I'm gonna Betty Crocker the sh*t out of the apocalypse.

So I bought a food dehydrator this weekend.

You know what this means.

I’m ready for the zombie apocalypse.

Okay, fine.

I’m ready for any apocalypse. Bring it on, Mayans.

But in all seriousness, I fear the zombie apocalypse like nobody’s business. Once upon a time, I thought it was just a funny scenario to joke about lightly over a bucket of popcorn while watching Shawn of the Dead. "Zombies? Oh, how droll! How 1950's B-grade horror movie!"

And then that dude in Miami ate a guy’s face off.

Did you not hear about that?

Allow me to educate you. A MAN ATE ANOTHER MAN’S FACE OFF. They speculated as to why afterwards. “Maybe it was a combination of bad meth and heroine that made him do it.” “Maybe it was marijuana.” And then there was the Bath Salt theory. Apparently, Bath Salts are a club drug of sorts that cause you to have a huge adrenaline rush, compounded with a feeling in invincibility. Essentially it turns you into the Hulk. …or Hulk Hogan. I don’t know. (It’s ok. When I first heard it on the news, I, too, went and threw away all of my bath salts sitting on the tub because I was afraid of what I would do to Carter the next time he left the toilet seat up.)

But then the tox screen came back. The only drug in his system was weed. Weed makes people lethargic, hungry, and philosophical. It does not make people vicious cannibals that require 8-10 shots in the torso to be taken down. Therefore, this can only mean one thing.

The zombies are coming.

Now, here’s the thing. My husband has spent countless hours playing ALL of the Resident Evil games. He loves zombie movies. He, like every other game-playing male, CAN’T WAIT for the zombie apocalypse. Because it would be all of his virtual fantasies come true. Short of hopping a flight to a war zone, it’s the only way he’ll ever get to put all of that tactical and strategical experience that he's gained from Call of Duty to work. 

Let me tell you, kids. I’ve seen the man work. If the zombie apocalypse does happen, and my plan falls through, Carter’s the man I want to be holed up on the roof of an abandoned shopping mall with. (I would, of course, have raided the Auntie Anne’s Pretzel kiosk for supplies. He brings the large weapons. I bring the baked goods. It’s how we work.)

So what is my strategy? I’m so glad you asked.

Betty Crocker the shit out of the apocalypse.

(Note: Technically, “Pioneer Lady the shit out of the Apocalypse would probably be more appropriate, but what can I say? I’m southern. Which means I’m delicate. That, and Betty Crocker was an Alpha Delta Pi like me, so I figure those 4 years of membership dues should pay off sometime.)

I plan to take my food dehydrator, make a generator out of a bicycle, and head to the most remote part of northern Canada. (Less people, less zombies. Remember?) There, armed with my Snuggie, my trusty labradoodle, and my food dehydrator, I will survive the zombie apocalypse by making fabulous jerkies and fruit leathers with the things I find around me. I will also have taught myself by that point to not only be an excellent archer, but to make a bow and arrow with the Yew branches and animal sinews that will be the fruits of my labors. (Suck it, Laura Ingalls Wilder.) Carter can come too.

Knowing him, he will bring with him an arsenal. And a lifetime supply of Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Covered Pretzels.

Now I know what you’re thinking. And yes. The pretzels are that good.

Yes, I know this will require some preemptive action. But I have an incredible sense for things and when people start to get all wonky and I hear news reports of a mass flu epidemic in NYC, that will be our cue. We’ll load up the Tahoe with my dehydrator (With 9 extra trays, mind you. I don’t mess around.), Carter’s Xbox, our bicycle generator, and head to Trader Joe’s to buy every bag of pretzels they have. Then it’s northward, pilgrims! We’ll wait it out, maybe domesticating some North American Gray Wolves while we are up there, training them to smell zombies. And then we will find other Betty Crockers and our children shall marry and we will make the earth anew!

What’s wrong with this plan? Nothing’s wrong with this plan! It’s a perfect plan! 

...Except for the part where Carter and I have to spend every second together for however long it takes for the zombies to starve to death. We’re in love, yes, blah blah blah. But eventually, we’re going to get to the point where one of us will lose it.

I can see it now. I will have slaved all day on that damn bicycle preparing a beautiful dinner of moose jerky and wild grape leather, all for him. And I will be chatting blithely about the events of the day. And he will turn to me and say, “Woman, if you say one more word about your hostile uterus, I’m going to go get a zombie to bite me and come after you.” (He’s so harsh, right?)

Or, alternately, and INFINTELY more likely, it will go like this:

We will both be sitting on our rock and animal hide sofa in our North Woods Canada cave, bitching about how neither of us wants to ride the bicycle. And I’ll be all, “I ALWAYS cook and clean the carcasses.” And he’ll be all, “Well I always have to hunt the damned things and THEN I do the dishes!” And I’ll be all, “You call those slate chips dishes? And what about all that fruit leather?! Do you think that those berries just magically fall from the sky into the dehydrator, perfectly mashed and ready for your enjoyment!?!? DO YOU?!?!?” And then he’ll be all, “Well your fruit leather tastes like ass.” And I’ll be all, “You take that back!” And he’ll be all, “Damn you, woman! One of these days!” And I’ll be all, “My uterus is falling out!!!!!!”

Two will enter. One will   win   survive.

He’ll be bitter at me that I made him cower up north instead of fulfilling his video game fantasies of “murkin’” zombies. And I’ll be bitter that there’s no one who truly appreciates my culinary talents and craft abilities when it comes to making a pretty centerpiece out of a moose antler and acorns. (I know, I know. I’m good.)

 

In other words, we probably won’t survive. And the people who had the BETTER idea of going underground to wait it out instead of going to the coldest place ON EARTH will later find our bones. Our skeletons will be found with our hands around each other’s throats. And these survivalist anthropologists will say, “Ah, yes. Marriage.”  (Or if you pronounce it correctly, “Mawwiage.” It’s what bwings us togever today.)

But on the off chance that we do survive (because let’s face it folks, we all know the zombies are coming), I have been practicing. Last night I made Sun-dried Tomato Kale Chips in the dehydrator. The verdict. Friggin’ addictive. Carter’s reaction was not so enthusiastic.

CARTER: I just can’t get used to the fact that it’s like a chip. But it’s a leaf. Too weird for me.

I, however, happen to love them. We’re experimenting making jerky tomorrow. So watch out, Zombies. Katie and Carter are on a whirlwind survivalist adventure. You won’t want to get caught in the crossfire. 

( Note: In the event of the zombie apocalypse, I fully expect to be forced to compromise. Oh, I'll get my bicycle generator, alright. But it will be located on the top of an abandoned shopping mall and we will shoot pigeons for food and make pigeon jerky and Carter and his cronies will be playing the Duck Shooting Gallery Carnival Game with the zombies below. I, true to form when nervous, will cower. The entire time. And curse Carter in my head. And bitch about why there's no internet for me to watch Colonel Meow with. And wait for my uterus to fall out. Because I'm pretty sure that's bound to happen sooner or later. It hates me that much that it's just waiting for the opportune moment to escape. And then I will enter premature menopause and grow a fantastic mustache. Aren't you glad you read this blog?)

Happy Wednesday, y'all!