I found out tornado photos can make me really upset.

Let me back up: So I have this really awesome job where I talk about what the Red Cross volunteers do and how awesome they are. This is both easy and busy because they are very awesome (who dislikes someone who helps at a fire?) and they are very busy doing a lot of things.

I was invited to a few-day training session in all of this so I could learn from the folks who handle really big disasters. And there I learned the story of Suzanne Horsley, who rode out a mile-wide tornado with her dog in her bathtub. I had heard about her story, but seeing her in person made it seem more real.

And then I saw photos. There were the trees, still standing, with their tops sheared off by the force of the wind. The trees in my backyard still look like that, I thought, and then suddenly I was in full panic.

It was summer. It wasn’t a mile-wide tornado. I wasn’t in mortal danger. But I was on vacation, at home, with three kids, and Tropical Storm Irene was in full force. I was at my laptop and heard the crack of wood. I looked out the back window and saw one of the trees being sucked up into the air. It swung around like a bat, knocking other trees down that were being sucked up with it.

Later the kids told me I screamed at them to run toward the front of the house, away from what was being sucked up into the air in the yard. And I saw the tangled mess of trees collapse in my patch of black eyed Susans.

I could handle the blackout later — we all camped in the livingroom, and I made barbecue coffee on the grill the next morning. I could handle the cleanup — it took two days, but I took apart the trees with a handsaw, even the trunks that were 10 inches across. But I don’t think I had actually thought about the terror I felt watching a mess of trees hoover in the air, swing toward the kids in the house, and then crash in the yard.

Over the past week, I met folks who survived tornadoes in walk-in freezers, who made it through Katrina’s aftermath, who focus on resiliency and rebuilding and not the damage. I’m generally like that too. But I came home and immediately started cleaning up the branches, knocked by Irene, that came down this winter. I want them out of my life.

incurable:

So I did something I don’t usually do.  I intervened in nature.  Call it the arrogance of the human viewpoint or call it a desire to not get shit on while in bed anymore.  Either way, it’s done.

Some of you may remember back in the first treehouse there was a gold dust day gecko that hung around that I called Hank.  He was an amiable companion, much like the leopard gecko I had as a child in Kansas.  He also did a fine job of keeping the anoles out of the house, a divine quality which I have come to value above all his others (though be assured he has many).

Nearly a week ago I awoke to a most unpleasant smell wafting down from above me.  I opened my eyes from my midday nap to observe a slender glob of lizard poo hanging from the mosquito net above.

The anoles that thus far had so dutifully decreased the surrounding bug population were now basking in the rafters beneath the skylight above my bed and delivering those very same bugs directly to me in a manner most foul.  This continued for three days.  Clearly something had to be done.

On tuesday I was walking to the old treehouse to borrow a rake.  My ADD compelled me to glance into the compost bucket to see if any animals had crawled in, as they sometimes do.  I peeled off the lid and there staring up at me was Hank.  Or another gecko that looked exactly like Hank.  For the purposes of this story we’re going to call him Hank.

I thought for about two seconds then plucked him out and set him in a capped bucket, brought him to the new treehouse, and released him in the bedroom.

No more anole shit.  After about two days he seemed to get up the nerve to chase all the anoles out to the roof, so now inside it’s just me and him.

So yes, I captured an innocent animal to perform a task for my own selfish reasons.  There was poop involved.  I’m choosing to call it “being resourceful”.  I’m fairly sure he’ll stick around.  In this forest day geckos tend to stick to roofed spaces and dry areas.  He has plenty of food and sunlight here and with the anoles out there’s no competition.

So once again the bed is shit free and “Hank” is watching me blog.

No poop in the bed is good enough reason for me

I am an adrenaline junkie. I’m not even going to say recovering. I thrive on on the noise of 15 things happening at once, and the chaos makes me feel calm and clear-headed.

I was out to dinner tonight with a longtime friend, and we were talking about what it must do to you to have to live that way all the time. Neither of us do anymore, but driving home I heard this song, and turned it up. Because that’s how I soothe myself. Driving baseline, singer saying I want… I want. There’s always another horizon. There’s always something new to build.

Now I think I can start a calmer life. I don’t need the drama every day. But there are going to be days where I’m going to need the chaos. And that’s going to have to be OK.

fromageetalpinisme:

books on books on books

temperatures:

Main Hall by Public Library of Cincinnati & Hamilton County

When I dream, this is what I imagine heaven looks like.

A lot of this past year has been figuring out what I want. Like, instead of a wedding ring, I want to wear something funky. Or I want to replace smashed dinner plates because I like to cook for friends. But mostly, I want the surprises. I want to be able to take a hold of opportunities and go for a ride.

A friend said this should be Pedro Navaja should be our theme song. I hope I’m up for whatever is coming.

tyleroakley:

How have I never had this on my Tumblr?

Most mornings I wake up feeling like the kid in the orange shirt. Not a horrible way to go through life.

nprfreshair:

exitpursuedbyasloth:

It’s not Christmas until someone’s decorated the Tom Waits.

The Best of Fresh Air 2011: Tom Waits

Ah, to sound like Eartha Kitt in anyone’s mind but my own….

staff:

Help us send a special gift this season!

When purchasing a theme on Tumblr, there’s now an option to Donate $1 to the Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, or the Electronic Frontier Foundation. And through the end of December, we’ll match your donations.

Back when I was 20 or so, and had reddish hair and a more cartoonish Jessica Rabbit sort of figure, someone started calling me Brenda Starr, because I was the girl on campus with the reporter’s notebook.

I was just thinking about how that had somehow become part of my subconscious. That folks would look at me and see a type.

An opportunity found me that is so cool I’m leaving journalism, happily, but the fact is that whole girl-journalist thing is part of my subconscious.

What I won’t miss: Twice I’ve been at scenes taped off by police with a reporter’s notebook where a guy, obviously not in his right mind, has walked up and announced he’s my Clark Kent. (Never did well by the Lois Lane model. I can rescue myself, thank you.)