Monday, October 29, 2012
For some reason, I cannot remember the name of this stupid hurricane. I keep misremembering it as "Hurricane Shirley." Hurricane McSorley. Anything but what it is. I think it's because the Shirleys I can remember are brassy and bold: Shirley Bassey. Shirley Jackson, the Partridge Mom. Fiery Shirley Chisholm. Shirley Manson in hawt pleather. Even Shirley Temple had ambassador-sized balls. Oh, and Shirley Hemphill (1944-99), R.I.P.!, of seventies sitcom What's Happenin!! Those are Shirleys. When I think of Sandys, I think of mousy Sandy from Grease (was there a Hurricane Danny earlier in the season?) or meek Sandy Duncan. Even Sandy Koufax seems shy and retiring for a famous athlete. A sandy is usually such a bland cookie--to me, anyway. A sandy is not a cookie that lives its cookie life "on the edge" like that totally depraved "Oreo-stuffed chocolate chip cookie." But I'm living with a hurricanephile, who is totally hyped-up and watching every foot Sandy moves on CNN, The Weather Channel and the rest with about the same degree of excitement he usually reserves for Lady Gaga or the cast of Glee. Just now, he yelled excitedly up the stairs, "The house just shook! It shook! Did you feel that?" Someone had just slammed a car door in front of our house. When I pointed this out, he insisted it was a hurricane jolt. Even though the wind is at about three miles per hour right now.