I tend to tread lightly this time of year. No, not to impress the Jolly Old Elf before the Christmas List Proof-Reading of Good Boys and Girls happens, but because on the Eastern Seaboard we’re, in theory, up to our hips in hurricane season.
That, some years we’ve been up to our necks is always a cause of both gratitude and a source of concern for me who, as an oldest child, has elevated fretting to an art form.
Actually if the International Olympic Committee were to make fretting a competitive sport, you’d see me on the medals podium probably fretting about the size of the sash on the medal. As women have insisted for eons, size really does matter.
But that’s not why I’m pussy-footing about as September skies cloud over and the sun and fun of summer days fades like a bad burn from Ocean Beach.
This has been, so far, a very quiet hurricane season, one might say delightfully quiet (not that anyone was complaining), or it was until these blabbermouths decided ‘gee, what a swell idea for a story even though we’re thousands of miles away from any worry about this.”
I’m fretting that now, like the sports announcer who extols the long range field goal kicking ability of Billy-Bob from State U just before he shanks four attempts into the crowd to include those in the other end zone and dooms the kid to swing shift at the Gas ‘n’ Go Car Wash, we could have ourselves a heckuva of a remainder of the hurricane season.
Thanks KOAA, for painting an orange bulls-eye on the backs of folks from The Keys to Kennebunkport. Bozos. I hope Ralphie (IV or V) shows up at your station Halloween party and is so pissed that he had to run almost a hundred miles to crash it that he stomps your wicker pic-a-nic baskets flat level with the ground.
Wait until I tell him you were having hamburgers….
Worrying about hurricanes almost drives me to drink-and I don’t want another drink. I only want that last one again.