Dialing for coffee

The scene: Early summer morning. One spouse is at home, surrounded by all the modern communications gear a man could want. The other spouse is out running errands, and she has a cell phone in her purse.

The husband, sweaty in his workout duds, comes in from the three-car oven where the family keeps its fancy treadmill/torture machine.

The coffee pot is nearly empty, and he goes to make another pot and, oh my Lord, there’s no coffee. How did this happen? There’s always extra coffee stashed around the house. But a quick search turns up nothing. Out of coffee. That’s all there is to it.

No problem. He’ll simply use his modern communications equipment to contact his wife, who can make a quick stop by the market on her way home. He can exist without coffee until she gets here, and he won’t have to actually get dressed.

He dials, but gets voicemail. He leaves a message: “Hi, hon. It’s me. We’re out of coffee. Can you pick some up while you’re out? Thanks.”

OK, he thinks, she left the phone in the car. No big deal. She’ll get the message. He’ll get coffee. Eventually.

But what if she doesn’t get the message? Maybe she’ll forget to check. She’ll come all the way home, and have to go right back out again. Or, worse, he’ll have to go.

Through the miracle of redial, he calls every few minutes, hoping to catch her at that magic moment when she’s actually in the supermarket. He leaves a message each time so she won’t think all the hang-ups are some sort of emergency signal that means he’s fallen off a ladder.

“Hi, hon. Hope you got my message. About the coffee. Call and let me know.”

“Me again. Just trying to catch you near the phone. About the coffee.”

“Houston, we’ve got a problem. We’re outta coffee up here. Not enough for even one pot. Please acknowledge.”

“Breaker, breaker, good buddy. We’ve got an emergency situation here. Come back. With coffee.”

“Stardate 070822. The Enterprise has … been … stricken. No … coffee. Gasp.”

“Hey, hon? This isn’t funny anymore. About the coffee? Call and let me know you got these messages. I’m down to the dregs here. I’ll put on shoes and go to the store if I have to, but since you’re already out and about and (beep)--”

“Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale. A tale of a fateful trip. They started out without coffee, and they never got a sip. They never got a sip.”

“Mayday, mayday. We’re going down. No coffee. Emergency measures taken. Drinking old decaf from last Christmas that I found in the back of the cabinet. Wish me luck. Over.”

“Houston, do you copy? It’s not working. I repeat, it’s not working. Decaf not enough to combat effects of hangover. Slipping out of consciousness. Must … lie … down.”

“Ground Control to Major Tom.”

Finally, she answers, of course, and she’s in the checkout line, coffee in hand. The miracle of modern telecommunications saves the day.

But you should see our phone bill.

Evacuation elucidation

My sympathies go out to folks who've been evacuated from their homes by the California wildfires and the flooding in the Midwest. It's terrifying to leave behind everything you own with nothing more than hope that it'll be there when you get back.

However, I've got a problem with the word "evacuate." Years ago, that word got into my head in its, um, medical sense. Its bodily function sense. Ever since, headlines with the word "evacuate" make me snicker like a schoolboy.

I know exactly when this goofiness got stuck in my brain. I worked in a high-rise building in San Francisco in the mid-1980s. Near the elevators was a placard that said, "In case of fire, evacuate on stairs."

My thought every time: "No problem!"

Auto fixation

The two most chilling words in the English language: Car Trouble.

Oh, sure, more terrible things can happen to you. A sharp stick in the eye comes to mind. But for all-around frustration and gut-wrenching panic, not much comes close to "car trouble."

In America's automobile-oriented culture, we're all dependent on our cars. We're always in a hurry to get someplace, and we need reliable transportation. When faced with a grindingly uncooperative starter or the forbidding silence of a dead battery, we know our lives have -- at least temporarily -- taken a turn for the worse.

Car trouble means we're not getting where we want to go or, at best, we'll be late. Naturally, we don't discover the problem until we need to depart -- right now. The car just sits there, a big hunk of inert steel, as mobile and helpful as a rock.

Beyond the immediate delays, though, is the aftermath. Getting the car towed or taking it to a garage. Making alternate transportation arrangements while some guy named "Butch" takes his sweet time fixing the problem. And the expense: Butch won't even look under the hood for less than $600.

It's a short ride from "repair" to "despair."

I don't know about you, but I always envision the worst: The car's ruined forever. It'll spend the rest of its metallic life "in the shop." All my money will be poured into the worst investment of my life -- a "lemon" -- when I should've known better. I'm stranded, forlorn, doomed.

These flights of imagination result from guilt. If only I hadn't neglected the car, maybe it would never have succumbed to this ailment . . .

Most of us treat our cars the way we do our physical health. We take them for granted, doing only minimal maintenance. We pay no attention until something goes wrong. Even when the car's making a funny noise (or that hacking cough won't go away), we try to ignore it until, whoops, we've got a major problem. And life grinds to a standstill.

Many of us tend to drive cars way beyond their expected lifespans. We keep replacing parts until, eventually, everything under the hood is as good as new, and Butch's kids have earned their doctorate degrees on our dime.

