Work on Wednesday: One Day Late Due to Earthquake Action

Okay, now is as good a time as any to use the "earthquake excuse." I'm sorry I didn't post yesterday; I was too busy surviving an earthquake!

A few things to note here:

1. We're, like, a bunch of years overdue for the next Big One. We're pretty much on top of the San Andreas Fault, which erupts every so often in geological history. It hasn't erupted in a while. On top of that, there are oodles of other quite active faults in SoCal as well.

2. I work for a city that takes disaster preparedness VERY seriously. I have an emergency worker ID, a number to call when Armgaeddon happens, and a lot of expectations about what will be required. Not only that, but about twice a month all city staff are reminded of what to do in an earthquake: Drop, Cover, and Hold On.

3. I laughingly tell my Director that my codename is "Jigsaw" because I expect myself to go to pieces when catastrophe strikes.

Well, each time in the past, I have not been at work when the earthquakes hit. I've been at home, and each time, I have frozen in terror and didn't do the Drop Cover Hold On bit. Epic fail.
And then...yesterday it all changed.

Thank god it was not bigger, or closer, than it was. It could have been a very bad scenario: later afternoon; dozens of children still in the building for the Kids's Program; the middle of summer and therefore brutally hot and sunny. I was talking with one of my bosses in the doorway of her office when we felt the first tremble. I paused to see if that was it.

It wasn't.

It was loud. The next tremble hit, and I dove under my boss's desk. I felt like a fool, staring at my boss's feet (she had not yet taken cover) and I actually apologized. Then the next rumble, worse than the first two, hit and then my boss was right there beside me, taking cover under her desk.

Thankfully, her desk is big.

As the rumbling and trembling was still happening, I turned to her and said, "When this is over, we'll need to check on the patrons." I said it almost conversationally.

It took a while for the trembling to end. It tapered off, until it was just giving these occasional, convulsive shudders, in a twisted parody of an extremely prolonged orgasm. When the floor was finally done twitching, we emerged and joined the sea of city employees surging out of the workroom and into the Library proper. Our g

oal was clear and didn't need to be spoken: check on the patrons. See if they are okay.

Thankfully, everyone was.

I learned a few things during this event: 1. That I chose to die with my boss (that actually went through my head as I dove under her desk "I'd rather die in here with ---- than over there, alone, under a workbench). Didn't matter that I didn't die. I could have. And I thought I might. 2. I didn't actually go to pieces. In fact, I kept my head enough to Drop Cover and Hold On (I suspect I was worried that if I didn't, I would have points deducted on my annual evaluation). Ad 3. My library rocks.

Quite literally, actually!

Erring on the Side of Hope

California is...an interesting place. To most, it's a glorious place, with the promise of sunny, temperate days, glitzy glamorous nights, and plenty of potential success and dreams to lure many an unsuspecting soul here. But there's so many invisible (and sometimes visible) hazards. There are so many faultlines, ready to rupture and break us all apart.

So it is with Himself and me. There's always a faultline, in each relationship, even the most happy and blessed. In our case, the faultline is Himself's son (we'll call him Himself Jr), my soon-to-be stepson. All is not sunshine and harmony in our life right now, and much of it has to do with Himself Jr.

He's a mere fifteen years old...probably the same age as my mother was when she first started to hit the skids. I haven't seen Himself Jr. since before his dad and I got engaged last October; even before then, Jr. had been painting the town a little too red, experimenting with some too-dangerous drugs, getting into too much trouble with the law. We thought he was going to be going to a drug rehab/bootcamp center for a year, and just a day or two ago he was moved to one. Himself and I have had too much experience with addiction and criminal behavior in our families to do or think anything other than "One day at a time," but we still breathed a cautious sigh of relief.

Too soon, it seems. We got the call that Himself Jr. took off from the rehab place (apparently, in California, they can't force minors to stay. Bunch of damned liberal nonsense claptrap, if you ask me) and now no one knows where he is. I have to believe that Himself Jr. is as scrappy and resourceful as ever, and will show up sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, and almost certainly worse for wear.

But I mourn for Himself. I see the worry that is beginning to carve lines of disappointment in Himself's face. I mourn for his happy-go-lucky streak, his sense of self-worth, his optimism, each of which takes a hit each time Himself Jr. raises hell. I have never reared a child, most likely never will, but I have enough empathy and imagination to conjure the emotions that plague Himself now. And all I can do is just hug him, listen, refrain from making any conclusions or judgments.

The damned pickle of it is that I like this kid. The few times that we've seen each other, we've gotten along. Even laughed a couple of times. He's smart, he's honest (even with everything else, he's honest), and he's absolutely determined not to give a damn that he is wrecking his body, his mind, his life.

As I've said, both Himself and I have seen what addiction can do to a family. And so I worry for us, for our fledgling marriage, for its tender fragile state. I worry about what could happen if Himself Jr. continues down this path. But then, if the worst can happen, and our partnership suffers as a result, I suppose it is just as possible that the other extreme could also happen...

