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I spent a portion of my summer vacation on Interstate 91. I celebrated the brief hiatus by habitually checking accuweather before I left, packing too many socks and posting about my menstrual cycle on the internet. When I finally arrived at mile marker 158, I91, just a few short miles from Coventry, I played poker, listened to some very annoying cowbell on 'The Bunny', grilled meats, peed in the woods, participated in a couple of  illicit substances, and slept fitfully in the back seat of my vehicle with the buckle end of a seat belt jammed into my hip while anxiously awaiting the sound of car engines starting up so I could move that same vehicle eight or ten feet forward. It ended after forty glorious hours by not seeing Phish. It was like my own personal Burning Man. Except without the burning man. And pretty much without everything else cool that goes with that.

Here is the delightful Tom from L.A., whom I drove to the Coventry exit after Mike announced no more cars would be admitted and before I headed to Brattleboro, exhausted and disappointed.  I waited there for the crew to head back after the festival was over and did a tremendous amount of journaling during that time, none of which is appropriate for here. Unless, of course, you crave the musings of an angsty middle-aged woman attempting to make sense of the disorder that as become her life. Well then. Feel free to e-mail me for the code to the top secret version of she·verb. I'm unlikely to reply, but you can try.

I spent most of the rest of the summer either reading about or playing poker, the details of which are all exceptionally dull, except for the part where I win money. Lots. Of. Money. I was tempted to start some side entries devoted entirely to poker except that every Tom, Dick and Pauly are doing it. That and I'm just too busy.  Playing poker.  And winning money.

I guess the summer of '04 officially ended for me with Frances. Despite the hype, she was supposed to be a big nothing up here in Gainesville. I mocked the Weather-Channel-watching fools who  lined up at Publix and Albertsons stocking up on batteries and bottled water. I mocked them up until my power cut off, then went outside to record the amazing winds that were capable of such a feat. Oooh scary! Look at those branches sway ever so gently!

That night I heard a tornado for the first time. Contrary to what you've been told, a tornado sounds nothing like a train. A tornado sounds like a plane taking off  in your front yard. No wait, it sounds like a goddamned space shuttle launching in your bathroom without your permission, and it freaks you the fuck out. I slept with a battery operated Grundig nestled against my ear while planning in my mind how I'd move myself and my dogs into my closet in under 60 seconds.  After seventy or eighty dry runs in my head, it occurred to me that getting all the crap out of the closet and some liver treats into the closet before the tornado hits would provide me with approximately 35 life-giving seconds. I was sound asleep at that point, however, and it didn't matter.

During the next five days without power, I became very used to walking around in my underwear and reading by candlelight. I also discovered that my gas stove works without electricity. (Can such things be?) By day six, I seriously considered ice a luxury I didn't need. Guinness and bottled water taste just fine at room temperature.

And now, on to the graphic portion of our presentation . . . 

20 mile/40 hour traffic jam--see the cars to the left!

They hiked 15 miles to see Phish. I drove to Brattleboro instead.

Help! I can't get to dog park! What will the puppies do for fun?

Our picnic table is ruined, I say. Ruined!

The mess that kept my power off for six days. God bless GRU.

This is the computer that poker built.

Before you mock the pretentious and supremely dorky hat and sunglasses, I spent the summer playing home games without them, not winning very much and merely breaking even. The two games I've played with them? I'm up a total of $210. That I could win so much online and barely a dime with real people made no sense to me. Then, several weeks ago, I discovered a tell that I have no control over--a nervous tick of sorts that I simply can not do away with. It's involuntary, mildly embarrassing, but completely manageable by donning this ridiculous outfit.