So far, I’m jealous of the mystery gift of “rare flowers, pressed, mounted on watercolour paper in a simple frame” the guy receives every year. I want rare flowers, pressed, mounted on watercolour paper in simple frames. I would dedicate a wall in my house to that pretty shit. If somebody wants to start sending me those every year, you have my permission.
As I type this, I’m watching tornado warnings popping up on my television screen. It’s in a nearby city, heading our way. They’re telling people to get into hallways and closets and stay there for at least thirty minutes. It usually hits us right around our son’s bedtime. It’s one of those Murphy’s Law sorts of things. We end up sitting crammed together in our tiny hallway closet, sweating and bored, when he’s supposed to be in bed.
My husband just popped his head in the back door to let me know that he’s putting our lawn furniture in the garage, so don’t freak out when I hear it open. This one looks like it’s gonna be a doozy. Doozie? Doozy. Is that even a word?
God, I hate tornado season in Oklahoma.
It’s almost here. The back door is flapping, the lights are flickering. The wind is blowing really hard and even though it should still be sunny, it’s dark and greenish outside. The clouds look deadly.
My husband suggested that we all hang out in the master bathroom. There is an outside wall, but three of the walls are inside-facing. We’d be a little more comfortable in the bathtub. Hopefully it will be as safe as the dinky hall closet.
They don’t do basements here. Isn’t that weird? It’s a soil thing. It doesn’t work here. So we live in effing tornado alley and we don’t have basements. Stupid Oklahoma. I always had a basement when I lived in Kansas. I miss having a basement.
They’re saying we’re going to have two inch hail, 60 MPH winds and probably a tornado warning in Tulsa county in thirty minutes. Darn. Those tornado sirens creep me out. And I need to go make dinner, so this will have to conclude today’s blog.
My husband just turned on the oven. We decided to have a pizza party in the master bathtub to make it more fun and less scary for our son. Because you know what they always say: When life gives you tornadoes, make pizza.
He just walked in the room and ominously announced, “Here it comes!” It made me want to smack him a little. It’s just the raw terror talking. I don’t really want to hit him. Very much.
I hope you’re having a more peaceful day than we’re about to experience, friends.