The Good, the Bad, the Half-Shelled

Okay, I lied. Looks as if I might be in Murfreesboro for a long time, and blogging seems like a relatively good way to pass the hours. By “relatively,” I mean relative to stumbling around the house in unwashed pajamas, or “biting mah pillow” (We love you, Corky!). These two activities have consumed 85% of my time since Saturday, when I drove the seven hours to my aunt and uncle’s house in Alabama. The other 15%, I set aside for watching the Weather Channel and admiring my red, puffy eyes. I have to say, depression isn’t a bad look for me.

I got out of N’Awlins on Saturday, when evacuation was only “voluntary.” My mom knows a lot about volunteering -- Junior League, Charity Circle, Garden Club. For her, it’s a mandatory thing. “Hurry! Go!” she commanded on Saturday morning. “Stop freaking me out,” I snapped. “It’s not time to panic yet.”

Au contraire.

At that time, the Tulane Web site encouraged students to “keep an eye on the news” and “be prepared.” News, check. Prepared, uh, check. I had half a tank of gas and a good pair of running shoes. That’s “prepared,” isn’t it? I finished my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and shuffled my playlists on iTunes. And, once in a while, I glanced at the green and orange swirls swimming up Channel 62's Storm Tracker radar.

When the swirls intensified to orange and red, I refreshed Tulane’s page. A rough paraphrase of the new message: “Unless you seek a cold, watery death, get out right now.”

Here’s an interesting question: if you were faced with a sudden evacuation, what would you toss into your backpack? I didn’t have time to collect my journals, scrapbook, family photos, etc. Or I probably did, but the urgency of the situation, combined with old-fashioned paranoia, convinced me that disaster loomed one raincloud away. I chose to “save” the following:

Two pairs of underwear
Two recently purchased Old Navy t-shirts
One pair of Ann Taylor Loft jeans (the New York jeans)
One pair of dead-sexy denim shorts
Toothbrush, deodorant, floss, contact lenses, etc. (No one likes an unkempt evacuee.)
Childhood teddy bear (Ted)
Hardback copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Computer
iPod
Box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (because it was handy)

And Dave, of course. Just call me Noah, minus the ark and the rest of God’s creatures.

After spending Saturday night in Alabama, I drove home to Murf. At the moment, I’m in the Murfreesboro Starbucks. Blogging in a Starbucks! How chic! I owed it to my parents to get myself out of the house. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent a significant amount of time with a depressed person, but let me tell you....it’s no Dollywood.

Why the long face, Jesse? And where did the expression “long face” come from, anyway? Lately, my face has been short – scrunched and twisted in anxiety.

I know I have no decent reasons to be terribly upset. I’m safe. I’m with my ‘rents. Since my apartment is on the second floor, it might not be totally underwater. There’s a good chance that most of my precious “stuff” survived.

I survived. That’s the most important thing.

But I’m still poor company.

Mostly, I’m angry with my inability to put things in perspective. Because despite everything I just wrote, here’s what my brain has been chanting since Saturday’s adrenaline wore off: “No apartment. No friends. No job. No future.”

Well, that’s silly. Eventually, I will return to my apartment, and school will start, and I’ll meet people and discover the Greatest Love of All, and all that jazz.

In the meantime, I would scrounge up a few friendships here, but I don’t really feel like hanging out with people. I would get a job down at my local newspaper. But if I get a job, I’m admitting that I’ll be in Tennessee for at least a month, and I don’t want to do that.

Maybe biting mah pillow is the most rational choice.

No, no. I’ll rally. “Things could be worse” isn’t the most upbeat motto, but it works in a pinch. Dave sends a friendly antenna-wiggle to everyone who called, emailed, and sent good wishes our way. He picked up a new housemate while we were in Alabama -- Lizzie the Crab is an early birthday gift from my aunt and uncle. She was named by my 4-year-old cousin, with little regard for crab gender. The crab looks like a Lizzie, anyway. (Though it does not look like my Delta friend Lizzie. It doesn’t have red hair.)

So, I left New Orleans with one crab, and I’ll return with two. Noah....reversed?