Perhaps that's why we have so many auto accidents -- totaling your car is the only way to justify the purchase of a new vehicle.

But this extended lifespan means lots of "car trouble." Parts wear out. Hoses burst. Gaskets dry out. Telltale oil spots appear on the driveway. Then, one day, you've got a car that's going nowhere fast.

Car trouble is rough on anybody, but it poses special problems for guys. Many guys feel they should have some innate understanding of how to fix cars. It's one of those native skills that real men can intuitively master -- like plumbing or reading road maps or burping the alphabet.

The sad truth is that most men think "internal combustion" is something you get from eating jalapenos. We're not qualified to empty the ashtray, must less replace an alternator.

But we feel compelled to try. We open the hood -- if we can remember how -- and study that serpent's nest of belts and hoses and wires and we don't have the first idea what's wrong.

Of course, we won't admit it, not at first. We'll go find our scattered tools and we'll poke around under the hood, hoping against hope that some part of the engine will scream out: "Me! Me! I'm the problem." We'll check the oil and the water and the windshield-washing fluid. We'll jiggle battery cables. We'll tap things.

Finally, after hours (or even days) of tinkering, we'll sigh and shrug and phone Butch. And he'll tell us to come on down to the garage, and he'll remind us to bring our checkbook.

Because while we may not be going anywhere for a while, Butch is planning his vacation. In Tahiti.

Be prepared

In this time of global heebie-jeebies, loyal Americans find themselves worrying about all sorts of potential disasters: terrorist attacks, anthrax letters, plane crashes, power grid failures, fire, flood, famine and/or car trouble.

That's why it's important to be prepared for any and all emergencies. Home preparedness not only can be key to your survival, it can also provide that elusive quality known as "peace of mind."

The main component in such preparation is the Emergency Survival Kit, and no home should be without one. But how, you might ask, can one assemble such a kit? What does every home need in times of calamity?

Ah, that's where we can help. We here at Home Front headquarters have spent literally minutes on Internet research and have consolidated that vast array of information into the following list of emergency supplies.

You should run right out and buy all this gear and carefully store it in a cool, dry place, such as a bomb shelter or root cellar. Doing so assures that you'll never need any of it. Just assembling an Emergency Survival Kit virtually guarantees that you'll never have an actual emergency. It's a matter of karmic talisman, and it's the reason we always carry jumper cables.

However, while creating your Emergency Survival Kit, you should pretend that you'll actually need this stuff someday. Remember: In the case of an actual emergency, you'll be cooped up with your family for days or weeks. You'd better have enough food/water/medicine/batteries/Game Boys to keep your family safe, happy and amused until the "all clear" signal sounds.

In other words, it'll be exactly like a long car trip with the kids, except without the scenery.

THE EMERGENCY SURVIVAL KIT

--Canned or dried food

How much? It depends on how many family members will be tapping the supply, and how long they would prefer such food to, say, fleeing into the nuclear fallout. In the case of canned goods, you should stockpile enough for a week or two. With dried food, maybe three days' worth.

--Can opener

Duh.

--Water

Our Internet sources say you should have three liters of bottled water per person per day. But since we don't know how much a "liter" is, we'd simply recommend that you store "a lot" of water. Water's not just for drinking. You'll also need it for washing, which becomes increasingly important in the close quarters of a bomb shelter.

--A grill or hibachi

You'll need some way to heat that canned food. Dried food makes good fuel.

--First aid kit

This should include all the usual first aid items. Go heavy on the headache remedies, especially if there are children in the family.

--Flashlights

--Extra batteries

--Candles and matches

In case a "romantic evening" breaks out in the old bomb shelter.

--Radio

--More batteries

--Toilet paper

Lots. In case things go really wrong, toilet paper makes a dandy turban.

--Pet supplies

Don't forget about Rover or Fifi. They won't eat dried food, either, and they'll want their usual chow. Remember, if times become desperate enough, a well-fed pet can become "lunch."

--Toys, books, handheld video games and portable stereos

It's tough to stay amused when you're waiting out nuclear winter. Stock enough of these gizmos so that every family member can stay busy singing along with their favorite songs or playing their favorite games.

--Way more batteries

--Earplugs

So you don't have to listen to your family members sing along.

--Basic tools

Can't ever tell when you might need a hammer. For example, if your relatives refuse to stop
singing . . .

--Blankets or sleeping bags

--Copies of important documents and medical records

When the government starts going door-to-door, searching for terrorists, you'll want some ID handy.

--Personal hygiene items, such as toothbrushes and deodorant

Trust us.

--Emergency clothing

This includes rain gear, sturdy shoes and warm clothes you can wear in layers under your "hazmat" suits.

--Did we mention batteries?

Once you've assembled all these items, you'll find that they fill your designated shelter to the brim. There'll be no room in there for actual people. But, given enough warning, you can quickly construct a shelter out of whatever's handy. We suggest using dead batteries.