I am by no means a survivalist, (I can barely survive learning we’re out of chips), but when there is a snowstorm in the forecast, my husband, the Carpenter, launches into emergency preparedness mode.
Firewood is stacked by the woodstove and outside the door, enough for days.
(I’m afraid to ask him if he does all this wood stacking out of fear the zombies will chase us to the woodpile should we need more. Best not to ask.)
Batteries are located. Phones are charged. Battery-operated candles are stacked. Flashlights and lanterns are gathered on the kitchen table.
You should see the canned goods. The Carpenter stacks them with pride, reminding us that the wood stove will cook beans just fine. Great. He has a menu plan.
Every reuseable water bottle, jar, insulated coffee mug, or pot is filled to the brim with water, because nobody wants to follow that guy into a bathroom if he couldn’t flush. Nobody.
The bathtub also becomes an emergency water vessel, though it’s only filled maybe a third of the way.
During the Christmas snowstorm, the tub drained itself slowly without us noticing. We couldn’t let that happen twice, so to be sure the water level was monitored, the Carpenter searched for a way to mark the water line.
Desperate to be helpful, I suggested a clever alternative: lipstick.
Given we were in the bathroom, not only did I have the solution, but I had it handy. I was going to get serious survival points here.
I handed him my lipstick bag.
The Carpenter randomly selected my crimson red lipstick, labelled “Red carpet ready.” It’s a rich, naughty red bought for that one time I dressed up. I might do that again just to wear this lipstick.
The Carpenter popped the lid and twisted the lipstick case, to bring the red lipstick out of its base.
“Don’t push too hard on it,” I said, assuming after years of watching me apply lipstick, he got the gist of it. “It has a slanted tip for a reason.”
He didn’t hear me (a polite way of saying he didn’t listen).
He treated my crimson red lipstick like a crayon, pressing the slanted edge too hard, smashing the soft tip to make a thick, clumped red smidge of a one-inch water line mark.
Before I could protest he pushed the cap back on the lipstick.
Yep, he forgot to twist the lipstick back down first. Squish. Squash. Red carpet mess.
I yelped. I couldn’t help myself. It was an involuntary sound. My normally full, pale lips thinned to a firm line.
We’ll call it anger.
He looked at me, puzzled. What could possibly be the matter? My solution worked.
“You squished my crimson red lipstick, not once, but twice,” I growled.
He looked down at the black lipstick case in his hand, slowly opening it to see the cosmetic carnage.
“Ohhh,” he said, as reality sunk in. “Oops.”
He handed me the lipstick case and went back to gathering wood.
I hope the zombies find him.
