We don’t like you, Joaquin — and no offense to actual humans named Joaquin.

As I understand it, meteorological storms reach certain strength and are then named, in alphabetical order, after folks who work for the National Hurricane Center. I suppose there’s a certain element of “workplace celebrity” in such an honor — or maybe not anymore.

In my admittedly dark brain, I envision a woman named Katrina who was probably tickled pink on Aug. 23, 2005, when her colleagues surprised her in her cubicle with the big news.

“Guess what, Kat!” They were probably carrying balloons and cupcakes. “There’s a new hurricane and it’s named YOU!” And everyone in Katrina’s little section of the office whooped and after work they all went to happy hour and drank — what else? Hurricanes! Lots of them! — and, as Katrina probably told an old college pal on the phone later that night, it really was pretty cool to have a big storm named after you.

Then, according to my imagination, within 10 days, Katrina — the employee, not the storm — had lost 15 pounds, looked like the cover of a zombie novel, and was well on her way to developing full blown alcoholism. For the rest of her life, she won’t be able to look in the mirror each morning without thinking of the 1,800 folks who died hideously in a storm named after her, which, by the way, also fragmented anything recognizable off the surface of south Louisiana and the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

I’ll bet one could look at every birth record in the Deep South since September 2005 and not find a single kid named “Katrina” — rather like thumbing through post-1945 Berlin phonebooks and looking for kiddos named “Adolf.” 

Enough, Koster! Anyhoo, in preparation of the possible arrival of Joaquin, my checklist:

1. Beer

2. Salty snacks

3. Patchouli candles (scent goes well with damp beach sand)

4. The water we still have from Sandy

5. Mountainside condo in Smuggler’s Notch