It's a TWISTER!
So…yeah. I mentioned that I have, on occasion, exhibited paranoid behavior. This ranges from the mild (I check my alarm clock about 5 times after I’ve laid down at night) to middling (door locks, at least twice every night) to major (terrorism in general). I have learned to live with my paranoia as a friend. I deal with it, embrace it; my husband, for the most part, does too. Mostly.
Several weeks ago, our region got the mixed cocktail of a thunderstorm and tornado warning. For most people, the biggest reaction would be, “Damn. I left the umbrella up on my patio table at home.” Or, “Damn. My car windows are open.”
Pretty normal reactions, right?
Not for Guwi. For some reason, I was feeling particularly vulnerable that day. I ran around the house, closing all the windows. I pulled in the umbrella from the patio table. I put away bikes and turned off the pool pump.
But it didn’t end there.
I packed a survival kit. In a Williams-Sonoma shopping bag. To take to my basement.
The contents of the bag?
Two cans of ravioli, a can opener (I might be paranoid, but I’m not stupid) a pitcher of water (with a cover, duh) some bread, and, the king of all portable proteins, a jar of peanut butter.
The day passed without much weather coming our way; a mild thunderstorm, a bit of lightning, no tornadoes. I went about the rest of my day, completely having forgotten that my world was slated for destruction that morning.
My husband came home that night and saw my bag of supplies still on the counter. “Did you go shopping today?” We both love Williams-Sonoma, so he said this with a little enthusiasm. Then, he looked in the bag. Confusion. Realization.
Picture this: you go to your local shopping mall, strip off all your clothes and start running around singing “Everybody have fun tonight, Everybody Wang Chung tonight,” at the top of your lungs.
People would look at you like you were crazy, right?
Now add to your little mall striptease scenario the fact that you have painted “Soy Bomb” on your chest.
The looks turn from “this chick is crazy” to looks of bemused pity. Add those together, and this is how my beloved gazed upon me at that moment.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “Worst-case scenario, a tornado blows through here. You head for the basement, on your way you grab the kids and maybe the dog if there’s time (notice he leaves out the cat) and this?” He is holding up the jar of peanut butter.
“A jar of peanut butter is your contingency plan?” Then he starts acting out a little play. “Oh no! A tornado!” And he reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the jar of peanut butter, still in his hand, pantomiming the action of grabbing it, slowly, to show me how easy it is.
My feeble reaction: “But what if the stairs to the basement were covered with rubble and we couldn’t get up to the kitchen, and we had to eat before the rescue team got there?”
At that, he just quietly put the jar back in the shopping bag, came over and gave me a little hug.
“You really need to get out more.”
Fine. But he is SO not getting any of my peanut butter.