1 post tagged “here comes the rain again”

He looked at the weather map with a gleam in his eye. "Big wind. Rain. Time to go." And just like that, he was off to chase ducks. Yes the wind was forecast at over 60 mph. Yes he would be sitting in the equivalent of a submerged dumpster for hours on end. No problem. He would have a thermos full of soup, Gringo at his side and ducks "flying upside down." Ducks don't like bad weather you see. They like sunshine and no wind. They like to sit in the sun and tan. Bad weather means good duck hunting because they fly around and around waiting for the storm to end.

I didn't worry too much. The storm was supposed to "hit" all day yesterday and despite a menacing sky nothing happened. I decided sometime before bed that the forecasters were full of it - again.

I woke up to find all of the promised wind and rain and then some. I turned on the TV to find that KRON had decided to stay on the air for four hours instead of 30 minutes to report on the "nightmare" storm. Trucks had flipped over and closed the Richmond bridge. There were 130 car accidents in the Bay Area. Highway 101 was closed through Novato. Nice, I thought. Driving to San Francisco today is going to be fun fun fun. Yes, at that point I still thought I might drive to SF for a meeting.

Then I looked into the backyard to check the water level. The backyard is tiny and always floods a little in winter since the developer ingeniously constructed the plane of drainage in such a way that several of our neighbors' yards drain into ours. So efficient and neighborly. We keep meaning to fix it, but it's only ever annoying for a couple of days a year. Like today. The water outside the door was 3/4 inches high and it was only nine o'clock. It would surely rain all day. I'd better keep an eye on this.

By 10am the water was starting to seep into the sliding door well. Not high enough to actually flood the kitchen, but close enough. Inside the house, by my measure, is more than close enough. A Google search on "sandbags in" my neighborhood brought up a news story and a phone number. Soon I had an address.

I took a shower. I know. I know.  It's so clear that I'm about to get drenched and dirty, a shower seems like a supreme waste of time and energy. But my day always starts with a shower and I hadn't taken one yet. The shower is my happy time and the day ahead did not bode much happiness. I didn't stay in long enough (really it's never long enough, I could live in the shower), but I was warm and finally ready to face my day.

I didn't bother to do my hair. I pulled on jeans and waterproof boots. It turns out that all of my foul weather footwear - and clothing - is in Colusa. I grabbed a water resistant jacket (Lululemon, so cute and with a hood) and left the house.

Xav is in Colusa. Which means the truck is in Colusa. Which means I get to drive the BMW to get the sandbags. This will be wonderful. I pack a towel and tell myself that the house is more important than the car. Except that I love my car. I paid it off years ago and it runs beautifully. Black on black. Big seats. Step on the gas and yowsa. Not today of course. Step on the gas and water ski. This car is not built for water skiing. Or skiing of any kind for that matter. And of course, this car is not built for carrying sandbags.

Come to think of it, I'm not really built for carrying sandbags. But thanks to my new trainer Michael, I will be able to do it without getting a hernia, mostly because he's been torturing me with weights since October. I have muscles now. Core muscles and arm muscles. I don't like this work, but I think I can do it without breaking myself in two. In any case, I have to.

In the car I leave a cranky voice message for Xav. Cranky because I am about to be covered in wet sand and I am sure he's having the time of his life. Ducks flying upside down. Warm soup. Camaraderie. Blam. Blam. Instead of being the loving supportive wife I'm supposed to be, I decide that I'm pissed that I have to deal with this alone. If you have a husband, isn't this what husbands are supposed to do? Or at least help you do? Grr.

I drive through a torrential downpour. I pass a jackknifed truck on the freeway and decide that flooded side streets might actually be better. After driving through giant pools of water I find the sandbag place at my public works office. Irony: in order to get into the public works parking lot I have to drive through through a lake that is at least a foot deep. There is a very real chance that I will stall and stay here forever. Or at least until someone rams me and the ambulance comes to take me away. I don't like this part of town. I press the gas without revving the engine too much. Whew.

I am, of course, not the only person looking for sandbags. I stop my car in line, open my trunk "hello rain" and join the ranks of the sandbaggers. One woman says to me "you would think I could at least find a raincoat to wear" and points to her sopping-wet sweatshirt. I can tell she feels a little better after I show her my ridiculous boots. Stewart Weitzman. Perfect for those rainy day getaways in the city. Not so great for lugging around 50lb sandbags.

I grab my first bag. It dissolves in my hands and all over my feet. I grab another and see the gaping hole in time to let go. It looks like burlap sandbags are not as solid as I'd hoped. I look around. Most of the bags in this pile are ruined. It looks like a pre-school after party. I grab a few other bags and work my way to new pile. It's a game of Russian Roulette, sometimes I grab a good bag, sometimes I grab a sand grenade. You often can't tell until you pick it up. They are so heavy I can only take one at a time. I fill the trunk until I can't fit anymore. My intuition tells me it's enough.

At home I carry the bags through the house and wade into the backyard to stack them against the door. Lucky me: I have enough to cover this door and the garage door too. The last bag fills the last hole. Amazing.

Xav finally calls back and tries to make it sound like he's not having fun. The power is out and he can barely talk for the raging wind. He is being supportive - easy to do from that distance - and trying to make me see the funny side of the situation. I hang up on him. I'm not ready to see the humorous side yet.

By the time I'm done, I'm soaking wet from head to toe. I am cold and covered with sand. My boots are probably ruined. But I have to go back out in the rain again and get one of my girls from a sleepover. And I have a conference call soon.

On the way back I call the pizza guys. I figure if they are open I can swing by and pick up a pizza but miracle of miracles they are still delivering. Not for an hour or so, but still.

I go home. I look at the water level of the decorative neighborhood lagoons and figure I'm in for at least the night. Maybe tomorrow too. I change into dry clothes and tip the pizza guy five bucks. It will take more than that to get me out of the house again.