We were standing in the kitchen one night after the kids had gone to bed. My husband leaned back against the sink and asked, “You wanna tell me why there’s an apocalypse’s worth of bottled water in the trunk of your car?”
“It was on sale.”
He looked at me.
“It was on sale. It was ‘10 for $10;’ I bought ten.”
“Ten gallons of water.”
I shrugged. “We’ve talked about this: I was raised to be prepared. I’m not prepared. It makes me nervous. This seemed like something I could do; a small thing.” I sighed and waved my hand in the air, trying to push it away. “Look, it’s the Mormon in me and there was a sale, OK? It’s that simple.”
“We have talked about this. If something happens, I will loot the neighbors.” He said this in a reassuring tone, as if to show he had everything under control.
I scoffed. “You say that. That’s not a plan.”
“It is a plan! It’s my plan. Looting.”
I rolled my eyes at him and tried not to giggle.
“Where are you going to keep ten gallons of bottled water? You’re not putting that in my garage.”
“Well, maybe we could keep five gallons in your car and five in my car. Then, if something happened while you were out with the kids, you’d have water.”
“I’m not driving around with five gallons of water in my car. If something happens on the road, I will loot other motorists.”
I started to laugh.
He held up his hands and finished the conversation with, “Looting: that’s my plan. It’s the Catholic in me.”