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Tomorrow afternoon I leave for Mozambique, so the posting will be a little light (aka nonexistent) around here for a few weeks. The past few days have been wicked crazy - evacuating, packing, tieing up loose ends, general running around like a maniac - so I'm really excited to finally get on the...er...road. Air? You know what I mean...

However, even though we haven't left yet, I've already had Miracle #1. This afternoon, I abruptly realized that my doctor prescribed me the wrong kind of malaria medicine and immediately went into a frenzied panic. (Why didn't I double-check this weeks ago? Good question...) I was prescribed the night-terror-inducing (but cheap) Doxycycline instead of the sleeping-friendly (but pricey) Malarone. Crapcakes. I called the travel clinic in PA, explained the whole situation, and asked if they could call in the prescription to a pharmacy in CT. The woman wasn't sure if she could, but she went out of her way to check and it worked! (She will be receiving a thank you card upon my return. :)

So after some much-needed and very-calming tea, brownies, and chit-chat with my friend J., I ran to Target and got there just before the pharmacy closed. I wasn't sure if my out-of-state insurance would work, but I gave it to the woman just for kicks and prayed for the best. I knew Malarone usually runs upwards of $150, but our trip leaders had asked us not to take Doxycycline and I had no desire to risk two weeks of bad dreams. The pharmacist went behind the counter for a few minutes to fill it, then looked up at me and said: "Well, I've never seen this before."

(That's one of those things you never want to hear from anyone remotely connected to the medical profession.) I nervously replied, "Oh? You never saw what before?"

"Your insurance acutally covers this. I've never seen an insurance company cover this before."

Hot dog! I don't know why a Pennsyltucky insurance company would be concerned about their clients contracting malaria - the mozzies from the Susque aren't that bad - but I'll take a $25 co-pay over a $183 prescription any day. Thank you, Lord. He truly stays one step ahead of me. <3

(And thank you, Bert, for working hard for that insurance that covers your globe-trotting woman. I'll miss you. XO.)

Culture No. 28: Evacuation ***Photo Update***

Here are some photos from our recent adventure with the Susquehanna. They were all taken from a moving car on the Cross Valley Parkway, so while they're not up close and personal by any means, they give you the general idea of just how much water we were dealing with.

This was taken north towards Forty Fort. There's no levee on the east (right) bank, but you can see how high up the water is on the west (left) levee. (This photo was taken on Friday after the crest, so the river had actually dropped a little by this point.) If you think it looks low enough, just remember: the levees are high and steep enough to make great sledding hills. That is just the very top. (You can see the opposite side of that levee below.)

The west bank levee is in the foreground. This is looking towards the unprotected east bank of Plains.

This was taken south towards Wilkes-Barre. (The domed building on the east/left bank is the W-B courthouse.) Obviously, you generally do not build railroad bridges a few feet above the waterline. The Pierce Street bridge is the bridge in the background. I believe both ends of the bridge flooded and the entire structure may be closed for quite awhile. This does not hurt my feelings. Maybe they'll pave it for reals now...

Nora promised to stay off the floor and keep away looters if I didn't make her evacuate. She is a team player that way...

Culture No. 28: Evacuation

I'm usually quite proud of my inability to panic - thanks, Y2K - but I have to admit: this week got the best of me. I've never had to deal with a flood before. Not of this magnitude. NEPA weathered Irene just fine, but Lee did us in.

The Susquehanna River floods. Constantly. All the time. Without fail. Since we moved into the area, we've heard story after story about the "Flood of '72," which was caused by Hurricane Agnes and inundated the entire Wyoming Valley. Many of our towns are protected by enormous levees. Agnes is why. I always understood that Agnes was extremely destructive, but I admit: I was seriously disinclined to fall into the hysteria that predictably followed every mention of its name. I thought it was just old people being old people.

But now I understand.

We got the evacuation order Thursday morning. When Bert and I drove over the Pierce Street Bridge the night before, the river was high, but not abnormally so. Not nearly enough to make me – the woman who lived with a swollen Susquehanna practically in her front yard all spring – concerned. So I was kind of annoyed about the whole thing. (At the time, I didn't know they'd already closed the Market Street Bridge and installed the flood gates - something I've never seen them do before.) I couldn’t imagine the peace of mind from leaving would be equal to the emotional pain-in-the-backside caused by crating two cats - yes, Bertie came with us - for a sleepover. But we went. A family that evacuates together, stays together. Lucky for Bertie.

When we drove over the Cross Valley Parkway - the only bridge to stay open through this whole ordeal and (consequently) my new favorite - to our friends' house in Nanticoke, I was utterly and completely shocked. Talk about night and day. In less than a day the river had jumped to the spring watermark, if not higher. I had no idea a river that large could rise twenty-something feet that fast. Suddenly, I was much more gung-ho about getting out of Dodge.

