapport with the visitors, I'm gonna make a crack. Crack a joke.
Like just now, when someone said they like my LOL CAT picture, and I said, I've gots lots, I love humor, and the Academic Dean said, tongue-in-cheek, "We don't allow humor here!" And I zinged back with a quick, "No, you don't!"
Ka-BOOM.
Ouch. Why do they let me talk to people?
It's not an "if". It's a "when." When am I going to say something stupid, and how bad will it be?
And it's not even like I didn't have any warning. This morning the first small explosions began when I walked to the front door, and saw that Stepson not only had spent the night sleeping on the livingroom couch, but had enjoyed two cans of root beer there, as evidenced by the empty tins and glass sitting on the floor.
Stepson has terrible personal habits. He regularly stuffs the remains of whatever he's been munching on into the glass he'd been drinking from. He lets the glass fall over, spilling whatever was in it, or breaking during the fall. No amount of yelling to this date has been able to persuade him to A) bring his used cans and glasses to the kitchen, or B) put them on a tabletop as opposed to the floor, or C) sleep in his bed.
The good thing about this particular overnight on the couch was that Stepdaughter had put a sheet down, she slept on the same couch the night before (since her bedroom was undergoing renovations), and so this time the couch did not become encrusted with the sweat, slime and dirt that Stepson carries on his unwashed skin. (Did I mention he has terrible personal habits?)
Well, I went from zero to ballistic in 1 second flat. The rant restarted moments later when I had to step over his underpants on the floor of the bathroom. A few choice words to Hubby to the effect that he HAD TO SAY SOMETHING to his son... then the drive into work. People standing at a bus stop. One young woman with an expression of severe unpleasantness on her face - "Hey honey - wonder why you can't land a MAN with a CAR so you don't have to take the BUS to work? TRY SMILING." Fortunately, I used my "inside voice." Then the well-dressed woman crossing the street at the crosswalk. Hubby will stop for pedestrians at a crosswalk - though if they're not at a crosswalk he considers them fair game, like bowling pins...
Anyway, nobody was stopping for this woman, but Hubby did, and she crossed then, but still kept an unpleasant expression on her face. Hubby's window was open and it wasn't long till my voice sailed after her, "Would it kill you to SMILE???" Oops. Outside Voice.
Days like this, when things start with some transgression by filthy Stepson, never go well. The Outside Voice eventually wins.
But it's often not pretty.
That was the sound of me shooting myself in the foot.
Why do they let me talk to people? Here at work? The boss is on the phone,his boss is bringing people around for an unscheduled tour... I've been in this scenario before, and it's not pretty.
I start off just answering the questions. But sooner or later, as I develop a rapport with the visitors, I'm gonna make a crack. Crack a joke.
Like just now, when someone said they like my LOL CAT picture, and I said, I've gots lots, I love humor, and the Academic Dean said, tongue-in-cheek, "We don't allow humor here!" And I zinged back with a quick, "No, you don't!"
Ka-BOOM.
Ouch. Why do they let me talk to people?
It's not an "if". It's a "when." When am I going to say something stupid, and how bad will it be?
And it's not even like I didn't have any warning. This morning the first small explosions began when I walked to the front door, and saw that Stepson not only had spent the night sleeping on the livingroom couch, but had enjoyed two cans of root beer there, as evidenced by the empty tins and glass sitting on the floor.
Stepson has terrible personal habits. He regularly stuffs the remains of whatever he's been munching on into the glass he'd been drinking from. He lets the glass fall over, spilling whatever was in it, or breaking during the fall. No amount of yelling to this date has been able to persuade him to A) bring his used cans and glasses to the kitchen, or B) put them on a tabletop as opposed to the floor, or C) sleep in his bed.
The good thing about this particular overnight on the couch was that Stepdaughter had put a sheet down, she slept on the same couch the night before (since her bedroom was undergoing renovations), and so this time the couch did not become encrusted with the sweat, slime and dirt that Stepson carries on his unwashed skin. (Did I mention he has terrible personal habits?)
Well, I went from zero to ballistic in 1 second flat. The rant restarted moments later when I had to step over his underpants on the floor of the bathroom. A few choice words to Hubby to the effect that he HAD TO SAY SOMETHING to his son... then the drive into work. People standing at a bus stop. One young woman with an expression of severe unpleasantness on her face - "Hey honey - wonder why you can't land a MAN with a CAR so you don't have to take the BUS to work? TRY SMILING." Fortunately, I used my "inside voice." Then the well-dressed woman crossing the street at the crosswalk. Hubby will stop for pedestrians at a crosswalk - though if they're not at a crosswalk he considers them fair game, like bowling pins...
