Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (27 page)

She shrugged and then turned back around.

ARGH.

Of course, everyone in line clapped for me, but hey, that’s what friends do.

I didn’t want to engage the skycap too much when I got to the counter so I was extra-prepared with my ticket, license, and big tip. “I can’t believe after all that, she only gave you five dollars.”

All he said in response was, “Cruisers.”

Security also took forever, largely because three TSA agents spent ten minutes pawing through every single item in the Toenail Assassin’s carry-on bags. When it was my turn to have my license checked, I pointed and told the agent she was a problem outside, too. [
Congratulations to me for being a walking, talking piece of the Patriot Act!
] Last I saw, she was being escorted to one of the little rooms off of security.

If there is a God—and I believe there is—she received a full cavity search.

Bet they found five dollars up there.

I arrived home four and a half hours later and without further
incident. I stumbled going up my front step and that night I needed Fletch’s help to get the television off whatever weird button I’d accidentally pressed and back on my TiVoed copy of
American Idol
. Then I spilled a bowl of grapes and we had to move the couch to find them all.

We were laughing as we chased down all the shiny green orbs and in so doing, I knocked over my glass of wine, and almost soaked the cheese plate. “My God, it’s like I can’t do anything.”

Then I remembered my three weeks of smooth sailing through airports as I crisscrossed the country.

So I amended my statement.

“I mean,
almost
anything.”

W
e are the kind of people who are prepared in this house.

Always prepared.

Utterly prepared.

Of course, the manner of preparation varies according to each member of the household. The cats, for example, have a bead on the cabinet where their food’s kept, and at least ten times in the night—every night—they pry open said cabinet to feast on the exact same kibble located in their endless feeding bowl one foot away from the scene of the crime. [
We eventually have to install baby locks.
]

As for the dogs, they’ve stashed no less than eight thousand bones and tennis balls throughout our home, thus assuring the human members of the household frequently twist their ankles
stumbling over said objects in the dark when they’re roused to check on the cats’ banging.

Fletch says this is the dogs’ way of preparing for impending doom. He figures if the balloon [
Or is it the bubble? I can never get this expression right.
] goes up, the dogs’ plan is to hobble us so we’re easier to catch and eat. Considering these same dogs spend the majority of their day barking at their reflections in the window and tossing their own salads, I’m hard-pressed to believe they’re capable of this level of vigilance.

I, on the other hand,
am
that kind of capable. Seriously, you’ve never seen anyone so ready for some shit to go down; all you need to do is take a peek inside my purse.

If you’ve ever rushed a sorority or worked with a skilled wedding planner, you’re acquainted with the magical bag of tricks these ladies [
Or the occasional fancy gent.
] carry. Now I’m not talking your garden-variety bag containing mints or a couple of Kleenex (which, of course, they have.) Rather, the level of preparation contained within their satchels is an art form. Did your clumsy new spouse accidentally step on the hem of your dress during your first dance? Did your drunken sister-in-law-to-be spill her red wine in the limo? Did your monthly bill arrive right before the Alpha Phi open house? No worries! A good rush counselor/wedding planner has everything needed for a quick fix from sewing kits to stain wipes to every kind of tampon manufactured in North America designed to staunch any flow from spotty to tsunami.

Because I pack my purse for my own eventualities, my emergency supplies are a little more personalized. For example, I’m never without at least one extra string of pearls, earrings, and a
bracelet. Because I’m concerned about squint lines [
Botox can do only so much, you know.
] I always carry a spare set of contact lenses, eyedrops, and at least two pair of sunglasses. Depending on what kind of hair day I’m having, I can simply smooth out my tresses with the brush, yank it back in a ponytail holder, tame an unruly bit with bobby pins, get more sun on my face via pearl-adorned or tortoiseshell headbands, or coax my bangs back into shape with a single pink Velcro curler.

My smile’s guaranteed to look its best due to ample supplies of floss, gloss, balm, liner, and three shades of lipstick, which I apply depending on my mood and state of my tan. Should I want longer eyelashes, I have lengthener mascara and if I want them thicker, I have thickening. Although I hope the circumstances never arise, I’m also carrying enough concealer to camouflage a black eye or blemish up to and including the size of Mount Vesuvius.

