Looking for a great Pop-Culture reporter in New England?
If you are, please contact me. All I ask is that you live away from the Pacific Coast and it's shifty plate movements.
In return for your interest I'll send you an amazing resume of someone (aka, my husband) very talented whose wife is dying to relocate to the east coast.
To be honest, for the past 14 years I've endured the longest act of holding my breath ever achieved.
Why? Well, because we are a family of four and having one of us employed with benefits is necessity and (as far as I'm concerned.) mostly the only thing that's keeping us (Okay, me.) out here in Southern California.
But, for the record, I've said it before, and I'll say it again, but I absolutely hate earthquakes. Seriously, hate them. I hate them.
Last night, after a long day of having great Fairy-Garden-Birthday-Party fun, we collapsed down to eat dinner and relax only to hear "tick, tick, tick (the sound always starts in the same place. As a rattle way high up in the same corner of the family room.) Then --- RUMBLE, RUMBLE, (big rolling lurch) SHAKE, SHAKE, BOOM, BANG!"
I yelled "Get into the hallway. Now!"
Earthquake. I felt like the house was in an elevator dropping quickly. My hands shook. My knees shook. I moved to the hallway wall with no pictures on it and eyed the front door. I wanted us out of there.
My kids followed me, through all this. But, not my husband. He sat there. Refusing to be suckered into reacting at all. He's sooo over earthquakes.
His sullen refusal to move was the way he always deals with disaster. He becomes intractable. Stuck.
Finally, he moved slowly off the sofa with a deliberate, calculated "Oh, please! I refuse to buy into your crazy belief that this could be a danger to us" attitude.
So, I did what anyone would do: I took my kids to the car and stayed there for well over an hour.
Tell me again, why do people live here?
It's like Jack's Giant fell out of the beanstalk then, inexplicably decided to go cloggin'. Or, like the fictional ghost train, The Polar Express suddenly exploded right through your living room, on it's way to snag kids to see Santa.
I'd almost say "without warning," but, we all know that's not true. We have had plenty of warning.
Some of us heed it, some of us don't. Try having a foot in both camps...
For the record, I'd like to state that nobody else had a problem moving into the van with me last night, except my husband.
The dog had no problem following me into the minivan, either. But, my husband? Nope. That's for sissies.
He came out for about 5 minutes then went inside to catch up on his fantasy baseball while his wife was in tears because she hates these earthquakes so much.
Earthquakes are for single people, not mothers.
Any mother that wants to live here? Forget them, they are bad mommies.
They fail the "safe mommy" test. Take it from me, California can be very scary.
So, I refused to put my kids back into their own beds.
I despise and loathe the earthquakes. This one was only a 4.7 out near LAX. On the "Newport Inglewood Fault" which, AM 1070 said (we heard out in the van.) was actually capable of 7.5 or greater. Oh, good.
Seriously, if there were anyway to justify moving to New England, I would.
I love weather. I love blizzards and thunderstorms. No Like The Earthquakes.
I feel like I will die if I have to live through anything like the Northridge Earthquake, again.
I thought we'd die, and that was BEFORE we had kids. Now?
I can't bear the thought of my kids being crushed under anything.
We had a lesser quake last summer at our house and many of our books fell down.
My dog bounced off the walls in panic. Yelping and tearing through the house. Pandemonium. I totally got how he felt.
And these last two weren't even supposed to matter.
What terrifies me is all the talk that "we are overdue for the big one."
Great.
"Overdue."
Choosing to live here is no brighter than running across the freeway on a dare.
Owning real estate here is like juggling with a blindfold on.
You might get some insurance money back, but you probably won't. You treasure your things? Well, they might be buried in rubble one day, soon. We are "overdue."
So, if you know of any publishing company (preferably in New England, but will take anything east of the Rockies) needing a great pop-culture writer: Have I got a reporter for you!
Like I said, I'm happy to send you the resume. Express mail.
