I saw San Andreas tonight because I love disaster movies. Dragged the family with me, too, so they too could wince and cringe. We had a wonderful time!
Disaster movies reassure me, because (I think) they prepare me for the dreaded tsunami/earthquake/cruise ship overturning/100-foot wave/getting my arm stuck under a rock and having to self-amputate.
True story: my editor and I recently reenacted this pose. Miss you, Susan!
Remember, I grew up in the 70s. Earthquake (in Sensaround). The Towering Inferno. The Poseidon Adventure. The 90s, too, were rich with disaster preparedness—Armageddon, Deep Impact, Twister. Titanic, the motherlode of disaster movies. (That headboard could’ve held two, Rose. Just sayin’.)
So here’s what I learned tonight.
Find a father who is a helicopter pilot/veteran with arms the size of small children and have him adopt me, quick. This means my mother must marry Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. I don’t have a problem with this.
Never throw out the push-button phone in the upstairs closet.
If a giant shard of glass slices inches deep into a new friend’s leg, just pull it out. Don’t worry about arteries or anything. It’ll be fine.
Should my mother divorce the aforementioned father and start dating a billionaire architect with a private jet and limo, do not trust him.
When a tsunami rolls through Connecticut, quickly get a rigid hull inflatable boat and race toward it. This is essentially my most terrifying nightmare—big waves—but one does what one must.
Okay, lesson over! Time for me to read a book. I’m choosing Worse Case Scenario Survival Guide, in case San Andreas missed anything.