Do I keep sparkle powder on hand?

Oh, honey, please.

Do you prefer iridescent pink or shimmering gold?

In more practical terms, I never need to make awkward conversation in a long line at Costco because I can busy myself with my iPhone, iPad, [
Complete with earphones.
] and fully charged Kindle e-reader.

Should my feet get cold, I have a spare pair of socks and if I ever find myself in shoes that aren’t one hundred percent comfortable, I’m packing Band-Aids, anti-rub blister stick, and the cutest little black bow-topped ballerina flats that not only match everything I own but also curl up to the size of a Honeycrisp apple.

My Leatherman tool allows me to open wine bottles, turn screws, snip wires, and, if needed, cut a bitch. [
To this point, I’ve only used it for wine, though.
] I can start fires
with my matchbook and cure anything from anxiety to acid reflux to shoulders strained by lugging too much with my ample pharmaceutical stock. I can even secure all the items in my bag with my ever-present gym lock!

On top of the extras, I port the basics, too, like credit cards, writing devices including at least one Sharpie in case anyone wants an autograph, [
So far no one’s wanted one, but when they do, I’ll be all over it!
] a checkbook, a compact, a handkerchief, and four kinds of nail polish.

Ironically, I never seem to have more than about eight dollars of cash on me, but that’s not the point.

The point is we like to be
ready
. I suspect this compulsion stems from when we were unemployed and practically destitute back when the dot-com market crashed. We were caught at such unawares that we vowed to never be taken by surprise again. I mean, if you’ve ever dined on a faux pizza made with stale hamburger buns, tomato paste, and nonfat mozzarella cheese because that’s all you have, you never, ever forget it.

And now, while this whole author thing seems to be at least semipermanent, I’ve yet to get rid of the clothes I wore when I worked temp jobs because my perpetual state of “what if” never permits me to let down my guard.

I liken us to the older generations who lived through the Depression. No matter how good and bountiful their lives are now, they can’t forget what it was like to want or need. Because of that, they stockpile resources. Grandma Daisy isn’t showing signs of senility when she cans every wormy peach she plucks off the tree before her driver drops her off for lunch at the country club; she’s hedging her bets.

Fletch’s preparedness veers more towards the dramatic. He believes the eventualities for which we might prepare are a bit more apocalyptic. Maybe it’s his military training or perhaps he watches too much
it’s-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it
Discovery Channel programming. But for whatever reason, he’s concerned a major catastrophe will occur in our lifetime. When it happens, he assures me we’ll be all over it.

Bless his tinfoil-hat-wearing heart.

As soon as we moved to the suburbs, Fletch converted our basement to a veritable army surplus store. Tucked between plastic tubs of ancient sorority sweatshirts and framed photos of me from a spectacularly big-haired [
And small-assed. Sigh.
] time period, Fletch has been squirreling away everything from water purification tablets to Arctic weather–grade sleeping bags.

He promises nothing will catch us off guard. Like, if a riot breaks out on the mean streets of Lake Forest? Perhaps in the main square by J. Crew or the Talbots? Across from the farmer’s market where they sell those magnificent heirloom tomatoes? Then his grenade simulators will disperse any crowd!

Chemical attack? No worries! Fletch’s premeasured sheets of window-sealing plastic and industrial-strength duct tape are located on the shelf marked Zombie War next to the box containing my Christmas nativity scene. (He’s very helpfully drawn an arrow towards his arsenal, so I won’t confuse his thousand rounds of ammo with the Baby Jesus figurine.)

And if the Russians ever invade à la
Red Dawn
, trust me when I say it will be Fletcher shouting, “Wolverines!” and leading the counterattack.

If being prepared is a virtue, then he’s Mother-freaking-Teresa.

Like I said, we pride ourselves on being ready for whatever happens next.

Or so we thought.

