Author: The Jody

Okay, all modesty aside, check out this Boston Globe article where they actually say“Robert Skilling, the observer in charge yesterday, said winds were peaking between 50 and 52 miles per hour atop the 635-foot hill as the barometric pressure dropped to near-hurricane levels.”

Near-hurricane levels. Read that again to yourself. Okay, now, let me explain that a typhoon is a “western North Pacific hurricane.” Granted it didn’t meet the sustained winds required to be fully called a hurricane (74mph), but still, I think you can nod your head and say “well, she isn’t entirely crazy”. I passed 10 utility trucks on 495 south this morning. I didn’t recognize the name of the company (which I promptly forgot) but I got the feeling they were like the contract utility companies who come down from Canada to help out whenever there’s a bad storm.

So technically, I was NOT all that far off naming this puppy. You may bow down at my feet and leave me offerings of snackfoods and health and beauty aids.

My wind-whipped soul is in shock: I swear I saw snowflakes. No, really. Curse you, Miffy!! You mock me, and then you laugh your cold, whistling laugh. But we will perservere. I just hope that the trees stay intact through this one. I was standing on the deck a moment ago and decided I would be better off behind the protective barrier of the slider. Man, that is some loud wind. Could you pipe down out there? I’m trying to write a novel!

The drive home was relatively uneventful; no top-heavy vehicles were pushed over, if that’s what you consider an event. You have failed, Miffy!

Now that I’m home and can hear the wind, I can hear the wind. When at work I am pretty insulated from nature, good and bad. So far we still have electricity and drinking water. I laugh at you, Typhoon Miffy! Actually, I don’t know how the satellite dish is fairing, because we aren’t watching television. Gamecube is the mind-numbing activity of choice this evening.

I’m going to start rationing the rootbeer and Tostitos. I hear this is going to last all night.

I have looked Miffy in the eye and…well, okay, I didn’t look Miffy in the eye. I’ll admit it. She’s a wiley foe, hiding the way she is, waiting to pounce. There’s a breeze, but no 40mph sustained winds…yet.

I have chosen an apple turnover to fuel me this morning, to give me the energy I need to survive Typhoon Miffy. And my eleven o’clock project meeting. There was no time to go to the store and buy water and bread, so I will just have to pray that I don’t get a hankering for cinnamon toast and tea. Oh the humanity!

Doesn’t seem so bad out. A little wet. Cool breezes. Nothing bad – is this the calm before the storm?

We are stocked up with cans of rootbeer and leftover Halloween Candy. Bring it on, Mother Nature!

You know, for someone who is talked about in college classes as the epitome of mundane, I get very little traffic from it. Don’t more people want to see how I am of little interest to scholars who would look for resistance and transgression in either the text (Fiske) or the medium (Mele)? (scroll to bottom) Whatever the hell that means. I’m sure that the fact that I’m talking about being talked about is going to throw a whole monkey wrench into the goodly professor’s Week 10 lecture on The Big DumpTruck!

It’s a good thing I like my website, or reading about myself this way would cause me to cry and eat Tostitos. (Oh, wait, does the professor want me to link out to Tostitos? Or maybe to a place on Amazon where you can buy them?)

At some point, someone is going to ask me about all these things, so that instead of listening to that Atton punk (who didn’t have the decency to verify some of the stuff he wrote, and was forced to include a postscript clarifying at least one point) they could ask me in person, “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”