Hurricane Season

Hurricane Season
"Nowhere to Run to Baby, Nowhere to Hide"

While our attention was focused on the Olympics, high fuel prices and how desperately Madonna needs to grow eyebrows and adopt a softer, more flattering hairstyle, autumn blew into the Northwest. With it comes Hurricane Mary season.

I'd like to say that I spent the lull before the storm learning to speak Mandarin Chinese, doing volunteer work at the hospital and reading to lonely shut-ins. In truth, I drifted into a dream-like state. During the day I fantasized about new home projects for my husband, at night I listlessly watched TV. Too many evenings spent with Regis Philbin and the warped folks on "Survivor" caused my rapier-like wit to dull and I lost touch with what's meaningful. When I snapped out of my lethargy, I became a whirlwind of activity, ordering an immediate yard clean up. The autumn leaves of red and gold so cherished in Johnny Mathis songs had blanketed the deck. Spiders had spun cobwebs of Belgian-lace under the swelling eaves. Needles from the pine tree in the back yard were as high as an elephant's eye. Every plant, flower, tree and vine in the yard needed spaying and neutering.

All vestiges of summer, wicker chairs, water toys, the crusty barbecue and 4,000 feet of garden hose, were placed in alphabetical order in the garage, as Martha Stewart advised in her "farewell to summer" episode. My husband tackled the garden, hauling several tons of zucchini to the Squash Recycling Center with a vow of "never again."

Inside the house, I had fallen dangerously behind on my housekeeping chores. The last rose of summer had dropped its petals on the un-vacuumed carpet. A stack of how-to home improvement manuals gathered dust on a table I'd meant to refinish. In the kitchen the aroma of spiced cider did little to distract from the 40-watt light bulbs dangling from the unfinished ceiling. My lovely Congoleum floor was icky and sticky.

I became so overwhelmed looking at the mess that I switched on the TV and put my feet up to think. It occurred to me that a fall home improvement project might give us all a much-needed boost.

But are we ready emotionally? We're still recovering from the French door episode, we don't even discuss the kitchen ceiling anymore, and the bathroom project still isn't complete.

Besides, autumn should be a time of contemplation. A time to decide whether to vote for Ralph Nader or Dave Barry for president, to think about what side dishes to serve for Christmas dinner, to snuggle close to the remote control and enjoy the new fall line-up on TV.

And we're so busy, I reminded myself as I turned the volume up on the TV. My schedule rivals the pope's, if he was a working parent. This week I have to take a neurotic pet to a neurotic vet, help with science homework involving monkey chromosomes, make four dozen finger sandwiches for a church phone-a-thon, conduct high level negotiations with the auto mechanic and meet two editorial deadlines.

My husband is immersed in his two jobs and the challenges of being married to Lucy Ricardo. I certainly don't want to be a nag like the Florida woman who wrote to "Dear Abby" to complain that she's been trying to get her husband to replace the bathroom shower head for three years.

I'd just have to approach him gently.

"I have an idea for a nice, dry inside project that won't cost too much," I enthused the other night. "A walk-in closet in the kid's room."
Not enough space, he said.
"Yes there is! Let me show you.

We eased ourselves through the corn maze that is our son's room, trying not to step on several hundred Star Wars figures.

He got out his tape measure and whipped it around like a rodeo cowboy lassoing a bull.

"You want a full walk-in closet in this tiny space? It won't work. "Why, not? I pouted.
"There's a supporting beam here that has to stay.
"Just build around it, honey.
He snapped the tape measure, looked at me with that "you're going to a mental institution any day now expression and said, "You'll make me crazy if I refuse to do it, right?

"Certainly not. Just keep in mind our son may never achieve greatness if he doesn't have a proper closet, I said with a Mona Lisa-like smile.

"Okay, okay. I can have it done by Thanksgiving. But I'll have to knock out two walls, replumb part of the bathroom and ask the doctor to prescribe a mild sedative.

"What do you mean a mild sedative? For whom?
"For you.
This man knows he's trapped in the eye of the storm -Hurricane Mary is back in town.

Madcap Mary Mendoza, formerly known as Hurricane Mary, lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, son, three cats and 200,000 Sunset magazines.