My Planet: Finding Humor in the Oddest Places

It’s Your Fault

We recently moved to a house that lies a quarter-mile from an earthquake fault. For some reason, we did not give this a lot of thought when we bought the place. At the time, the distance from Quick & Juicy Burger or a decent espresso place seemed of greater import. The fault is named Hayward, which may have contributed to our nonchalance, for it makes it sound kindly and avuncular. Prone to tweedy outerwear. Not the sort of name that sends one running for the gas valve.

So we’ve been reading some of the government’s “emergency preparedness” websites to see what we could do to be better prepared.

“Are you ready?” asks the FEMA web page cheerfully, as though a natural disaster were a sort of amusement park ride, and all you need do to survive is be over four feet tall and lower your safety bar. The earthquake page suggests that you “stay in bed” and put a pillow over your head. It doesn’t say to put Lucinda Williams on the stereo and have a good cry, but I think that pretty much goes without saying.

Much space is devoted to the assembly of a home survival kit. This must contain not only the predictable items—water, canned foods—but mysterious items like a pencil and a medicine dropper. Ed mused that the medicine dropper was for nursing baby birds. “They fall from their nests and are unable to locate their parents because all the cell-phone circuits are busy.”

“Good,” I said. “At least someone will be drinking the canned milk.” From here we digressed into a discussion of PET Evaporated Milk. My mother always fed our cats PET milk, and I’d assumed it was a special inexpensive kind of milk for pets. “Why, sure,” said Ed. “It’s shelved right there next to the IDIOT Milk.”

I consulted the website of PET, known to themselves as “the dairy goodness people.” Alas, it said that the origins of the name were “lost in history.”

The survival kit lists go on for pages. Batteries, sturdy shoes, blankets. I understand the importance of having all these items on hand in your home, but why do you need to drag them from their appointed storage places and put them in a “kit”?

“Because… you don’t know where anything in your house is even when the electricity is on and the walls aren’t falling down?” guessed Ed.

I insisted that I knew where every one of these items was.

“Okay,” said Ed. “D batteries?”

I had to admit that the batteries were “lost in history.”

“Besides,” said Ed. “It’s important to have a kit.” Ed has a special weakness for kits. We have a first-aid kit in the car and one at home. While packing to move a few months back, I decided to actually look in the home kit. There were three rolls of tape but no bandages. I asked Ed if he planned to tape our wounds shut. He did not answer. I sensed he had other taping-shut plans in his head.

The Department of Homeland Security survival-kit list includes the item “unique family needs.” “Chocolate-covered raisins?” said Ed. “Lip gloss,” volunteered Phoebe, my stepdaughter.

All the sites stress the importance of having a plan: knowing where to go and what to do. “Stand in a doorway,” said Ed. “Get under a desk,” said Phoebe. We looked at the FEMA earthquake page. Item 4 said: “Use an interior doorway for shelter only if you know it is a strongly supported, load-bearing doorway.” They had forgotten Item 3A: Get an engineering degree.

Ed frowned. “Do I stand in a doorway or not?” I say go for it. Lean against it provocatively while wearing leather slippers and a burgundy dressing gown and say, “Anyone for a nightcap?”

Ed took the Unique Family Needs list and wrote: Scotch.