Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

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.

“Okay, that was terrifying,” I admit. Fletch and I are standing in the kitchen, illuminated by each other’s headlamps. “What do we do now?”

Fletch knits his brow. “Now we wait for the power to come back on. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

When we were looking for houses, our Realtor mentioned that losing electric is an occasional cost of living in a suburb known for its trees. We have so much old growth up here that when one strong breeze hits an ancient limb the wrong way—boom! No air-conditioning or Price Is Right for you!

Early in our home search, we saw some listings that had built-in natural gas–powered generators, capable of running the entire electrical grid. The preplanner in me thought this was the ultimate in being prepared, but Fletch disagreed.

“If there’s a cataclysmic event, you really think North Shore Gas is going to keep the methane flowing into the house? A generator may work in the short term, but if we’re going to invest in anything, we need the capability to defend ourselves,” he reasoned.

And at the time he made a lot of sense.

But now that I’m standing here in my hot, dark kitchen? Not so much.

I grab a couple of lanterns, a flashlight, and something to read. I decide to station myself on the back porch where I might catch some cross-breeze. Even though we’ve been without power for only an hour, the house is already sweltering.

As I settle in with my Kindle, I can hear Sergeant Fletcher poking around in the back of the house gathering supplies. He returns a few minutes later with a Navy SEAL–type apparatus strapped to his leg. In the wan light, I make out a sidearm, a small