Anyway, nobody was stopping for this woman, but Hubby did, and she crossed then, but still kept an unpleasant expression on her face. Hubby's window was open and it wasn't long till my voice sailed after her, "Would it kill you to SMILE???" Oops. Outside Voice.
Days like this, when things start with some transgression by filthy Stepson, never go well. The Outside Voice eventually wins.
But it's often not pretty.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Itsy-Bitsy Bang...
Well, once again the voices predicting destruction and doom were proven wrong.
Not that anyone is really surprised.
I'm speaking of that thing they turned on this morning - the 17-mile long particle accelerator somewhere under the alps, or someplace in Europe. The doomsayers wasted no time rolling out the end of the world sandwich boards, predicting the creation of a slew of teensy-weensy black holes that would join together and annihiliate us all by the end of the day. Others decided that all these particles banging together would create a monster explosion by lunchtime and blow us all up.
No such luck. Afraid we'll all still have to get out of bed tomorrow and go to work.
Better luck next time.
Lemme tell you, all you religious fanatics and grade-8-science-class-dropouts: the TRUTH is, the only black holes are IN YOUR BRAINS.
Or what passes for your brains.
Throughout human history, every single time anyone has had an idea, has wanted to try something out, the forces of ignorance and fear have united in a superstitious chorus of "No No No! Leave well enough alone! Don't learn to use fire - someone will get burned! Don't build tall buildings, they'll fall on us! Don't ride a horse, it will trample us! Don't use electricity, it'll give us all cancer! Don't sail out of sight of land - you'll fall off the earth! Don't go into space, up the mountain, under the ocean, or even around the block... Don't make medical advances - it's terrifying! All the things that can go wrong! No, we'll be content to sit in the dark shivering, dying in childbirth, starving, huddled together for warmth in our cave of ignorance, praying to whatever god or gods we think we have to appease, rather than get off our collective butts and LEARN something...."
These fearmongers have been with us forever - human beings are an incredibly superstitious species. And by and large, they're not a problem. Not till somebody gives them a microphone, space in the paper, time on the evening news, or they reproduce to the point where there are actually more of these idiots than there is of sensible, normal, sane people.
One has only to watch a teenager attempt to make Kraft dinner to realize how fragile a thing knowledge and scientific understanding is. How unlimited the scope of human ignorance is. How close to disaster we really live, should we fail to teach our children that knowledge and learning are GOOD for them.
The particle accelerator started up somewhere in Europe this morning while the rest of the would slept like a baby. As it should have. Hello, you idiots out there, the particles they are accelerating are REALLY REALLY SMALL! News flash - it wouldn't rock your bottle of Coke, much less your world.
Today, the world is just as safe, and just as scary, as it was yesterday. As it will be tomorrow. There are no monsters except human monsters. No devils but human devils. No angels but human angels. No gods but human gods.
There may or may not have been a big bang. There probably won't be an armageddon, an ending to the universe, no matter how scared people are or how noisy they get. There may or may not be limits to the universe and our understanding of it.
Unfortunately for us all, there is no limit to human stupidity.
Not that anyone is really surprised.
I'm speaking of that thing they turned on this morning - the 17-mile long particle accelerator somewhere under the alps, or someplace in Europe. The doomsayers wasted no time rolling out the end of the world sandwich boards, predicting the creation of a slew of teensy-weensy black holes that would join together and annihiliate us all by the end of the day. Others decided that all these particles banging together would create a monster explosion by lunchtime and blow us all up.
No such luck. Afraid we'll all still have to get out of bed tomorrow and go to work.
Better luck next time.
Lemme tell you, all you religious fanatics and grade-8-science-class-dropouts: the TRUTH is, the only black holes are IN YOUR BRAINS.
Or what passes for your brains.
Throughout human history, every single time anyone has had an idea, has wanted to try something out, the forces of ignorance and fear have united in a superstitious chorus of "No No No! Leave well enough alone! Don't learn to use fire - someone will get burned! Don't build tall buildings, they'll fall on us! Don't ride a horse, it will trample us! Don't use electricity, it'll give us all cancer! Don't sail out of sight of land - you'll fall off the earth! Don't go into space, up the mountain, under the ocean, or even around the block... Don't make medical advances - it's terrifying! All the things that can go wrong! No, we'll be content to sit in the dark shivering, dying in childbirth, starving, huddled together for warmth in our cave of ignorance, praying to whatever god or gods we think we have to appease, rather than get off our collective butts and LEARN something...."
