So you have everything you could ever need to survive Armageddon. Great. Stuff is helpful, but it's just a tool. Just like any tool, you need to use your survival gear.
I'm a big scuba diver and I dive in some of the dirtiest, scariest waters there are: river wrecks. What does my gear look like? I can tell you this: it's not shiny, or pristine. My gear is faded from sun and chlorine, my wetsuit is patched several times over, and a lot of my rig set up is diy. I'm not saying it's dirt or broken. As a diver, every time you go under water you are depending on the gear, it's your life support system. Any gear that is standing between you and death needs to be lovingly mantained. Not just serviced yearly. You check it before you pack it in the car for the trip, you check it again when you set up, and you check on last time before you get in the water. To do this, you have to know your gear. I can set mine up blindfolded (yes, from the zipped dive bag as long as I don't have to carry the tank around blind, I like my toes.)
Survival gear should be treated the same way. You have to know it, you have to use it, and you have to have it. All three of those steps are vitally important. If you have a hatchet in your BOB but don't know how to split wood, are you going to figure it out as you make your way across country? I'm not saying don't put a hatchet in your BOB. I'm saying go buy a hatchet and learn to use it. When you're not using it, take care of it, then store it in your BOB.
Secondly, you have to have all the gear you need. If you have a reg and tank but no BC, you're not going diving. If you have a rifle and a handgun, but no boots, you're not going to make it across country.
Thirdly, with out a plan, even having and knowing how to use your gear, you'll still be in trouble. You can't just wander around, if you're using your BOB it's to get somewhere safe.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
How the animals got their names.
Our first cat was born in my mother's garage to the tiniest siamese cat you'd ever seen. We all called her Princess, and she expected to be treated like one. Toes-are-Tasty inherited none of her genes as far as I can tell. He's a gray tabby and is our most sociable cat. He went home with Can-We-Nuke-'Em, as this was a few years before we were married, and was content as the uncontested ruler of the apartment.
Then one day, Can-We-Nuke-'Em and his roommate Tiberius decided that if they got Toes-are-Tasty a playmate, maybe he'd stop pouncing on their feet at 5 am, demanding to play. They came home with Why-is-my-food-bowl-empty. Little did they know, Why-is-my-food-bowl-empty would only make their lives more complicated. See, she cannot stand to see the bottom of her bowl. She'll meow and howl, and sit on you until you go fill it up to the top (shaking the bowl so that the remain food covers the spot where she dug down to find the bottom of the bowl doesn't cut it.) Also, Toes-Are-Tasty and Why-is-my-food-bowl-empty hated each other. Much yowling and cat fighting happened until they'd sectioned off the apartment and chosen to ignore each other.
Meanwhile, my sister's puppy died tragically, and my mom took her to the SPCA to find another. I just happened to be home that weekend, and I tagged along. I fell in love at first sight with the only white puppy in a enclosure of German shepherd/chow mixes. They all been dumped together, and the SPCA though that Pet-Me-Now-Please was a Great Pyrenees/German Shepherd mix and the sibling of the other brown and black puppies, one of which, my sister adopted. I-eat-houses, for that was what this puppy did, never got much bigger, and had a taste for siding. Mom was not impressed. As Pet-Me-Now-Please got bigger, we took her to the vet, who tried not to laugh hysterically when told that she was a Great Pyr/German Shepherd, informed us that she was most likely a yellow lab/husky or malamute mix, and was two months older than I-eat-houses. All of this was okay with me, for Pet-Me-Now-Please is the easiest dog I've ever met. If you pet her, she is happy. Food is good too, but she'd rather be pet.
Then, Can-We-Nuke-'Em and I combined household out east, and all the animals came with us. After the dog stopped freaking out about being somewhere new, she decided that cats were not worth bothering with and settled down for a lifetime of being pet.
