I Never Used To Think I Was A Disaster Waiting To Happen

I never used to think I was a disaster waiting to happen. When we bought our house in Dana Point, I figured we had finally found paradise. There were a few “disclaimers” mixed in the escrow papers, silly warnings about wildlife and other dangers. Lose sleep over a rash of raccoons, a preponderance of opossums? Not me.

Then Hurricane Katrina slammed New Orleans. Before that, the tsunami roared through Asia. I started thinking about the reality of my little coastal paradise: earthquake zone, flood zone, tsunami zone, wildfire zone, and nuclear meltdown zone, not to mention an uncomfortably close proximity to terrorist targets. It’s a Disaster Zone Convergence. I live smack dab in the middle of what I now can only call “The Bermuda Shorts Triangle.”

Without a plan or a paddle.

I googled “disaster preparedness” and then corralled my husband. “I need cash. Give me small bills, everything you’ve got.”

“Is this a stick up?” he answered. I explain patiently that cash is king in a major disaster, so we need to stockpile. Credit and ATM cards may not work if the power is out. He was silent for a long moment, probably contemplating the horrors of being stuck penniless. Finally he said, “Tell me again the downside of you with no credit cards.”

This was not going in the right direction. “We also need to come up with an evacuation route. My cousin in Houston only got 40 miles in 16 hours. Freeways won’t work. I-5 is out. PCH will be a nightmare. I think we should steal a boat.”

“Why don’t we just buy one?”

He’s wanted a sailboat since the moment we moved here--exactly as long as I’ve refused to buy a boat. My disaster plan may need to a few tweaks. I skip ahead to step 3.

Stock up on shelf-stable food. That seemed like an important one to me since I do love to eat. I headed to my local big box retailer, the one that gives you a forklift to haul around your groceries. Shelf-stable…shelf-stable. Then I spotted the perfect end-of-the-world food: dried beans. Fifty pounds of beans is awfully heavy, especially when the little buggers shift.

I got my beans home after a small tussle with the trunk of my car, which reminded me I need an emergency car kit too. Somehow that bag of beans looked a whole lot bigger in my pantry than in the store. The pantry door only stuck out an inch. Hardly noticeable.

My husband walked in. “What’s wrong with the pantry?” Although somewhat annoying in the kitchen, he’s good to have in a disaster. Not only is he handy (he can build us a shelter from palm fronds), he knows how and where to shut off the gas. He swung open the cabinet door, dislodging my beans. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him they were shifty little guys.

“Beans?”

I explained the whole bit about the necessity of emergency provisions. I stressed the phrase “shelf-stable” hoping to impress him with my new encyclopedic knowledge of
disaster planning. Besides, weren’t beans packed with protein?

He practically snorted. “I’ve never seen you eat a bean unless it’s refried, much less cook one.”

I smugly reply that, worst-case scenario, I will be eating tasty beans while he will be licking the paste off old wallpaper. He responded that he would just lay in a personal supply of Hostess Twinkies since they were full of preservatives.

That was below the belt.

It probably wasn’t the best time to ask him for his Swiss Army knife.