STRANGER THAN FICTION: NEVER TRUST A FRENCH HURRICANE HEADED FOR THE U.S.

No matter how you pronounce his name, Georges has been a major pain in the fanny for The Other Half and me.

In my 21 months in Pensacola, I've seen Danny, I've seen Earl and now I've seen Georges.

No, I'm talking about hurricanes, you silly goose!

Even the names tell you a little something. Danny and Earl sound like the guys running the local body shop. Georges sounds like a French waiter who would roll his eyes as you struggled to pronounce "escargot."

My favorite editor explained how to pronounce Georges' name correctly. Pretend you've been out for a long night a drinking with a friend named George. Then pretend you're telling your spouse about it. Like this: "An' then the poleezh came an' they took Zhorzh away."

Of course, being that they were raised in the South and they're used to hurricanes, the locals aren't too concerned about how to pronounce Georges. They're calling him "Jorj-ez."

No matter how you pronounce his name, Georges has been a major pain in the fanny for The Other Half and me. We were planning to move Sunday to our dream home, only 10 minutes from the Gulf of Mexico. That seemed like a good location when we signed the lease two weeks ago. We didn't know we'd be throwing stuff into boxes two days early and running for our lives.

The upside: An approaching hurricane is a really strong motivator for getting packed and loaded up, especially if you've got the radio on. Local disc jockeys gave hurricane coordinates between every song. I have no idea if 27N, 86.5W is close to Pensacola or not, but that sinister music they played during those breaks really got me moving. Mr. Half, our friend Doug and me had everything at our new place within a five-hour time span.

Have you ever noticed you can't move without drawing blood? It's a given. This time, I scraped the top of my foot on the bottom of the computer desk. Mr. Half sliced his hand on the side of the washer and dryer. By the time everything was unloaded, we were just happy we didn't end up at (a) an emergency room, (b) an insane asylum or (c) a marriage counselor.

In fact, they shouldn't even call it moving, especially if a hurricane is on the way. They should call it marriage testing. I think the toughest test came after I'd spent three hours on my hands and knees at our old apartment, trying to clean enough to get our $300 deposit back. My cell phone rang. It was Mr. Half calling from our new home.

"Are you still there?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm just about finished," I said. "You guys left a lot of trash and little things that needed to be packed."

"Hmmm. I didn't think we left THAT much."

"You did."

"Didn't seem like it."

"Well, you did."

"Anyway, could you bring me a Diet Coke when you get done? All I've got here is iced tea."

Meanwhile, I'd been warding off dehydration by opening my mouth and leaning under the kitchen faucet. All the cups were with Mr. Half.

Most Pensacolians don't take hurricanes as seriously as we transplanted Heartlanders do. The video rental shop was hopping Friday night. Beer to bottled water sales were about two to one.

But the Weather Channel chick was taking it pretty hard. She kept giving these scathing reports from Pensacola Beach on Saturday. The sun was shining, forecasts said Georges was at least a day away and bored Pensacolians were out looking at the surf. That really concerned her.

Weather chick: As you can see, there are people out here looking at the surf. That's very unwise. They need to be taking precautions.

Anchorman: (Incredulously) Surely those people are tourists whose station wagons are already packed. They can just get in and go, right?

Weather chick: (Angrily) No, these are LOCALS! These people should know better!

Here's the thing. A lot of people -- like Mr. Half and me -- can't evacuate because their jobs don't allow it. So that means we've got three choices: Sit at home biting our nails to the quick, go to a hurricane shelter and get into conversations about the color of phlegm or go out and take a look at the beach.

Of course, we had a fourth choice: Unpack like mad and try to keep each other away from the knives.

Heidi Neiland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.