You'd think at this point, the house would be full. Well, one day we went to buy cat food, and there were kittens. Two of them actually, tiny white fluff ball that had been born to a feral mother. The lady said, "Two-for-One!" and so we took Fluff-for-Brains and I-am-a-Lion-really home. Besides thinking that Pet-Me-Now-Please was the best play toy ever, I think they really thought they'd grow up to be as big as her. Fluff-for-Brains would crawl up on top of the washer and wait for Pet-Me-Now-Please to walk by and then pounce! Then the cat would hurtle himself through the air at the dog and try and play ride 'em, cowboy with the dog. The dog just turned around and looked at him and then kept walking.
When we moved up north, we packed up everything. Including Fluff-for-Brains. The truck was almost all packed, and then we noticed he was gone. All the animals had been shut up in our room to avoid packing them, so we knew he had to be either in the dresser or the bed. A little rearranging later, we found Fluff-for-Brains in the box spring, and he was not going to move. We had to cut the fabric liner on the bottom off to pry him out. He was not a happy camper, but he was retrieved safely. He and I-am-a-Lion-really spent the entire car ride north yowling at the top of their lungs, and to this day Brains-for-Fluff will not go near a carrier voluntarily. Sadly, I-am-a-Lion-really died shortly after we moved north.
Then one day, Can-We-Nuke-'Em and his roommate Tiberius decided that if they got Toes-are-Tasty a playmate, maybe he'd stop pouncing on their feet at 5 am, demanding to play. They came home with Why-is-my-food-bowl-empty. Little did they know, Why-is-my-food-bowl-empty would only make their lives more complicated. See, she cannot stand to see the bottom of her bowl. She'll meow and howl, and sit on you until you go fill it up to the top (shaking the bowl so that the remain food covers the spot where she dug down to find the bottom of the bowl doesn't cut it.) Also, Toes-Are-Tasty and Why-is-my-food-bowl-empty hated each other. Much yowling and cat fighting happened until they'd sectioned off the apartment and chosen to ignore each other.
Meanwhile, my sister's puppy died tragically, and my mom took her to the SPCA to find another. I just happened to be home that weekend, and I tagged along. I fell in love at first sight with the only white puppy in a enclosure of German shepherd/chow mixes. They all been dumped together, and the SPCA though that Pet-Me-Now-Please was a Great Pyrenees/German Shepherd mix and the sibling of the other brown and black puppies, one of which, my sister adopted. I-eat-houses, for that was what this puppy did, never got much bigger, and had a taste for siding. Mom was not impressed. As Pet-Me-Now-Please got bigger, we took her to the vet, who tried not to laugh hysterically when told that she was a Great Pyr/German Shepherd, informed us that she was most likely a yellow lab/husky or malamute mix, and was two months older than I-eat-houses. All of this was okay with me, for Pet-Me-Now-Please is the easiest dog I've ever met. If you pet her, she is happy. Food is good too, but she'd rather be pet.
Then, Can-We-Nuke-'Em and I combined household out east, and all the animals came with us. After the dog stopped freaking out about being somewhere new, she decided that cats were not worth bothering with and settled down for a lifetime of being pet.
You'd think at this point, the house would be full. Well, one day we went to buy cat food, and there were kittens. Two of them actually, tiny white fluff ball that had been born to a feral mother. The lady said, "Two-for-One!" and so we took Fluff-for-Brains and I-am-a-Lion-really home. Besides thinking that Pet-Me-Now-Please was the best play toy ever, I think they really thought they'd grow up to be as big as her. Fluff-for-Brains would crawl up on top of the washer and wait for Pet-Me-Now-Please to walk by and then pounce! Then the cat would hurtle himself through the air at the dog and try and play ride 'em, cowboy with the dog. The dog just turned around and looked at him and then kept walking.
When we moved up north, we packed up everything. Including Fluff-for-Brains. The truck was almost all packed, and then we noticed he was gone. All the animals had been shut up in our room to avoid packing them, so we knew he had to be either in the dresser or the bed. A little rearranging later, we found Fluff-for-Brains in the box spring, and he was not going to move. We had to cut the fabric liner on the bottom off to pry him out. He was not a happy camper, but he was retrieved safely. He and I-am-a-Lion-really spent the entire car ride north yowling at the top of their lungs, and to this day Brains-for-Fluff will not go near a carrier voluntarily. Sadly, I-am-a-Lion-really died shortly after we moved north.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)