I slept terribly Thursday night, partially because of the cats (Just Nora. Bertie was a dream, if anyone is still interested in adopting her.) and partially because I kept waking up to check the news. Despite the Federal State of Emergency, Bert still had to work the next day (I am writing a letter to the owner of his company. Absolutely inexcusable to needlessly put their employees and the surrounding emergency workers at risk.), so we scooted back into Dodge bright and early the next morning.

The river had crested by that point, but the levees were touch-and-go and the evacuation order was still in place. Our neighborhood was empty and silent - like a zombie movie. I spent an eerie morning watching the news by myself, until about two when I called Bert and told him to come home and rescue me. Yes, I panicked. Totally. The Forty Fort levee (aka my favorite running spot) was in tough shape and I didn't want to be around if it broke. Our apartment is far enough away that we probably would have been alright, but our street flooded up to the second floor during Agnes and I didn't want to be rescued from our neighbor's porch, cats in tow. I am entirely way too young to be that lady.

So my knight in shining armor came home and we evacuated, yet again. We loaded up both cats - although Nora almost missed the ark - and hightailed it for CT. But happily, the levees held. The evacuation order was lifted at 2:30 p.m. today and the water has receded far enough for them to remove the flood gates on Market Street (i.e. quite a bit). Bert should be able to get home tomorrow without any problems and I'll still be able to fly out with my Mozambique team on Wednesday.

Whew. What a week. Here are some things I learned:

1. Never buy a house in a floodplain. Even if it's a 100-year floodplain. Even if there's a levee. Because even in the best of times, you will still have expensive flood insurance, a wet basement, and enough anxiety to sink a boat. Head for the hills!
2. Water moves faster than you think it does.
3. The worst part of a flood often comes after the river has crested. (This happened during Katrina as well.) They don't lift evacuation orders after the crest for a good reason. Your levees might be maxed and failing, for example. When they say "pack for three days," pack for three days.
4. The Smith's "Panic" is a really fun song to sing if you substitute the names of Pennsyltucky towns. Try it. "Panic on the streets of Kingston..." (I'd post the video here, but it's a little bizarre. Youtube it, if you'd like to see.)

And here are some things I am thankful for:

1. Levees
2. Friends who are willing to house us AND our neurotic animals.
3. All the EMA workers who kept dumping dirt on the levees when they got soggy.
4. The people who decided to build the levees in the first place.
5. That Bert and I did not rent any other apartments we looked at, most of which weren't protected by the levees and flooded or were a lot closer to harm's way.

And a whole slew of other “what ifs” and “could have beens” that I believe we avoided thanks to a very dear and loving God. I apologize for the lack of photos, formatting, links, and any other sort of pizzazz in this post. I know a lot of these names and places are meaningless to folks out of the area, but it's hard to convey the awesome and awful power of the river without referencing landmarks it did or didn't inundate. A flood is a very humbling thing and it's made me very grateful for God's love and protection over my friends and family. Stuff is just stuff, but it would be hard to replace people. (And cats, for that matter, even though they seem to be popping out of the woodwork. I was so upset when I thought we'd have to leave Nora behind.) Where ever you are tonight, I pray that you are safe, sound, and surrounded by those you love. <3

Cat No. 9: Alberta

No matter what he says, it really is all Bert's fault that we have a stray kitten living under our side porch. He's the one who heard a funny squawking noise outside our bedroom window last Friday and asked me to check it out. Granted, he's not the one who fed it or named it or made it a bed out of beach towels, but still... What was I supposed to do? Let it starve, call it "kitten", and make it sleep in the dirt? (Nix the last bit. She prefers the dirt.) Let me introduce you to Alberta.

I have a habit of assuming female cats are male - Nora was originally Norris - so our stray started out as Albert - after Bert, of course - until she sat still enough for me to...uh...check. Surprise! It's a girl! Bert and I are resisting (with various degrees of unsuccess) her feline charms and praying she's just wandered a bit far from home. I put up on ad on Craigslist, but no responses so far. Bertie seems quite capable of taking care of herself and I wouldn't worry about her so much except for the fact that she is definitely nearing (if not already past) the 'spay-able age.' So the question is quickly becoming: do we want one kitten now or six kittens down the line?

Nora, for one, would prefer no kittens ever. If anyone looking for a new pet? Nora will be indebted to you forever.

Commerce No.4: King of Prussia Mall

It’s a quiet Labor Day weekend here in Pennsyltucky. We planned on hiking at some point, but the weather is not cooperating and most (if not all) of the trails we were considering are still suffering from a bit of post-Irene fatigue. So instead we continued our extended tour of 'America’s Great Malls' – read about our visit to the Mall of America here – and drove down to King of Prussia on Saturday afternoon.

King of Prussia (or KoP, to use the popular/amusing acronym) is not the largest mall I’ve ever been to, but it is definitely the most disorienting. (Two buildings? An almost-but-not-quite figure eight floor plan? Uniformed customer service people who are too intimidating to ask for help? Oy vey.) Oh, and it was also definitely the nicest. By far. (Sorry, Westfarms. It makes you look a little Enfield-ish.) Very, very far. A little too far – if you take my meaning – which led to an afternoon of fun and unproductive window shopping. (I did get some candles at Bath & Body Works though, which Bert was sweet enough to cart through the mall for me. I can never pass up the 2 for $20 sale.)

