Before I continue on with this commentary I must point out that the title of my column, as simple as it may be, came from my good friend Tiffany Sealock as we all prepared to return home Monday morning.

And how many times have I said I don’t like clichés? I don’t, but how funny is it that this title makes this piece seem like an assigned essay from the first day of school?

I swear I won’t rest easy until this hurricane season is over. Maybe it’s because I’m going through it for the first time as a homeowner. Maybe it’s because the novelty of seeing Southeast Texas “run for it’s life” has gotten old and tiresome.

Either way, I’m married now and with marriage comes the responsibility of not only making sure I fare well through an extreme weather ordeal but that she also safely gets where she needs to be.

Friday night football means I’m working until the wee hours of the following Saturday morning. I think I left The News at 2 a.m. and by 7 a.m. I was up and ready to get to Sutherland’s to buy plywood for my windows. With the help of my father-in-law, my home was secure and after putting in a few hours of work I grabbed Paige and we took off to Dallas.

We went north of Dallas, actually to a town called Lucas, to the home of Terry and Debbie Sealock, long-time friends of Paige’s parents. By Saturday afternoon we began reporting on panews.com that the mandatory evacuation would begin at 6 a.m. Sunday. Our plan, along with a good number of Southeast Texans’ plans, was to get a head start and beat as much northbound traffic as we could on our way. For once, I got a good taste of what it was like to actually be involved in the mass exodus. Normally, usually, I was the maverick type who’d stay behind to watch it all unfold.

Like I said, I’m married now. It’s not just my safety anymore I have to think about.

It wasn’t a bad trip up north, not with our fully-stocked iPod. Fantasy football podcasts, audio books and endless music kept me going on the sometimes crawling drive. But a few Diet Cokes and a McDonald’s stop here and there and voila — Dallas in eight hours.

I don’t know about anyone else’s evacuation habits, but I'm guessing we weren’t the only ones giving The Weather Channel its ratings. The ratings, I can only speculate, are the reason for the need to feed sometimes sensational gab to those it should be informing instead. Saturday night, until I went to bed around 2 a.m., Gustav was still fair game to virtually everyone in the Gulf Coast. I woke up hours later and found out, lo and behold, it’s definitely going to Houma.

Definitely. Not maybe. A few hours and we go from all of us to one city?

Yes, I did do my dance of joy when I realized my house was spared. And since I was in Dallas I figured, why not make the most of it. What else is an evacuee supposed to do but go out on the town, eat, shop and see a play.

I believe it was the IKEA of Mexican restaurants, if that makes sense to anyone out there. Urban Taco. Very quaint, yet modern, but great food. The playhouse was just as inaustacious, The Pocket Sandwhich Theatre. A dinner theatre, tucked away by the shadows of businesses; one of those places you had to know was there, or you’d pass right by it.

The play was a great little show, “Moon Over Buffalo.” I’d write a review if I could but this is neither the time nor the place.

A very hearty Monday morning breakfast was in order, much to my, Paige’s, her dad’s and Terry Sealock’s delight. It was one of those breakfasts made to stick and kept me pretty well full for the rest of the day. And that was good thing, because we had a long drive back to make.

The drive back was nothing, we took I-45 all the way down and cruised most of the way, iPod in hand and all the while organizing an ongoing fantasy football draft that was supposed to take place at my house on Saturday. No real traffic until Huntsville, where some returnees turned off on Highway 190.