I was named for a hurricane that spawned a tornado that blew the roof off of my parents’ apartment building, when my mother was pregnant with me. The roof landed on their car, pancaking it. The bedroom window shattered nearly lacerating my grandfather ; the rain blew in vertically, which in turn, ruined the new living room furniture.
Why my mother went with the name, I dunno? I can only presume that I kicked the crap out of her. Or that her perpetual morning sickness felt like an unholy natural disaster. Or she may have simply liked the name?
But, whatever, the source, I rather like it. And I do have the propensity to cause chaos, none of it intentional.
Now I’m a mother of a whip-smart 9 year old boo-berry, Walker. I share custody with her other mother, my former partner of 16 years.
I am owned by two huskies, one beagle, two Maine Coon rescue puddy-tats, a shy fish that lives in the toilet (Fish ‘N Flush–Google it, because it’s badass.) My cyclonic mess is tolerated by my partner, a well-organized neat-nick: the lovely, dimple-blessed Kate.
I am fluent in second-grade French.
My British accent is bested only by Walker and Madonna.
Other talents include cat herding, fist pumping, ghost hunting, home renovation (pays the bills), creative excuses for shitty tennis performance, mowing the lawn to look like Wimbledon, and rescuing goats in Atlanta, on busy roads.
In graduate school, after reading my creative short stories, my professor called me aside and said, “You look so normal. I wouldn’t know you were so odd in there.” He tapped his cranium with a gnarled arthritic finger. Then, he laughed and laughed.
