Turns out, we’re all meteorologists

Profile picture at Mike’s Weather Page on Facebook.
Profile picture at Mike’s Weather Page on Facebook.

My wife has a new man in her life.

His name is Mike.

She met him on the internet.

Mike even has his own Facebook page, with 104,000 likes. It’s called Mike’s Weather Page.

Mike’s a lot like me.

She never sees him. He spends most of his time noodling on the computer. And in his one-way conversations, he rambles aimlessly, like the “spaghetti models” of Hurricane Matthew he’s dissecting for the world.

My beautiful bride thinks Mike really understands her feelings. She wants truth in hurricane hysteria.

“That television is a science fiction movie,” she said, not looking up from her laptop, shushing me so she didn’t miss a muttering word from HIM.

Mike may have given the world the viral shot of Hurricane Matthew that looks like a skull with an evil grin and electric eye. It’s his profile picture.

She thinks its viral spiral started in our den when she posted the image among her many Hurricane Matthew pronouncements to the world at-large. Mike has given now her the confidence to embrace her inner self. And she has discovered that she is a meteorologist.

To hear her tell it, all we will get is a few sprinkles.

I think this is a natural euphoria from dodging Hurricane Matthew’s meanest blast: a five-night stay at the scenic Chainsaw Massacre Inn on Whiskey Road in Aiken. I booked her and the three dogs a cozy room far away minutes after Gov. Nikki Haley announced that the sky was falling and everyone in Beaufort County rushed to the gas station and then vanished.

A couple of hours later, my dear friends at Expedia emailed that the room wasn’t available after all.

Translation: Someone probably walked in with cold cash, and a room that normally goes for 59 cents an hour was suddenly worth $400 a night.

Quickly, we were among the only people on Hilton Head Island. Savor that thought.

I was at David Martin’s Piggly Wiggly, partying like it was the Red and White.

He stayed open through Thursday.

Vince Handley was in the parking lot in his shiny 1967 Camaro 350. He was taking her for one last spin around Coligny Circle in case this was the big one. His beautiful bride was having to pry his oil-stained fingers from the steering wheel as they did like the rest of us loners. We stocked up on staples like bathtub stoppers while “keeping an eye on” the hurricane.

Late Thursday afternoon, I pulled up to the guard gate at Sea Pines expecting that, under the conditions, I’d have to leave a blood sample to get into the hallowed grounds. The gate building was empty, and so were the streets.

In Harbour Town, the red rocking chairs were upside down and bound together, being held hostage by Hurricane Matthew. The marina was full of gigantic boats. I asked a guy walking on the dock with a tennis racquet in his hand if that was a safe place for boats during a hurricane.

“We’ll find out in a few hours,” he said.

We have all discovered that we are meteorologists. We all want to be like Mike and make it go away.