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Waiting for Sandy

Waiting for Sandy is much like waiting for Godot -- except Sandy is really coming. So we cook chicken in the morning, knowing we can eat it cold if the power goes out, and we take the dog out an extra time in hopes he'll not want to go when the trees are bending over.

But lunchtime comes and goes, and it's just rainy and breezy. On the coast of Connecticut, two of our offspring and their families are evacuating their houses, the one only minutes before the sea washes over the small stone bridge that is their exit, the other to a residential inn because the high school shelter looked jammed and impossible, especially with the high-strung Jada dog. She's welcome at the inn, and they're thrilled with a kitchen and two bedrooms and the location near the aquarium -- which means the unpredictable power company will be more predictable than on their home street.

The New York state kid is ensconced with child and husband in a ?New York hotel beside St. Patrick's Cathedral where prayers will no doubt drift over them as they eat their stores from the mini bar and watch the traffic lights change nine floors down.

At mid-afternoon, a stored Katie Couric show proves that Taylor Swift not only can sing like a lark but is a fascinating individual with a mountain of experience for a 22-year-old and, still, the ability to be thrilled by an award and by a young fan and by a new guy.

And it seems prudent to let Tracer pee once again, this time behind the house where the trees are smaller and the space more sheltered. The lights blink, the leaves fly past the house, the spruces are whipping. But Sandy, that rascal, is barely into New Jersey and has much in store for us. I can't seem to remember: Did Godot ever arrive
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