My Dinner With Irma

“Where should we eat?” I asked my family.

No reply. Not even a look up from their devices.

I stood empty and disappointed like Ferris Beuhler’s teacher… “Anyone? Anyone?”

“How about Chinese?”

This creates a sense of elation in one, deflates another, and I sense a form of tempered ambivalence in the one who just wants everyone to get along.


Groans all around.

“Hamburgers? Pizza? The sandwich joint?”

Nothing. But they’re all hungry. And I know they have ideas, tastes, and opinions. I just can’t pull them out when we decide to eat out. So I have to decide and bear the silent, smoldering wrath of whichever one doesn’t like my choice. This is my dilemma every time meal choices are in the offing.

Why can’t people just have an opinion and make up their mind?

Speaking of making up their mind, I had dinner with Irma Monday night. Understand that I live 300 miles from the east coast and 300 miles from the gulf coast. I have strategically and intentionally located myself to be close enough to readily enjoy the ocean without having to deal with those pesky hurricanes. Sure, we have weather issues here – ice and the occasional tornado. But ocean storms typically peter out long before they reach us and leave us only with wind and rain. This Irma though, she became a large, angry woman totally incapable of making a dinner decision – which makes her perfectly suited for my family (let me be clear – not the large, angry part, only in her indecisiveness).

We didn’t really prepare for our dinner date. I didn’t buy flashlights, batteries, bread, or milk. No, my crazy Atlanta neighbors tore the shelves down for those. I’m somewhat of a fatalist when it comes to that kind of thing. If it’s meant to be…

Sunday told us that she would still be a Cat 3 storm when she came knocking on Atlanta. She already had trouble deciding. She skipped the South Beach scene and decided Tampa was more to her liking. As she drove north and made her way across the state line, she turned on a dime and went west deciding Alabama was on the menu. Oh, she blew at us fiercely as she went past – dropped a bunch of trees and left millions without power. Spiteful hussy.

We didn’t lose power at my house. We live in the woods, yet surprisingly had no tree problems either. Two of my girls were home with us and one wayward daughter stayed at her school where they lost power and she had to eat cereal without milk for dinner – a choice made for her. We had fun hazing her by texting pictures of all of the power we were consuming at home. It wasn’t much fun after her phone battery died.

Then darkness fell and our stomachs rumbled.

“What do you want to eat?” I asked.

Absolute silence except the remnants of wind straining the treetops outside.

I wish someone in my life would make up their mind!



*Note: Although our brush with Irma was light, my thoughts and prayers are with all of those affected by her wrath.




Tom Brady, By Gawd

For the average fan, it isn’t often when your team makes it to the Super Bowl. There are exceptions, of course, but most of us don’t see our team there every year. I painfully remember the Falcons last trip. We were a huge underdog to the Denver Broncos and true to predictions, got steamrolled.

I went into that game with just a tiny sliver of hope, but this year feels different. This Falcons team is a good one – the best offense in the league and an emerging, hard-hitting defense. We aren’t the favorite, but it wouldn’t shock the sports world if we won. Unless you live in Boston. Because to the blowhards up there, we are a bunch of backwards yocals who can’t tie our shoes and there… well there, they have Tom Brady, by Gawd.

Listen to the wind and you’ll hear the Northeastern arrogance flowing like vintage 1773 tea!

To hear Patriots fans tell it, our lowly team has no business disgracing the Super Bowl. We don’t have the tradition necessary to get this far. The Falcons and our miserable history are just cobblestones for their illustrious tradition to trounce on. To listen to them, the Falcons shouldn’t even bother making the trip to Houston. Why would we even try against Tom Brady, by Gawd? Just read this tripe from a Brady jock-sniffer from the Boston Globe.

After the way Roger Goodell tried to interfere, it’s personal this year for Tom Brady – and Tom Brady gets what he wants, by Gawd. Soon we will be seeing clever new clips of adoring fans Matt Damon and Ben Aflack acting gobsmacked, like we don’t know they have Brady on speed dial.

And truth be told, we envy your recent prosperity. The run Belichek and Brady have been on is unprecedented. But lest you forget, this success could be Cleveland’s had they not had an itchy trigger finger. Not to take anything away from the last decade, but

the Patriots were irrelevant in the NFL until this confluence of coach and quarterback.

You were, in short… us.

You ran through coaches, tallied losing seasons (even a 1-15 season you’ve likely forgotten), and got blown out in the Super Bowl. Remember Da Bears? You will be irrelevant again and the rest of the country will be happy to not have to listen to your arrogant gawd-awful butchering of the English language.

When that happens, you will be crying in your Sam Adams and screaming, “Tom Brady, by Gawd” to anyone who will listen.

Only no one will.

Rise Up Falcons! Please let this be the beginning of the end of northern aggression.

Go Falcons!