The hurricane whisperer

I’m what you might call a hurricane whisperer.

They follow me like a hungry hound.

A few years back, we moved to Hattisburg, Mississippi. A few months later along came Katrina.

Wonderful girl, Katrina. She howled and moaned and in a fit of temper, threw things all over the place. I was relegated to stay in our new home and watch 60-foot pine trees bend over backwards and touch the roof of our home.

Then there was the rain. Water shot underneath every door in the house as if someone was spraying them with a power washer.

I’d run from one door to the next with a dry towel until I ran out of towels about 10 minutes into the storm.

I think maybe I cried, but please don’t tell anyone.

So, I survived Katrina and moved back north where they had nor’easters, but no hurricanes.

Then I moved back south, where they do.

Apparently Dorian, Katrina’s brother, found out that I’m not living in Bluffton, South Carolina and is now headed this way.

“Get out!” yelled the Governor, which, come to think of it, is something I’ve heard a lot of over the years.

“Don’t wanna!” I yelled back. “I ain’t afraid of no Dorian. What kind of  sissy name is that anyway? I’m stayin’.”

“No you’re not,” shouted the governor.

“Yes I am!” I said.

“No you’re not!” said the person who says she loves me.

“You can’t make me,” I said meekly.

“Yes I can,” she said.

“Yes, dear.”

So, we’re tucking our tails between our legs …

“You’re tucking your tail between your legs,” said the person who says she loves me. “Don’t be blaming me if you’re an idiot.”

“Yes, dear.”

So, yep, I’m runnin’. Cause I’m more scared of her than Hurricane Dorian.

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