These fearmongers have been with us forever - human beings are an incredibly superstitious species. And by and large, they're not a problem. Not till somebody gives them a microphone, space in the paper, time on the evening news, or they reproduce to the point where there are actually more of these idiots than there is of sensible, normal, sane people.
One has only to watch a teenager attempt to make Kraft dinner to realize how fragile a thing knowledge and scientific understanding is. How unlimited the scope of human ignorance is. How close to disaster we really live, should we fail to teach our children that knowledge and learning are GOOD for them.
The particle accelerator started up somewhere in Europe this morning while the rest of the would slept like a baby. As it should have. Hello, you idiots out there, the particles they are accelerating are REALLY REALLY SMALL! News flash - it wouldn't rock your bottle of Coke, much less your world.
Today, the world is just as safe, and just as scary, as it was yesterday. As it will be tomorrow. There are no monsters except human monsters. No devils but human devils. No angels but human angels. No gods but human gods.
There may or may not have been a big bang. There probably won't be an armageddon, an ending to the universe, no matter how scared people are or how noisy they get. There may or may not be limits to the universe and our understanding of it.
Unfortunately for us all, there is no limit to human stupidity.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Home Entertainment Device
It's so q u i e t ! Ssh!
We are the proud owners of a new (for us) used dishwasher. And our ears are thanking us. Over and over. And Over.
The old one had served us well. Twenty years, approximately, it had noisily ground out its labour with only the occasional glitch. Through teenagers who refused to scrape dishes or rinse chocolate-drink-encrusted goo from the bottom of their glasses. Who left their bacon and eggs on their plates, well-hidden beneath beds, beneath couches, beneath laundry... So hardened even the dog couldn't find them anymore.
I've pulled out more hair from that motor than I have from my hairbrush. The little plastic square closers for bread bags. Chicken bones. Beads from necklaces. Elastic bands. Grapefruit seeds. Pieces of meat. Whole miniature carrots. Broken glass. Dental retainers. (Don't ask.)
And at least fifteen DOZEN of those triangular clippings from milk bags. See, they cut 'em off, and put them - get this - ON TOP of the garbage can. Then they pile the dishes on top of that. Then they grab the dishes and plop them into the dishwasher without a glance. And the little plastic clippings which had stuck to the bottom of the plates swirl around, rub over the dishes, get stuck in the sprayers, sink to the bottom, get stuck in the filter, and eventually, the motor.
Hubby has dutifully performed lifesaving surgery on the old dishwasher at least a dozen times in its life. Stuff stuck in the sprayers. Timer stuck. Rotation stopped by a build-up of hair and plastic milk bag clippings. He really thought it was a goner, that time, but a thorough clean and scrape of the motor gave it four more years of life.
A while ago, some Very Dear Friends bought themselves a new dishwasher, and asked us if we'd like to buy their old one, which is only about five years old. It merited serious consideration. Their model was quiet, for one thing. And it had a grinder section to deal with the things teenagers don't scrape off their plates.
Hubby and I kept each other awake nights discussing the pros and cons. The old adage "better the devil you know than the devil you don't know." Wondering if dishwashers are like cars, in need of expensive repairs from age three to age six. Theorizing that if we did switch, the new one would be sure to break down on us, simply because it never had for its previous owners.
Hmm. Add to that the fact that the previous owners are... are .... well, let's use the word "fastidious." A lot more than we are. (I use the term "we" collectively here: I must insist that I'm absolutely fastidious about what I put in my dishwasher! My family uses another term that is not so polite.) Given this family's tendencies, we worried that we'd soon make an end to it. Push it past the realm of "the call of duty."
Well, earlier this week, the old dishwasher gave us a new sound, and I snapped. "That's it," I said, "I'm emailing them. We can pay 'em on the 15th."
"Ask him if they've dropped the price first," hollered Hubby from the living room. "Ha ha," I said.
So this weekend it took place. The old dishwasher is now sitting at the curb, awaiting rescue. Somebody gonna get a good deal on it, for sure! Maybe get three or more years out of it - provided they can figure out what's making that grinding noise...
And this evening, as Hubby and I scoured the rooms looking for items to put into the new dishwasher, Stepdaughter couldn't stand it any more and started to make fun of us.
