I know what you’re thinking. You’re looking for some “wild woman” advice on bedroom antics. This post has something to do with bedroom antics, but not in the way you think.

I can just see a whole bunch of shoulders slumping. Cheer up. In part of this story, I’m scantily clad …

When? Spring, about 10 years ago

Where? Upstate New York (that large land mass between Manhattan and Canada)

Time? Early morning, while I was sleeping (in my cotton panties and a tee-shirt–I told you I was scantily clad)

Incident Worth Writing About? I started trembling and felt all oogey inside. Any hope that this might be the elusive Big O (and I don’t mean Oprah) vanished when my bed started shaking and the windows began rattling.

My Assessment of the Situation? Either I was experiencing a supernatural event (unlikely but intriguing) or the furnace in our old house was going to blow (quite likely and inconvenient). But it was way down in the basement and I was on the second floor. With box springs and a pillow-top mattress between it and me, I was sure I would survive the blast. These deluxe mattresses today are so cushy. Have you tried finding deep enough fitted sheets for them? I’m sure they would stop a missile or flying floorboard from a furnace explosion.

Correction of My Situation Assessment: My husband bolted upstairs, yelling, “It’s an earthquake! Get up! Get out of the house!” He’d been watching the news downstairs and apparently, there was seismic activity in the vicinity.

Events that Followed: My then-teenaged son, for whom morning began at 1:00 PM, was up in a flash. This was the first evidence I saw that he could be awakened before 7:00 a.m. on a weekend and follow simple instructions. I suppose kids will do anything if they think their lives are in danger. Go figure. He wrapped a comforter around himself and skedaddled outside with his father; both were barefooted on cold dewy grass, waiting for the house to collapse and for me to emerge or vice versa.

When I didn’t come out, my more-than-a-bit-miffed husband went back into the death trap to check on my escape progress. I was brushing my teeth in my bra and panties. Morning breath is something no one should have to bear, even in a crisis. The bathroom mirror began to bounce against the wall. I held it so it wouldn’t crack. Who needs the possible seven years of bad luck? Plus, it was my grandmother’s mirror.

Two explosions happened simultaneously: one measured 5.1 on the Richter Scale and felt like a train chugging through the bottom of our house; the other was my husband screaming at me for still being in the house. That explosion measured 7.8 on the Yelling-At-Me-Only-Makes-It-Worse Scale (8 is the highest). He said something about “no common sense,” “saving himself and our son,” and “good luck.”

As I was rifling through my dresser drawers trying to find the proper clothes for a natural disaster (this being my first one), the thought occurred to me, “If the house falls down, isn’t it better to be on the top of it than getting stuck on the first floor or risk getting hit by falling debris outside?” Made perfect sense to me.

I joined my wrapped-up, bare-footed family outside. The house withstood the big tremor (we were 7 miles from the epicenter) and many smaller aftershocks. Except for some serious cracks in the walls and ceilings, everything was easily repaired. Well, except for my husband’s respect for me. He never appreciated my uncommon sense regarding matters of life … or death.

At least my toes were warm. I was properly dressed for the event.