I’m an Easterner who grew up on a solid, non-shifting granite base. I know how to dress for weather and which storms not to spend on the beach (with or without Shelby Scott getting drenched and Natalie Jacobson back in the studio freaking out).

Tectonic plates shifting out from under me? Nope, nuhnhuh, I don’t know nothing about surviving that shit.

In the last few days, some quakes have been rolling spots on this the Left Coast. The other night, as we took a friend out for his birthday, there was a tsunami warning that thankfully became merely a warning, although the quake was real. Some expert on TV explained that it was cool, what with the ground shifting side to side not up and down, so no wave.

Both M. and some smart egghead, UC Berkeley seismologists are saying no big deal. Sometimes they just come like that. But, on the other hand, the same egghead, UC Berkeley seismologists say “Duh, San Andreas Fault, what do you think? Hello. Earthquakes.”

Meanwhile, I strongly suspect this weekend I’ll be stocking up on emergency preparedness supplies. And since he’s the one who got me into it, I’ll have to think hard about whether I share my emergency “personal care and hygiene items” with M.

Tomorrow at work, I might actually open up and look at the emergency kit in my desk drawer.

By the way, mensch that he is M. comforted me with the following: “Don’t worry about earthquakes. You have a statistically much greater chance of getting hurt by a spouse or boyfriend.”