Actually, hope floats on Biscayne Bay. Look it, I don't make this shit up! This extraordinary piece of driftwood was just lying there during low tide, ok? Taken at Matheson Hammock Park by yours truly.
Since June 1st, I've been thinking about whom I would choose as this year's Hurricane Season Boyfriend. In seasons past, I've chosen men for their ability to perform duties around the house who would also be able to service me, in spite of the fact that hurricanes are an instant buzzkill. Yes, after the beer gets warm and the ice costs more than a gallon of gas, even the most rambunctious penis could shrivel up and become one sweaty, cranky bastard.
In 2006, I was so moved by the prodigious size of Colin Farrell's schlong (readers, do you recall that endless, obnoxious editorial?) that I thought of choosing him until the unfortunate tragedy of Katrina reminded me that Harry Connick Jr. not only made me swoon because he croons, but also because he could help save a city in all his shirtless pectoral glory.
Yet there's one thing Harry darlin' couldn't do and that's cook, which is why I chose chef Robert Irvine in 2007. Any pair of biceps that can whip up a bearnaise sauce on the sterno and hold me up for a good hump against the fridge is a priority item in my list of hurricane supplies!
This year, though, I've drawn a blank. Well, maybe -- a remote maybe -- Brad Pitt. But he's so busy making babies and building environmentally-friendly homes in New Orleans that in all fairness I don't think he'd be able to shuffle his time between Angelina and Manola.
No, no ... I'm afraid that this year I've drawn a real blank, a complete and utter emotional, libidinal blank. I've gone numb and I'm not even taking Prozac! Perhaps it's the fact that I'm 40 and that I don't give a shit about hurricanes anymore, much less that other heavy drop in the barometer -- the social pressure against all things single. Plus, I'm tired of that constant "preparedness" cycle. Think about it: you work so hard at even getting to a relationship and then the storm blows over and your happy ever after becomes an aftermath.
And you have to wonder, what happens after the aftermath? That's where the true test lies. Most women wouldn't want a hurricane season boyfriend; they'd want a man for all seasons -- one who could bear those stings and arrows of outrageous weather patterns.
As in hurricanes, so in relationships. You don't just have to prepare for the bad shit. You have to prepare for the bad shit after the bad shit.
Oh heck. As a Miami native, I've come to the conclusion that hurricanes are just like bad cramps. I have a rare genetic mutation that spares me from PMS and makes me forget I am a menstruating organism for most of the month until my boobs get bigger and start to hurt. I've been going through this seemingly endless cycle since I was nine years old and yet every single time my body signals menstruation a little voice in my head says "Oh really? This again?"
So that's how I feel about this year's hurricane season. "Oh really? This again?" And no, a more pronounced cleavage is hardly a gauge for tropical disturbances in the Atlantic.
I've been doing this hurricane thing on my own for so long that I don't think I'll need any help this time around. Let's take things easy. How about dinner and a movie first, before we start hammering up shutters? And how about you get to choose your own name, instead of being baptized randomly A to Z by the National Weather Service?
And besides, I already had one torrid, traumatic relationship with a storm, which is kind of groovy. My life's story since August 1992 has always been expressed as B.A, A.A. (before Andrew, after Andrew). I never say that about any of my ex-boyfriends! I've also never assigned categories to men, no matter what their wind speed.
When dealing with hurricanes and boyfriends, there are two very different tactical approaches and survival philosophies. Hurricanes: expect the worst but hope for the best. Men: expect the best, hope for the best but above all deserve the best.
Ladies, when it comes to those unpredictable tempests, don't listen to the hurricane experts. Every year, they broadcast the same doom and gloom: "Global warming is the culprit. We're all going to die!" But let me tell you, if you're a single gal in this city, global whoring is likelier to do more damage, no matter how many shutters you smack down on a vulnerable heart.