One of the most exciting parts about living in Texas is spring storm season. Obviously things aren't so great for the people whose houses flood or whose cars get swept away, but for the rest of us watching the show unfold on the news until the power goes out, it's a blast. Your life just isn't complete until you've seen a dumpster float down the street. Or a trash can whirling along on a torrent of water, dragging behind itself several pickets of the fence it used to be tied to.

We get good snow storms in Chicago, but the rain storms leave much to be desired. Drizzle drizzle and a little icy crust forming on the sidewalk really doesn't do it for me. I need sheets of water turning the streets into mirrors and the kind of thundercrashes that sound like ninepins falling down a three-floor stairwell, or the beginning credits to Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

Once in college I was hanging out at my friend's condo when a big storm blew into town. All we knew was that it was raining outside, because we were watching a taped movie and missed all the news bulletins. Meanwhile, a tornado was fast approaching the metroplex.

When we were done, I walked back to my dorm, because it was just across the street and all. I did notice that there was no traffic, but I chalked that up to it being one in the morning. I also noticed that it was kind of eerily quiet and windy, but the rain had stopped, so who really cared.

As I walked down my hall I saw that several people's doors were flung open, but I figured they had gone to raid the fridge or something and toddled off to my bed to get a good night's sleep.

Next morning I found out that the dorm had been evacuated and everyone had been crammed into the storage room in the basement for three hours. Luckily the tornado itself missed hitting us directly, seeing as how the dorm was constructed of cinderblocks held together by a thin layer of paint. And I lived on the top floor.

But at least I was well-rested.