A few days prior to a long awaited weekend getaway, in which I would bask in the hot Carolina sun (with heaping doses of Maui Babe), sip margaritas poolside (like a drunk housewife), and live it up like a trust fund baby (think Suri Cruise)- I was rudely reminded that hurricane Irene was fast approaching with a vengeance. To add to mother natures cruel way of messing with me- DC was hit with a 5.8 magnitude earthquake 3 days before the trip. Truthfully, there aren't many things that prohibit me from getting what I want. But 2 natural disasters in the same week?! The visions of cabana cocktails and harmful sun exposure was fading faster than my base tan. I mean, who was I to challenge 40mph winds and shifting tectonic plates?
Between Sam Champion predicting a category 4 hurricane and my Debbie Downer co-worker gleefully singing the Eurythmics classic,
"Here comes the rain again" on a daily basis (you crotchety whale)..our situation looked more than bleak. Without Greek god powers or a voodoo rain dance- canceling the trip seemed eminent. Unless of course, there was hope or at least a glimmer of it; hell, at this point- give me a speck. And so against the advice of the weather channel- we packed our bags, checked into our flight, and arrived at the airport early (which, on Filipino time means right before boarding). It turns out that hoping for the best, turning off the news, and tuning out the haters was the smartest thing we'd done all week. Luckily, Irene bypassed the coast and we were met with nothing but sunny skies, southern hospitality, and vodka infused Arnold Palmers. I suppose no one can ever really predict how things will turn out regardless of the world we live in. In the end, when there's nothing left...there's always hope. Or at least I hope so. And you? do tell...
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