We’re upstairs having post-dinner ice cream [
Try Graeter’s Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip—you’ll thank me.
] and watching
White Collar
when I notice the sky has turned the same shade of purple as my dessert.

“That doesn’t seem right,” I comment.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Fletch replies, eyes fixed to the screen. I suspect someone may have a big boy crush on Tiffani (formerly Amber) Thiessen. [
Oh, Kelly Kapowski, your legacy lives on.
] “Besides, if the weather were really bad, we’d be seeing an alert.”

We’re at the point in the summer that we pretty much ignore inclement weather warnings. I swear that some sort of alert goes on every damn day and I’ve yet to see an episode of
So You Think You Can Dance
that isn’t at least partially obscured by a map of the tri-state area and rolling crawl announcing the possibility of wind in a bunch of counties of which I’ve never even heard.

Seriously, there’s no reason for the hyper-enthusiastic StormTeamSix folks to break into whatever I’m watching fifteen times an hour to tell me I’m going to get wet if I go outside. Um, yeah, guys, that’s why I choose to live
indoors
. When it starts raining frogs, feel free to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming. Otherwise, I need to be able to hear whether or not Mary Murphy’s putting Caitlynn and Tadd on the Hot Tamale Train for their interpretation of the cha-cha-cha, so stuff a prepacked sock in it, why don’t you?

We continue to watch the show, although I do keep stealing glances out the window. The sky’s the exact color of the bruise I got when that horse stepped on me in college. Stupid horse. [
This is, what? My fourth mention of the horse? I must really be holding a grudge.
]

“Trees are getting kind of bendy,” I comment.

His eyes don’t leave the screen. “It’s fine.”

The downside of Fletch’s level of preparedness is that he tends to not sweat the small stuff. Me? I’m all about the small stuff. I mean, a zombie war may happen once in a lifetime, whereas I apply lipstick many times a day.

The wind begins to howl so loudly that Fletch has to adjust the volume. I say, “What’s happening out there is the opening scene of
The Wizard of Oz
. I just saw an old lady knitting in her rocking chair go by, plus a cow, an antenna, and a couple of guys rowing a dingy.”

“There’s no alert on the screen,” he counters. “It’s fine.”

I know something’s particularly wrong with the weather because Loki, who fancies himself a lone wolf, is presently trying to climb inside my shirt.

When the wind hits so hard the second floor shakes, I finally realize what’s happening. “Um, honey, we’re watching a cable show on TiVo. If there’s a weather alert, we’re going to miss it.”

We switch over to network programming to see that not only is there a tornado warning, but it’s pretty much
over our damn house right this minute
.

We dash down to the basement, sweeping up cats, dogs, and ice cream in our wake. [
If I’m going to die, then I’m finishing my dessert first.
] Although the cats weren’t so much “swept
up” as “dragged kicking, screaming, and clawing the ever-loving shit out of us” as we wrestle them to safety.

And that’s where Fletch’s superior preparedness skills come into play. We immediately herd everyone into the most protected corner of the basement, where there’s a cushioned area large enough for us all to wait out the storm in comfort and safety. He’s staged emergency lanterns about the area, has a battery-operated NOAA radio at the ready, and we’re hunkered down next to enough food, [
Human and pet varieties.
] water, and medical supplies to last a nuclear winter. He tosses me a headlamp, an emergency whistle, and some antibiotic cream to take care of Gus’s scratch marks. I apply the salve to my gaping chest wound right as we lose power.

We’re under an active tornado warning for another half an hour and while we sit there in the dark, rapidly warming basement with the sound of a hundred freight trains going on overhead, the dogs aren’t the only ones shaking. The crackly, computer-generated messages on the NOAA radio make me feel like we’re among the last survivors on earth. As we hear about all the marine warnings, I say a little prayer for anyone on the lake who was caught by surprise.

When the tornado warning ends, we tentatively make our way upstairs. I half expect to see huge tree limbs poking through our roof, but for the most part, everything appears normal. Dark, but normal. Fletch patrols the yard with his flashlight, but other than a bunch of smallish downed branches, there’s no appreciable damage.