Phoebe Kate

Buying canned goods, bread, bottled water, extra flashlights and lots of D batteries, candles, cookies (Oreos and chocolate chip, to be specific) and whiskey.

Making sure everybody has their meds for at least a week.

Filling up the bathtubs so we can flush toilets if the power goes out, taking with it our pump.

Hauling into the garage all the patio furniture and trash cans.

Turning the thermostat down 10 degrees to 57.  For every hour without power and A/C, the temperature rises one degree in our house.  I’ve just insured ten extra hours of comfort before it starts to get sticky and airless in this 2-floor dwelling. 

Doing extra laundry so we have plenty of changes of clothes if our house turns into a sweat box.

Using paper plates and party cups.   

Keeping the cats in one room so I know where they are and nobody falls over them when the power goes out.

Cooking up any pricey food in my refrigerator for lunch and dinner – steak, frozen shrimp, anything I don’t want to run the risk of getting spoiled if we’re without electricity for more than a day or two.  I must say we feast rather well on the eve of major storms.

Repeatedly reassuring my mother-in-law (who lives next door to us) that every tornado warning issued by NOAA for our general area does NOT mean she’s going to fly up into the sky like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Tornadoes on the coast = water spouts.  Water spouts = a possible problem for boats and beach residents.  We live 5 miles inland and don’t have a docked boat.   

Also repeatedly reassuring my mother-in-law that we live in an area that does not flood because it’s the ONLY hill in our county and is 35 feet above sea level. Unless we get a tsunami, storm surges don’t affect us.

Reminding my mother-in-law on an hourly basis that she’s lived here for 10 years, gone through numerous hurricanes and not gotten swept out to sea, sucked up into the sky or stuck in harm’s way.

Making sure my book light has new AAA batteries so I can spend the storm some place else, at least mentally.

–phoebe kate

When people ask me where I live and I tell them “the coast of NC,” they uniformly go, “Ooooo!  Aren’t you lucky!  Omigod!  The beach!  The fabulous fresh seafood!  Surfing!  Boating!  Jet-skiing!  Those gorgeous oceanside homes!” 

Okay, those are the females.  The guys are a little more laid back, but they essentially enthuse (in a calculatedly off-handed manner, of course) over the same things and a few more, like being in NASCAR country and the home of deep-sea fishing, fried food and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

And when they’re done with their rhapsodizing and their long list of advantages to being where I am, they finally get around to the reality of realty. 

“But…” they say hesitantly.  “You get…all those…umm…hurricanes…”  They say it in a hushed and sheepish sort of way, like it’s on comedian George Carlin’s infamous List of Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV and they’ll get their knuckles rapped or their mouths washed out with soap for uttering it in polite society

It does seem that the Weather Gods have 2 highly favored places they like to send those big-assed storms.  New Orleans and Eastern NC.  Part of the problem is that where I live sticks out into the Atlantic like a great big storm magnet.  Even hurricanes that manage to bypass or skirt much of the Eastern seaboard can’t help but smack right into us, poking out there like a blasted sore thumb in the ocean.  And as of tonight, we’ve got 3 of ‘em stacked up and waiting to strike us.

Hanna doesn’t present any serious problems, just inconveniences and discomforts from possible loss of power and local flooding.  Ike, if it stays a Cat 4, will potentially wreak havoc and destruction across the entire state and several others as well.  (Shall we sing Martha and the Vandellas’ “I got nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide”?  Or The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm”?)  And Josephine — it’s anyone’s guess where she’ll go.  But we know the 2 preferred locations, don’t we?

There are many times when I wonder why I moved back to the South, specifically to this part of the South.  Masochism?  Death wish?  Temporary insanity?  A desire to personally atone for the sins of the world?  Do I have a case of arrested development and have remained for the last 3 or so decades a closet teenage drama queen?  Why do I want to live in a place where for almost half the year people live in dread of the weather?

Oh, wait.  Hell, no!  It’s not me who picked this place.  It’s my husband.  One of those damn Yankees, of course. 

Back in high school, my best friend was Sam (Samantha) August.  She was like the boneless cat that one of the Peanuts comic strip characters (Frieda with the naturally curly hair?) used to carry around.  Nothing bugged Sam.  Nothing upset her.  Nothing bothered her.  (Needless to relate, everything bugged, upset and bothered me, of course.) Sam would just blink those great, big, beautifully made-up and infinitely wise almond eyes of hers at whatever trouble reared its unpleasant head and say with a wry little laugh and a toss of her lovely blonde hair, ”It’s all part of life’s rich pageant, Pheebs.” 

That’s what I’m saying to myself tonight.  Because it’s true.  And I didn’t learn that lesson years ago, no matter how often you told me that.  But dammit, I’m going to learn it now, Sam.  It’s about time.   

–phoebe kate

Ahhh, National Days — a reason to celebrate or shake up our quotidian routine or do something we might not do otherwise.  Such as: 9/2 is (are you ready for this one?) National Beheading Day.  I kid you not.  Tyrannical bosses, bad boyfriends/girlfriends, spouses who leave a lot to be desired, children who act like the spawn of Satan and perfidious relatives, friends and others better watch out and shape up quick.  Real quick.

9/5:  Be Late For Something.  We already do that, but we can do it guilt-free one day a year.  And then, ironically enough, on 9/6 we have Fight Procrastination Day, to stop all that tardiness and foot-dragging of ours.

