Red Dot the Smurfbakes

When Matt and I like something a lot, we yell, "Green dot!" And when we don't, we quietly say, "Red dot," and hope for no more.  Dinner on a park bench at Levitt Pavilion while we try to name the breeds of the canine visitors and their walkers who drift through? Green dot!  Tip-toeing through the grass to avoid deposits left by those visitors? Red dot.

Evidently there's a natural disaster that sometimes strikes this here state, and we're so scared of it, we don't call it by its actual name. It's sort of like the students at Hogwarts referring to "He-who-shall-not-be-named" for fear of invoking Lord Voldemort's wrath.  Matt refers to these natural disasters as hurricanes because we know how to deal with those (stock up on non-perishables, bottled water, and crossword puzzles).

I call these California oddities smurfbakes. I considered mirthfakes, because it's true that there's nothing funny about them, or worthcakes, but that seems too yummy. Plus, I've never liked Smurfs. They're just weird.

We do have a plan. If a smurfbake hits and we're home, we know to make a nose dive under the desk or dining room table. If we're not, I think we're supposed to get outside and away from buildings.  With this being L.A. and all, I'm not quite sure how to manage that one.  Maybe we can count on being at Leavitt Park on our bench.

That's it. That's our plan.  Plus, the frequent invocation of "Red dot the smurbakes."