Earthquake Box

“Look it up! We need to get one.” Jenny yells from the kitchen.

Sitting just fifteen feet away from my sister, I can barely make out her words as the clanging sounds of pots and pans accompany the sharp popping of bubble wrap and the extended groan of packing tape being mercilessly ripped away from its sticking purpose.

Jenny is unpacking one of the 49 boxes the movers delivered to our apartment in San Francisco earlier this morning, while I have been given the charge of investigating an intriguing commodity called an “earthquake box” that a friend recommended we get as a precautionary measure. Supposedly, one chains the aforementioned box--filled with practical things like water, food, first aid supplies, radio, flashlight, etc.--to one’s bed or some other relatively large and stationary object, so when the “big one” strikes, sending pots and pans flying out of cupboards only to land Lord knows where, at least the emergency supplies would be where last left.

The whole chaining idea had me skeptical though. I mean, “really?” So I sought a second opinion and consulted Google.

“Earthquake precautions,” I mutter to my fingers as they type the phrase into the search engine.

I click on the the first link that pops up. Nothing could have prepared me for the preventive prescription.

“Strap water heater securely to wall.”

It got even better ...

“Be sure your house is bolted to the foundation.”

Now my jaw is hanging, and my eyes are bulging. Firstly, “chain, strap, and bolt” are all verbs I would associate with a dank and dark torture chamber, not casual carefree San Francisco. Secondly, what the heck size bolts does one buy to bolt a house to its foundation? And most importantly, could I find them at Home Depot????

And here I thought Left Coast people lived spontaneously, but unbeknownst to me, they do things like strap heavy objects to walls and chain boxes to their beds. Well, I reason, it could be worse. Thankfully, I realize, I’m not a homeowner. For the first time ever, I feel smart about not making use of the Obama First-Time Home Buyer Credit.

I also realize that I’m hungry and in need of something familiar, something comforting ... something to remind me of home, far away from fault lines, earthquakes, and elephant-sized bolts.

“Jenny,” I call out, “hand me one of those pots.”

Fifteen minutes later we are eating our first “cooked” meal in our new apartment, a steaming hot pot of deliciously spicy ramen, oblivious to any care, save the splattering drops of red soup, as we slurp up the salty goodness.

Spicy ramen and salad