Out here in the desert, the San Andreas Fault runs right through, a volatile flaw in our otherwise stable earth, just ready to open its yaw someday and unleash untold destruction upon us, 2012-style. But here's the cool thing about the Fault--you can see where it is, because there's a band of green foliage growing on it. Green, in the desert. Even in the summer time. Because of the Fault. Water percolates up from the Fault, you see, so even this potentially frightening thing brings some good to us, some life to our region. And of course, it's just as likely as not that the Fault won't get faulty in our lifetime, thereby reducing all of my anxieties to naught.

I'd like to make it so that this faultline in our relationship can be like the San Andreas--despite what happens, or perhaps even because of what happens with Himself Jr., I'd like to see that something else, not awful at all, can come out of it...I'd like for Himself and I make it so that, like the greenery on the San Andreas Fault, something good comes from the faultline which runs through this...I'd like for us to make this a relationship strengthened, a love enhanced through even the most dangerous flaws that lurk at the heart of a home.

That's Great it Starts with an Earthquake

It was not how I had intended to spend my Easter (AKA Zombie Jesus Day). I had not particularly desired or planned to spend it on the couch, wheezing hacking gagging snotting my life away and reading the Buffy Season 8 graphic novel series. I didn't intend to be left behind as Himself went roving through the wilds of the high desert. And I sure as heck didn't intend to be preparing myself to kiss my ass goodbye and readying myself to potentially depart this plane of existence.

Okay, yes, in hindsight, that statement is a tad melodramatic. I tell you what, my people, it wasn't so over-the-top of a statement yesterday when I found myself realizing, "Hey, that's NOT a delivery truck..." It was, in fact, an earthquake. A big one. The Big One? I didn't know. All I knew was that, each time in the past, these little rumblers have been over within seconds, before I had time to react. And I had grown complacent as a result. And yesterday, when the floor started bouncing and the walls and ceiling began to shift, I thought "Earthquake! Don't move, it'll be over soon...now...now...now?" And it kept not being over. The shaking kept on, and the shaking got worse, the rumbling grew louder, and may I re-iterate that the floor was bouncing. Things that are unmovable shouldn't...well...move. I finally felt my limbs begin to unfreeze, and I got off the couch and went to an inner doorway like they always say (I'm pretty sure "they" were never in an earthquake) you're supposed to do, and that's when the shaking got to be the worst. The beautiful old antique grandfather clock that Himself has had for many years, and has not worked of its own accord in the same time, was swaying back and forth so violently that it was gonging as though it were high noon.

And then it ended.

I was choking on my own fear (as opposed to the nasty phlegm which has taken up residence in my body since I got sick), breathing in short, tense gasps. I didn't know where it was, or how big it was, but my instincts told me that it was BIG. (The longer the earthquake goes on for, the bigger it is, usually). I called Big Sissy in New Jersey to let her know I was 0kay. And then I bought two one-way, non-refundable plane tickets to the Midwest.

Okay, not really, not that last bit. In fact, being on the phone with Big Sissy helped calm me down. And we didn't lose power, and nothing broke, and frankly, we got off very very lucky. But still? I'd rather have ham and chocolate easter bunnies than this s*^t.

Balls McCarthy, though, I'd take a tornado any day!

It's the end of the world as we know it

Southern California, much like Manhattan, is known for its high cost of living. I know people who pay close to $1000 a month for a room--a single, undersized room, I say--in Los Angeles. It's hardcore down here, let me tell you. All these people falling all over themselves to pay out the nose for the privilege (hurumph) of living in California...it boggles my mind.

Fortunately, I am not one of those poor fools.

We live in a debatably cool city--Palm Springs, home of the 117-degree summer days, haven for the gays and grays. While it's no San Diego or Rancho Santa Margarita (I'd live there for the sake of its name alone), it sure as shit beats Beaumont, or Fontana, or San Bernardino, or Hemet. And not only do we live in a cool area, we rent a pretty damned nice place for a (relatively) cheap rent. Two lovely patios, three bedrooms (one of them, admittedly, small enough to house my bookcases, the litterbox, and not much else), a fireplace, a big kitchen, all for a price that still allows me to waste a sinfully large amount of money on dining out and lipsticks I promptly lose.

The only drawback to our happy little home is that it's right by a service road which leads to one of the local ritzy hotels frequented by the film crowds. All hours of the day and night (why a tree-mincing truck feels the need to lumber past at two in the morning, I've not figured out, especially since we live in THE DESERT and there's not too many trees to mince), delivery trucks and landscaping trucks and, possibly, elephants and blue whales rumble past, and their engines are powerful enough to make the bed tremble and the windows rattle.

And we live in Southern California. Have I mentioned that?

On the San Andreas fault.

Which is dangerously overdue for the next Big One.

And when that big mother hits, we're going to be so royally fucked, because if it happens while we're at home, we'll be buried under the rubble of 1000 books and two tons of cat fur because we just made the merrily misguided assumption that the Parker Hotel was due for its next big delivery of posh-people food and booze.

I never should have watched 2012 last weekend. Nuts.