In return for your interest I'll send you an amazing resume of someone (aka, my husband) very talented whose wife is dying to relocate to the east coast.
To be honest, for the past 14 years I've endured the longest act of holding my breath ever achieved.
Why? Well, because we are a family of four and having one of us employed with benefits is necessity and (as far as I'm concerned.) mostly the only thing that's keeping us (Okay, me.) out here in Southern California.
But, for the record, I've said it before, and I'll say it again, but I absolutely hate earthquakes. Seriously, hate them. I hate them.
Last night, after a long day of having great Fairy-Garden-Birthday-Party fun, we collapsed down to eat dinner and relax only to hear "tick, tick, tick (the sound always starts in the same place. As a rattle way high up in the same corner of the family room.) Then --- RUMBLE, RUMBLE, (big rolling lurch) SHAKE, SHAKE, BOOM, BANG!"
Earthquake.
I yelled "Get into the hallway. Now!"
Earthquake. I felt like the house was in an elevator dropping quickly. My hands shook. My knees shook. I moved to the hallway wall with no pictures on it and eyed the front door. I wanted us out of there.
My kids followed me, through all this. But, not my husband. He sat there. Refusing to be suckered into reacting at all. He's sooo over earthquakes.
His sullen refusal to move was the way he always deals with disaster. He becomes intractable. Stuck.
Finally, he moved slowly off the sofa with a deliberate, calculated "Oh, please! I refuse to buy into your crazy belief that this could be a danger to us" attitude.
So, I did what anyone would do: I took my kids to the car and stayed there for well over an hour.
Tell me again, why do people live here?
It's like Jack's Giant fell out of the beanstalk then, inexplicably decided to go cloggin'. Or, like the fictional ghost train, The Polar Express suddenly exploded right through your living room, on it's way to snag kids to see Santa.
I'd almost say "without warning," but, we all know that's not true. We have had plenty of warning.
Some of us heed it, some of us don't. Try having a foot in both camps...
For the record, I'd like to state that nobody else had a problem moving into the van with me last night, except my husband.
The dog had no problem following me into the minivan, either. But, my husband? Nope. That's for sissies.
He came out for about 5 minutes then went inside to catch up on his fantasy baseball while his wife was in tears because she hates these earthquakes so much.
Earthquakes are for single people, not mothers.
Any mother that wants to live here? Forget them, they are bad mommies.
They fail the "safe mommy" test. Take it from me, California can be very scary.
So, I refused to put my kids back into their own beds.
I despise and loathe the earthquakes. This one was only a 4.7 out near LAX. On the "Newport Inglewood Fault" which, AM 1070 said (we heard out in the van.) was actually capable of 7.5 or greater. Oh, good.
Seriously, if there were anyway to justify moving to New England, I would.
I love weather. I love blizzards and thunderstorms. No Like The Earthquakes.
I feel like I will die if I have to live through anything like the Northridge Earthquake, again.
I thought we'd die, and that was BEFORE we had kids. Now?
I can't bear the thought of my kids being crushed under anything.
We had a lesser quake last summer at our house and many of our books fell down.
My dog bounced off the walls in panic. Yelping and tearing through the house. Pandemonium. I totally got how he felt.
And these last two weren't even supposed to matter.
What terrifies me is all the talk that "we are overdue for the big one."
Great.
"Overdue."
Choosing to live here is no brighter than running across the freeway on a dare.
Owning real estate here is like juggling with a blindfold on.
You might get some insurance money back, but you probably won't. You treasure your things? Well, they might be buried in rubble one day, soon. We are "overdue."
So, if you know of any publishing company (preferably in New England, but will take anything east of the Rockies) needing a great pop-culture writer: Have I got a reporter for you!
Like I said, I'm happy to send you the resume. Express mail.
Here I am below, with my kids, and my dog all driving to Vermont, wisely fleeing the "Big One."
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