"Is this what passes for entertainment for you two?" she laughed. "My god, you guys are pathetic!
Hubby and I each countered with a similar list of truths about our lives, mostly to the effect that yes, this is what buying a house and having kids will do to you. Don't do it if you want to have a life!
I stood in front of it, owner's manual in hand, trying in VAIN to hear it fill, wrapt in utter adoration and thankfulness.
Thank you SO MUCH, Very Dear Friends! If not actual peace of mind, you have given us peace and quiet!
We are the proud owners of a new (for us) used dishwasher. And our ears are thanking us. Over and over. And Over.
The old one had served us well. Twenty years, approximately, it had noisily ground out its labour with only the occasional glitch. Through teenagers who refused to scrape dishes or rinse chocolate-drink-encrusted goo from the bottom of their glasses. Who left their bacon and eggs on their plates, well-hidden beneath beds, beneath couches, beneath laundry... So hardened even the dog couldn't find them anymore.
I've pulled out more hair from that motor than I have from my hairbrush. The little plastic square closers for bread bags. Chicken bones. Beads from necklaces. Elastic bands. Grapefruit seeds. Pieces of meat. Whole miniature carrots. Broken glass. Dental retainers. (Don't ask.)
And at least fifteen DOZEN of those triangular clippings from milk bags. See, they cut 'em off, and put them - get this - ON TOP of the garbage can. Then they pile the dishes on top of that. Then they grab the dishes and plop them into the dishwasher without a glance. And the little plastic clippings which had stuck to the bottom of the plates swirl around, rub over the dishes, get stuck in the sprayers, sink to the bottom, get stuck in the filter, and eventually, the motor.
Hubby has dutifully performed lifesaving surgery on the old dishwasher at least a dozen times in its life. Stuff stuck in the sprayers. Timer stuck. Rotation stopped by a build-up of hair and plastic milk bag clippings. He really thought it was a goner, that time, but a thorough clean and scrape of the motor gave it four more years of life.
A while ago, some Very Dear Friends bought themselves a new dishwasher, and asked us if we'd like to buy their old one, which is only about five years old. It merited serious consideration. Their model was quiet, for one thing. And it had a grinder section to deal with the things teenagers don't scrape off their plates.
Hubby and I kept each other awake nights discussing the pros and cons. The old adage "better the devil you know than the devil you don't know." Wondering if dishwashers are like cars, in need of expensive repairs from age three to age six. Theorizing that if we did switch, the new one would be sure to break down on us, simply because it never had for its previous owners.
Hmm. Add to that the fact that the previous owners are... are .... well, let's use the word "fastidious." A lot more than we are. (I use the term "we" collectively here: I must insist that I'm absolutely fastidious about what I put in my dishwasher! My family uses another term that is not so polite.) Given this family's tendencies, we worried that we'd soon make an end to it. Push it past the realm of "the call of duty."
Well, earlier this week, the old dishwasher gave us a new sound, and I snapped. "That's it," I said, "I'm emailing them. We can pay 'em on the 15th."
"Ask him if they've dropped the price first," hollered Hubby from the living room. "Ha ha," I said.
So this weekend it took place. The old dishwasher is now sitting at the curb, awaiting rescue. Somebody gonna get a good deal on it, for sure! Maybe get three or more years out of it - provided they can figure out what's making that grinding noise...
And this evening, as Hubby and I scoured the rooms looking for items to put into the new dishwasher, Stepdaughter couldn't stand it any more and started to make fun of us.
"Is this what passes for entertainment for you two?" she laughed. "My god, you guys are pathetic!
Hubby and I each countered with a similar list of truths about our lives, mostly to the effect that yes, this is what buying a house and having kids will do to you. Don't do it if you want to have a life!
I stood in front of it, owner's manual in hand, trying in VAIN to hear it fill, wrapt in utter adoration and thankfulness.
Thank you SO MUCH, Very Dear Friends! If not actual peace of mind, you have given us peace and quiet!
Monday, September 1, 2008
The 24-Hour LIVE Science-Fiction Channel
A few years ago, when Hubby and I were visiting my Dad and Stepmom in Louisiana, I was surfing the channels on his tv, desperately looking for Star Trek.
Dad and Stepmom are in the Bible Belt, see, and they've blocked most of their satellite channels due to "offensive" material. (The discussion of WHY my Dad has a satellite at all is for another blog.)
