In Which Amy Wishes for Sunny Weather

I don't ask for much.

Okay, maybe I do, but I try not to.

I want to win the lottery because I've been dreaming about how I would walk into an Aston Martin dealership in jeans, Chucks, and a yellow hoodie sweatshirt with a duffel bag full of cash since I first saw an Aston Martin DB5 convertible.

How can you not love that? It's so exquisite, I could just faint.

I also have this dream about buying the old house on Clubhouse Road (also armed with a duffel full of cash), but that dream is more personal and tends to make me cry--because I'm a raging wimp--so I won't share it.

Recently, my dreams have been a little bit closer to home. I searched high and low for a preschool for Lizzie. I applied at almost every one I found or was told about, but we were turned down for each one. There was always the same excuses: we make too much money (??), they didn't have any room, there was a waiting list she could be put on, etc. The only preschool I found that did have room was a school right behind my school. Perfect, right? Nope. It's a not-great neighbourhood of Elmira and there had been a shooting less than a block away from it a few weeks ago. If I wanted that, I'd put her in preschool in Kabul.

I also have been dreaming about getting a job. School is almost over and we all remember my anxiety-driven post about finding a job. Everyone was so supportive about just applying for every job I found, so I will. Of course, the Perfect Job would be close to New Jersey (via Philly and vicinity or Easton and vicinity), but I'll take anything to help contribute to the household again. Hopefully, all the ass kissing I've been doing in Medical Transcription will encourage my teacher to hire me to work at the pain management office where she's the office manager.

But right now--specifically, right this very second--I'm dreaming about coming to New Jersey for Labor Day weekend. These plans have been in place for weeks. Dad invited us to come down. In fact, Dad insisted we come down. It seems Dad had already planned Saturday to a tee: a trip to Brick Beach for us three, himself, and Donna. He already had the beach passes and vouchers for free parking. Then we'd all go to Point Boardwalk Saturday night. Wow, talk about planning ahead, huh? The man is like Willy Wonka mixed with The Pied Piper with a dash of Walt Disney thrown in for more whimsy. Lizzie loves hanging out with her Granddad and I'm about 110% sure he's pretty cool hanging with her too.

Then Sunday, Erick, Lizzie, and I were to head to Cara's house for a bar-b-q. How jealous are all of you? I've never been more popular, with people asking us to hang out when we come to New Jersey. Usually, visits with friends are not in the cards, but this visit I specifically made time for someone. Cara seemed like the most obvious choice: we have a blog together, we have kids the same age, and she offered (snicker). Because of all those things, as Cara puts it, we're sort weirdly online dating. Cara had instructed me not to bring anything to her house, but I ignored her and decided that a batch of Erick's Above and Beyond Yummy Rum Runners were in order. I mean, what else do you do with someone you haven't seen in 15 years? You drink, of course.

Enter Earl.

I doubt I have to tell you all how much I hate hurricanes. Hurricane Gloria was pretty cool when we were kids: we got out of school, we lost power, and I got to read by candlelight like Abe Lincoln. But as I got older, hurricanes became less cool in the way snow gets less cool when you realize that they don't cancel work for 4 inches of flurries and you still have to sit in your office all day long instead of wearing your jammies and watching bad daytime TV all day long. Hurricane Katrina--well, I really don't have to go there, do I? That being said, I didn't want Earl to hit the Gulf Coast. Haven't they been through enough? But I sure as hell didn't want Earl to land in what the newscasters were calling "the Northeast." Guess where New Jersey is. The Northeast. Guess where I was supposed to go for Labor Day. The Northeast. Guess where Earl was going. The freaking Northeast.

So I now sit and wait for Dad to call and let me know if I should start packing for our trip to New Jersey. Every time the phone rings, I leap out of my skin and grab at it. So far, it's only been Erick and Mom, both asking if Dad's called yet. Good Lord, no, not yet. Knowing Dad--and my luck--I'll get the call so late in the afternoon after being on edge all day long that I'll end up running around like a chicken with my head cut off as I try desperately to get ready to leave.

And don't try to tell me to get ready beforehand: To get ready beforehand would spell abject disaster.