9/8: National Date Nut Bread Day and National Pardon Day.  Take your pick.  Or better yet, do both.  Or even better still, invite the person you want to forgive to join you for some date nut bread. 

9/9: Teddy Bears.  Go immediately and buy yourself one to indulge that poor neglected Inner Child of yours.

9/12: Pet Memorial.  Let us pause and remember the best, truest and finest friends we’ve ever had in our lives, be they canine, feline, equine or whatever.  I’ll be remembering 13 cats, 4 goldfish, 2 dogs, 2 parakeets, a lizard, a snake and a giant frog.

9/13: Defy Superstition.  Walk under ladders, make friends with black cats, break mirrors fearlessly, step on cracks and for heaven’s sake don’t read that horoscope this morning.  You’re in charge of your life, not the stars or the self-proclaimed gurus.

9/14: Cream-filled Doughnuts.  Proving one more time that America runs on Dunkin’ and Krispy Kreme.

9/16: Stay Away from Seattle Day.  What did that city do to deserve this?

9/20: National Punch Day.  Are we talking fruit and Hawaiian?  Or is this the day we haul off and slug those impossible people in our lives that we did not behead at the beginning of the month?

9/22: Hobbit.  Oh, a nice day to celebrate.  Keep in mind that this charming imaginary species likes to eat two breakfasts, sing, dance, imbibe spirits and tell stories.  Enjoy!

9/28: Ask a Stupid Question.  I’d exercise some restraint here and not be too big a fool or carry this too far.   9/29 is National Poisoned Blackberries Day when those whom we drove crazy with our stupidity can rid their lives of the exasperating idiots they should have beheaded at the beginning of the month.   

Have a good September.

–phoebe kate      

In the Bar Mitzvah ceremony, the rabbi announces to the thirteen-year-old boy, “Today you are a man.”  Native Americans have sweat lodge and dream quest rituals for their teenage sons.  African tribes conduct rites of initiation to mark the passage from childhood to young manhood.  In certain Christian denominations, the sacraments of Eucharist and Confirmation are considered major milestones on the pathway to maturity.  The Catholic Church teaches that seven years old — yup, seven — is the age of reason, at which point youngsters can differentiate right from wrong and be held responsible for their actions.  Historically, in all cultures and belief systems, it’s been expected that everyone would grow up, stop behaving like children and assume their role in adult society.  Having the honors and privileges of maturity was something kids eagerly looked forward to.  

Until now, that is.

Several recent books chronicle how America’s young men from teen to twenty-something are lost in a morass of hook-up non-relationships, career ennui, binge boozing, video gaming, club trolling and responsibility-shirking.  Asked what it means to be a man, the consensus of opinion from male adolescents seems to be, “I can do what I want and don’t have to answer to anyone.”  And just when do these guys plan to grow up and get serious about anything?      

Hey dude, that’s a no-brainer.  The answer is: Never.  Spring break is forever, for this generation whose lifetime goal is to be Peter Pan.      

And this isn’t a gender-specific problem, either.  There’s a huge population of women playing the high school drama queen into their 20s, 30s and even older.  Just think about how the four ladies of Sex and the City approach life and love — and how deeply it resonates with millions of female viewers.  Need I say more?

Just exactly why we’ve became a society that believes perpetual pubescence to be the norm and a good thing is a matter for sociologists, psychologists and educators to figure out.  But on the long emotional road trip to maturity, it’s clear we’re not there yet – and won’t be, any time in the foreseeable future.

–phoebe kate

So, this morning as I drank my Earl Grey, I thumbed through the Yellow Pages studying the listings for family physicians.  I don’t like the one I’ve got now and am contemplating making a switch.  Good doctors are hard to find.  I’m not talking about medical competence here, but patient/doctor compatibility — an examining room manner that doesn’t raise my blood pressure higher than it already is and the feeling I’m more than just Chart #F-178: Midlife female with hypertension and anxiety attacks. 

Up until this spring, I had a wonderful physician whose gracious demeanor and personal interest in his patients was as good or better a medicine than anything from a pharmacy.  However, he moved to another city and I wish I’d packed up and followed him instead of getting stuck with the person who took over his practice here — whom, as aforementioned, I’m in the process of jettisoning.   

Well, I didn’t get very far with the Yellow Pages, but the internet intervened to solve my problem.  I don’t need a physician, I need Fido.  I ran across a news feature discussing the uncanny ability of dogs to sniff out diseases in people — cancer, infections, diabetes, heart conditions, respiratory problems and a host of other ills.  

All you canines out there, listen up now.  This is the career opportunity of a lifetime. Americans are fed up with the medical bureaucracy whose P&L statements are more important than their patients’ well-being.  We’re tired of shelling out big bucks for a doctor with bad bedside manners who can’t correctly diagnose a wart on a pickle, much less what’s wrong with us.  We despair of ever seeing any sort of national health plan to insure that everybody receives the care they need.  So get ready to hang that shingle outside the ol’ dog house because we need your TLC and intuitive expertise. 

Now this would be an office visit I could anticipate with pleasure and a practitioner with whom I could feel totally at ease.  Warm and fuzzy, soft brown eyes, a caring and gentle manner, quiet, attentive, sensitive – and a diagnostic whiz, too.  Payment arrangements would be a lot simpler and kinder to the pocketbook as well – maybe a 20-pound bag of Purina or a couple of 16-oz. T-bone steaks?  Hey, sounds like a good deal to me.

–phoebe kate