The storm of the decade was predicted this week. Since the last three years of the decade have brought severe drought, it seemed both a low bar and cause for great excitement.

Although ignoring the apocalypse of climate disruption that is already upon us, we all got busy preparing for the apocalypse of wind and rain about to hit. Sandbags were filled, flashlight batteries checked, schools canceled, and many told to stay home from work. My husband was not among them—since he works in communications for a power company, he was told to report to the emergency center at 4:00 a.m. until the storm was over. So he booked a hotel in the city a block from his work and kissed me goodbye. My boss, who is me, also frowned upon my staying home, as time off = money lost. Still, my boss is sensible, and agreed to play the storm by ear.

Meanwhile, I brought the plants inside from the balcony, stashed the plastic patio furniture in the garage, printed out stuff I needed to review in case we lost power, and charged my cell phone. I even remembered to take the wreath off the front door.

All that was left was to indulge my secret storm fantasy: Which is that the storm of the decade would make it clear that I should stay home from work. We would lose power, forcing me to stay off the Internet. This meant that until darkness fell, I would tackle projects that somehow never get done—sorting through boxes of photos, cleaning closets, creating separate, labeled files from stacks of important papers. Then, in an act of supreme self-sacrifice, I would launch a salvage operation by eating all the Haagen Dazs in the freezer before it melted. I went to bed prepared for the worst, hoping for the best (which, according to some interpretations, was the same thing).

Anxious text messages from our daughters in Brooklyn and Barcelona kept dinging me awake: DON’T DRIVE TO BERKELEY!!! STAY SAFE. LOOK OUT FOR FALLING TREES AND LANDSLIDES, AND DON’T DRIVE! Their alarm was fortunate, as I might have otherwise slept through the total absence of wind and pitter-pattering rain drops. My daughters’ concern reminded me of being alerted to the dangers of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake by my mother, watching news reports 3,000 miles away while I sat working undisturbed with my clients as the building gently swayed. 

By morning, it had begun to rain a little, so I set out for my daily latte and walk, donning rain boots, rain pants, and my husband’s surplus rain poncho. First stop was Barton’s Bagels, to buy a bag of day-olds, but the shelf was empty. Apparently bagels were a popular item to stockpile the day before so parents who were losing their minds could feed their cooped-up kids something for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Wishing to stockpile calories burned for the Haagen Dazs frenzy that might hopefully possibly still come, I did my usual uphill walk, deterred only slightly by guys cutting up a downed tree, which they would not let me skirt. Then it was time to drive across the bay for work, a commute that was far better than usual since so many people stayed home. Parking was also much better than usual. At the end of a long day, I drove home, again in record time.

I heated up some soup for dinner. The Haagen Dazs was saved, as was my holiday weight-management plan. And that’s my report on the Apocalypse Formerly Known as Rain.

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Californians who don’t remember what that wet stuff is–how’d you are in the storm?