Anyway, while flicking madly up and down through 17 satellites, I complained to Dad, "Doncha have any other science-fiction channels on this thing, Pop?"
Daddy thought about it for a minute, then said, "Well, I think there's one other."
"So? What is it?" I asked.
"CNN," he said flatly.
Oh brother, I thought, he's really losing it.
In the ensuing years I've had opportunity to quote Dad on this one. But the last straw came this morning.
Like many people in North America, we've been watching the updates on Hurricane Gustav as it slams the Louisiana coastline a few feet from where Katrina blew the coastline away a mere three years ago. We watched in horror as Katrina flooded New Orleans, and we said to ourselves that they shouldn't attempt to rebuild it, that they should let it go. Because with the climate changes that are coming, all we can expect is more of the same, and much worse. We watched as hundreds of thousands of (black) people went without the necessities of life, as various levels of government constipation made a desperate situation worse. We couldn't believe we were watching live tv from North America, home of the brave, technological masters of the universe, etc etc etc.
This was our backyard, and it stank.
Mother Nature was giving us a whuppin', and with it a serious warning.
Which of course, nobody in office takes seriously...
We watched over the last three years as people languished in trailers, or worse. As various sets of engineers played with the equivalent of meccano sets and lego to rebuild levies - to 20th-century standards. About a hundred feet short of what will be needed this century... for the storms that are yet to come...
Well, along comes Gustav. At first we were content to hear about it's imminent arrival on CBC radio. Then we made sure to listen to the segment on the evening news - on CBC.
This morning, Hubby popped on CNN.
OMG.
OMFG!
The water is "over-topping" the newly rebuilt levees. Down there, over to the left, where the camera can barely see it, the water is pouring over the levee like a waterfall.
OMG.
They show reporters leaning all to port as Gustav approaches, clinging to lamp posts and clutching their microphones, tethered by life lines as if in space-walk.
They show reporters leaning to starboard as the eye has passed. The water is over-topping the levee. Down to the left there, where the camera can barely see, it's basically a waterfall over the levee.
They switch to a map of Louisiana with the red-hot image of swirling Gustav superimposed.
OMG, my Dad lives right THERE!
"There," says Hubby. "Isn't that where your Dad lives?"
We decide to phone, or try to. They must be drowning. Lafayette, where some of my Stepsisters and their families live, has been evacuated now as Gustav roars down on it. Ten minutes to go....
"Hello?" my Dad says at the other end of the phone. His tone is calm, almost bored.
"Well?" I say. "You getting wet now?"
"No."
"What!?" I exclaim. "It isn't raining there?"
"Well, we had one or two drops," he says. "It's stopped for now, but I'm hoping we'll get some more in a little while. Maybe in an hour or so we'll finally see some rain."
(Dad, it seems, lives in the equivalent of the Sahara Desert of Louisiana. I keep telling him to open a B&B for hurricane season, but can't convince him he'd make lots of money putting up people who are temporarily displaced.)
I said, "The tv has the pictures of the storm..." and Daddy finishes my sentence.
"Yeah," he says. "Over the whole state. Right over us, in fact. We've got it on right now." In the background, I hear people laughing.
"How many you got with you now," I ask. Stepmom has a large family, who all live closer to the coast than she and Dad do, who all come to stay with her and Dad when they're given evacuation orders.
"About... ten... no, twelve," Dad says calmly. They have twelve people staying with them for the duration of Gustav.
"What do you do when the plumbing backs up," I ask.
"Well, by that time there won't be any electricity," Dad says calmly. "So it won't matter."
I decide I don't want to be enlightened on that point.
"Do you have a generator?" I ask.
"Oh yeah. It's sitting out front. We started it up yesterday, just to be sure."
Okay, so they actually DO think about things. Not rely SOLELY on the Lord's providence. (No pun intended.)
"We'll get some rain for sure," Dad says. "But I doubt very much we'll get any wind."
"So you haven't boarded anything up?"
"Aw no. There's no need for that," says Dad.
On the tv screen, reporters are leaning to starboard and pointing at the levee. The map of Gustav superimposed on Louisiana continues to twirl angrily, right on top of where my Dad lives. The crawler at the bottom lists details of mighty forces being massed to save people from the peril. My Dad calls out to ask what Stepmom's blood pressure is.
"135 over 80" he says. "That's good."
I think Dad was right. CNN is a science-fiction channel.
Dad and Stepmom are in the Bible Belt, see, and they've blocked most of their satellite channels due to "offensive" material. (The discussion of WHY my Dad has a satellite at all is for another blog.)