Georgia Boy requested lunch at Chick-fil-a, where I was lucky enough to get my picture taken with the cow. We roamed through Lego and Northface, decided against entering the moshpit-esque Apple store, and even hit up Madewell on Bert’s request. (He was totally sucked in by the Loewy and Eames sketches in the window. You don’t have to ask me twice! :) There was no Anthro, which made me sad, but was probably for the best, what with my lack of actual employment and all.

We grabbed some Starbucks on our way out, then roamed around Crate and Barrel for a bit - amazing tea towels here - before heading home. We thought about stopping at the Conshocken Ikea, but decided not to since there is nothing worse/marriage-threatening for two designers than a spontaneous trip to Ikea. (Did you forget? We fight about furniture.) We made it home safe and sound and have not done much since. Ahhh, long weekends...

Cooking No. 9: French Press Coffee

Let me make a statement that has absolutely no bearing on my current physical condition: You know you are rockin’ the latent mommy skills when – at a terrible hour of the morning – you find yourself saying: “If you use the last one of something, you need to tell me, otherwise I won’t know to buy more.”

Welcome to the Carlton’s, circa 8 a.m. this morning, when Mr. C informed me that he used the last coffee filter yesterday morning. 10-4, Romeo. That is probably one of the last things I want to hear prior to my shower. (Another thing: “Nora barfed.” I heard that about three times this morning, when the resident feline decided to christen each room in her own special way.)

Fortunately, there’s more than one way to skin a cat in this household. (Pun utterly and completely intended. Nora has been an absolute brat this weekend.) I’m speaking, of course, of our French press. We almost had to whip it out for the first time last weekend during Irene, but the power came back on by the time we made it out of bed. (Don’t be a hater. I opened up the house for New England evacuees and no one came. You had options, just saying…) But in this story’s grand, ironic twist, having power for the coffee pot is irrelevant if you don’t have filters, so one of the shower presents we’d yet to open – believe it or not, there are still a few others – finally got its chance to shine.

Bert started off by coarsely grinding a fresh cup of beans. I was all for using the finer coffee I’d ground for the coffee pot, but Bert deemed me unqualified in the ways of the сafetière à piston and promptly went his own way. Granted, my one experience with a French press was an unfortunate episode in an English B&B that ended up with the grounds on the wrong side of the plunger and me wondering what all the ‘French press fuss’ was about, what with all the grounds floating around in your coffee. (This was the same trip I mistook a woman’s saltcellar for the sugar bowl and salted my coffee. Lesson Learned: When across the pond, drink tea.) So maybe he was playing it smart.

He followed up by boiling water in the kettle and letting the whole contraption seep for four minutes. Bert loves gizmos and gadgets – especially of the Bodum variety – so the whole process was really exciting for him. I was just excited when he handed me a cup of passable, ground-free coffee. It was a little cool – he was short on the boiled water and had to supplement it with some from the tap – but not too bad. Nothing the microwave couldn’t fix. Bert said he wouldn’t mind using the press more, but probably not during the week since it took awhile to clean up afterwards.

I wouldn’t mind using the press more either, but probably not before I’ve already had a cup of coffee. (I know, I know. My logic is terrible.) There’s something very romantic about a French press, but it’s a bit finicky, a bit too refined for a pre-caffeine activity. I have to time it? The grounds have to be on a certain side of the plunger? I can't just press a button? Sometimes in the morning, I put the cereal in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. There’s really no room for complicated rituals here.

So needless to say, I picked up a pack of filters on the way home from church. But if and when we run out again, it’s nice to know we have backup. Good, solid, ground-free backup.

Culture No. 27: W-B Farmer's Market

We are at t-minus two weeks and counting until I leave for Mozambique, and let me tell you: it could not come at a better time. I've been so stir crazy lately - not very becoming in a trophy wife at all. I'm actually looking forward to sending out my resume and writing cover letters when I get back from Africa. Wha...?! I know, I know. Who am I?

Still, the important thing is to keep busy, right? This morning I went to the Wilkes Barre farmer's market with my friend A. and her two little munchkins. We went for the first time two weeks ago and decided to try and make it a weekly thing, but got rained out last week in some pre-Irene showers and went to the mall instead. (Where A. had me try something from Gertrude Hawk Chocolates - NEPA's finest - for the first time. Yum. Who needs fresh veg when there's chocolate bars in the house?)

It's a bit overcast today, but the rain held off and we even managed a decent parking spot downtown. I picked up a quart of apples for Bert's lunches, fresh garlic for dinner, and a glass of apple cider for me. Cider is one of my vices - to say the least - so I didn't bring any home. I can literally drink a half gallon a day of that stuff... Absolutely deadly.

I love it when I have self-control. Makes me want to go out and buy some ice cream to celebrate! ;)