Miss Irene [Meep!]

Hurricane Irene has been monopolizing my brain for the past 48 hours.

For those of you who don’t know, I have an abnormal natural curiosity for natural disasters, especially if they affect my beloved Massachusetts and/or my weekend plans.

This leads to Irene.

Bostonian meteorologists always predict that the storm is going to affect us in some way, no matter the path of the hurricane, nor’easter, tornado or volcano. Storm a’brewing in the Gulf? There is always a chance it could hit us. I mean, if the jet stream carries it up around Canada, this could mean big problems for Massachusetts. Right, because that is going to happen.

This year, the suspense is building even further, as New England is apparently due for a large storm this hurricane season. Why tell that to anxious weather-watchers like me? Because now we are hooked, and we look to the weathermen as the beacon of light to lead us through the big storm. Literally. It is times like this where I completely forget about how I dislike meteorologists for always being wrong. Suddenly, they can do no wrong in my eyes [at least until the storm completely misses us, and David Brown has caused me monsoon anxiety for no reason whatsoever.]

Back to Irene.

Because meteorologists are always constantly adjusting the radar, it means they are constantly reporting to drooling weather geeks like me, which in turn means I begin to spew useless information about Irene to anyone who will listen to me.

Sometimes I wish I stopped for just a second and asked: “Self, does anyone else really care that Irene is most likely going to become a category 3 storm by evening? Or that maximum winds have hit over 100 mph? “ If I did, I would be able to answer both questions appropriately: no and no. I would also be able to avoid all of those awkward looks I get from coworkers when they casually bring up Irene, and I am able to, not only talk about it in an overly-educated manner, but borderline attack them for not knowing that 600,000 Puerto Ricans are without power today because of the storm last night.

The real origin of my hurricane anxiety sprouts from this:

Irene stands to join New England during two of the most important weekends of my summer; one being Di’s birthday/Countryfest, and the other being Labor Day. I have taken it upon myself to create a detailed itinerary so that we can all co-exist together in harmony [if it is possible to harmoniously exist with a hurricane.]

Di’s birthday comes on Saturday, and as any good daughter should, I will be celebrating her birth by drinking copious amounts of [gluten free] alcohol while wearing a cowboy hat and scheming as to how I can convince Kenny Chesney to notice/marry me at Countryfest. [Sorry Mommy! I love you!] Unfortunately, Irene didn’t purchase a ticket to Countryfest, and its a sold out show. This means one thing and one thing only: Irene is not welcome to crash Gillette Stadium on Saturday, so I am hoping she can plan accordingly [especially after what happened to Sugarland at the Indy State Fair.]

She is, however, allowed to move in anytime after 2AM on Sunday morning. She then has a fairly open window to do as she pleases [within reason] until Thursday, when she will need to vacate the greater Boston area.

Thursday leaves a bit of leeway for Friday, when I will need Irene to be completely gone while I celebrate the great holiday of Labor Day on the beaches of Martha’s Vineyard until Monday.

I feel that I am being extremely generous in allotting Irene a five day slot for her picking. Lets hope she is polite enough to follow suit and come when she is invited.

As if my actual storm anxiety isn’t high enough, Irene was also the origin of my body dimorphic problem my high school pointe teacher, so every time the weatherman says the name Irene, I fight the urge to listen for her subtly disparaging comments about my weight and/or wait for a swift whack at my butt if my extension wasn’t to her liking.

Hasn’t happened yet, but we still have some prime prep time before Irene graces us with her “presence.”