Anyway, while flicking madly up and down through 17 satellites, I complained to Dad, "Doncha have any other science-fiction channels on this thing, Pop?"
Daddy thought about it for a minute, then said, "Well, I think there's one other."
"So? What is it?" I asked.
"CNN," he said flatly.
Oh brother, I thought, he's really losing it.
In the ensuing years I've had opportunity to quote Dad on this one. But the last straw came this morning.
Like many people in North America, we've been watching the updates on Hurricane Gustav as it slams the Louisiana coastline a few feet from where Katrina blew the coastline away a mere three years ago. We watched in horror as Katrina flooded New Orleans, and we said to ourselves that they shouldn't attempt to rebuild it, that they should let it go. Because with the climate changes that are coming, all we can expect is more of the same, and much worse. We watched as hundreds of thousands of (black) people went without the necessities of life, as various levels of government constipation made a desperate situation worse. We couldn't believe we were watching live tv from North America, home of the brave, technological masters of the universe, etc etc etc.
This was our backyard, and it stank.
Mother Nature was giving us a whuppin', and with it a serious warning.
Which of course, nobody in office takes seriously...
We watched over the last three years as people languished in trailers, or worse. As various sets of engineers played with the equivalent of meccano sets and lego to rebuild levies - to 20th-century standards. About a hundred feet short of what will be needed this century... for the storms that are yet to come...
Well, along comes Gustav. At first we were content to hear about it's imminent arrival on CBC radio. Then we made sure to listen to the segment on the evening news - on CBC.
This morning, Hubby popped on CNN.
OMG.
OMFG!
The water is "over-topping" the newly rebuilt levees. Down there, over to the left, where the camera can barely see it, the water is pouring over the levee like a waterfall.
OMG.
They show reporters leaning all to port as Gustav approaches, clinging to lamp posts and clutching their microphones, tethered by life lines as if in space-walk.
They show reporters leaning to starboard as the eye has passed. The water is over-topping the levee. Down to the left there, where the camera can barely see, it's basically a waterfall over the levee.
They switch to a map of Louisiana with the red-hot image of swirling Gustav superimposed.
OMG, my Dad lives right THERE!
"There," says Hubby. "Isn't that where your Dad lives?"
We decide to phone, or try to. They must be drowning. Lafayette, where some of my Stepsisters and their families live, has been evacuated now as Gustav roars down on it. Ten minutes to go....
"Hello?" my Dad says at the other end of the phone. His tone is calm, almost bored.
"Well?" I say. "You getting wet now?"
"No."
"What!?" I exclaim. "It isn't raining there?"
"Well, we had one or two drops," he says. "It's stopped for now, but I'm hoping we'll get some more in a little while. Maybe in an hour or so we'll finally see some rain."
(Dad, it seems, lives in the equivalent of the Sahara Desert of Louisiana. I keep telling him to open a B&B for hurricane season, but can't convince him he'd make lots of money putting up people who are temporarily displaced.)
I said, "The tv has the pictures of the storm..." and Daddy finishes my sentence.
"Yeah," he says. "Over the whole state. Right over us, in fact. We've got it on right now." In the background, I hear people laughing.
"How many you got with you now," I ask. Stepmom has a large family, who all live closer to the coast than she and Dad do, who all come to stay with her and Dad when they're given evacuation orders.
"About... ten... no, twelve," Dad says calmly. They have twelve people staying with them for the duration of Gustav.
"What do you do when the plumbing backs up," I ask.
"Well, by that time there won't be any electricity," Dad says calmly. "So it won't matter."
I decide I don't want to be enlightened on that point.
"Do you have a generator?" I ask.
"Oh yeah. It's sitting out front. We started it up yesterday, just to be sure."
Okay, so they actually DO think about things. Not rely SOLELY on the Lord's providence. (No pun intended.)
"We'll get some rain for sure," Dad says. "But I doubt very much we'll get any wind."
"So you haven't boarded anything up?"
"Aw no. There's no need for that," says Dad.
On the tv screen, reporters are leaning to starboard and pointing at the levee. The map of Gustav superimposed on Louisiana continues to twirl angrily, right on top of where my Dad lives. The crawler at the bottom lists details of mighty forces being massed to save people from the peril. My Dad calls out to ask what Stepmom's blood pressure is.
"135 over 80" he says. "That's good."
I think Dad was right. CNN is a science-fiction channel.
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