Sweet Divinity: How to hunker in a hurricane

Sweet Divinity: How to hunker in a hurricane

Here’s something you might not know about me: I have often been referred to as “a force of nature.”

For instance, this afternoon a very passionate young lady handling the phones over at the electric company referred to me as an “irrational shit-storm” when I asked her why my home was not considered a “priority” the same as the hospital up the street. WE ALL KNOW THAT MY ELECTRIC RAZOR IS A MEDICAL NECESSITY. I even offered to fax over the photographs my proctologist took as proof, but she would have none of it. (By the way, did you know you can find a reasonably priced proctologist on Craigslist?)

But I digress. I am a force of nature. I’ve been labeled as “a tsunami of bad taste.” One time I took off my foundation garments, when a suitor I had brought home for a little slap-and-tickle screamed “avalanche!” before dropping his poppers and bolting for the door. There was also that time I was taking a lot of fiber supplements to correct the wonky cholesterol levels that are a result of my treating gravy as a beverage. About halfway through my visit, a co-worker walked into the restroom, gagged, and started throwing around dramatic terms like, “extinction level event.” Anyway, so, ding-ding-ding! I am a force of nature.

As such, I wasn’t at all surprised that Irma was every bit as nasty as we have learned anything named “Irma” always is. (Erma Bombeck is the only Irma that actually comes to mind, but I think we can all agree that she was probably just awful.) The largest and most powerful hurricane to grace the Atlantic, Irma took the long scenic route, effectively destroying every beautiful azure blue memory I had someday hoped to re-live in the Caribbean.

Like clockwork, Pat Robertson’s withered carcass was rolled out along with that old chestnut of blaming the gays for overheating the Atlantic waters with our Gay Pride marches and YouTube make-up tutorials. A bearded Jim Bakker once had Tammy Faye tearfully begging us for money to support his ministry. Nowadays he’s hawking delicious Doomsday supply kits that you can munch on in your Christian bomb shelters while judging gays and Democrats as God sorts all of us heathens out.

But, come ON! It’s Florida!  After quite a hiatus from the horrors that were the 2004 and 2005 hurricane seasons, God has been pretty kind to us. Since then He has chosen to punish the citizens of New Orleans and Houston with the wrath He always seems to spare Las Vegas when smiting sinners and pansies. Because if God was really sending hurricanes to punish and eradicate gay people, I’m pretty sure that Cher’s backup dancers would be in a flooded Caesar’s Palace basement screaming, “IF ONLY I COULD TURN BACK TIME, HUNTY!”

As Irma crept her way towards Florida, so erratically it seemed she was being fueled by gay bar Long Island Ice Teas, the panic started to set in for Orlando. Almost five days prior to making landfall, bottled water had flown off the shelves and ice was already in short supply. It’s amazing what people will eat during a hurricane. Sardines, Spam and potted Spaghetti-O’s became acceptable hurricane suppers paired with boxes of hot wine. The canned vegetable aisle seemed to remain fully-stocked, but people were already fighting over white bread and a box of Twinkies like they were the last post-apocalyptic insulin pump. The only two people in the produce department were me and an over-dressed in beige woman wearing a “Make America Great Again” button. The produce section was so empty that I would’ve thought the rest of the supermarket had been called to Glory during “The Rapture” had it not been for the shrieking of several children that had turned the store into an impromtu playground.

Some friends and I had visited an International grocery store early in the week in hopes that we could sniff out some bottled water from a less-conspicuous provider, and I walked out instead with two bags of pita bread and a 16oz bottle of Fanta. I’m a grocer’s child, so our idea of stability is to keep a loaded pantry. I opened the doors, proud that I had a packed cabinet. But my smile faded when I started considering what I was going to make out of the Epcot center. I had added pita and Fanta to the two cans of French pate’, a jar of Spanish olives, four  varieties of diced Italian tomatoes, a can of Old El Paso re-fried beans, some couscous, and half of a box of barley.

When Irma finally hit and the power went off, I was still waiting for the LED batteries for my flameless candles to arrive from Amazon. But I was able to fire up several Glade “Crisp Linen” scented votive candles that no doubt made my apartment smell as if someone was hanging out clean laundry in a swamp.

When it was all over, I discovered two important things: The first is that, after a week of delicious bottled water, I have come to the conclusion that the line from my kitchen sink runs directly from my bathroom toilet. The second thing I noticed is that neighbors were out helping neighbors. There were people giving lifts, clearing branches, and donating the water they had been so desperate to hoard days before. Not since the Pulse tragedy have I seen so many random acts of divineness and charity from people who hardly knew each other. It reminded me of the resolve our city has in the face of all kinds of storms. And while the trees may be down and the utilities out, Orlando will never be down and out in spirit.

Amen, The Divine Grace.

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