We had a tremendous storm two nights ago, with 70 mph winds and a bunch of houses without electricity, including our own. The Clampets’ tree fell over, grazing their house and destroying another tree and a shrub. Their trailer, however, remained unscathed. I know. I was hoping too.
I was sort of screwed, though, because I had planned to spend the entire night finishing up one article and working on another one, but unfortunately, it was all on my desktop pc, so there was nothing I could do. Then I wandered through the house, thinking, ‘Oh, I’ll just watch tv’ wait. Oh, ok, I’ll watch the Tivo in the bedroom’ duh. I’ll call someone’ oh. I’ll use my cell phone! Except the battery is dead.’ And finally I ended up cursing my coin-operated life, reading a book for school by flashlight, clutching my iPod with its red battery indicatory glaring at me accusatorily. That fun lasted until 8:30, mostly because Esteban, also without anything to do, and unable to read because I had the only flashlight, came into the bedroom and started making shadow puppets against the ceiling. I suggested that we check out how many neighborhoods were knocked out. I went out in my pajamas, figuring that no one would be able to see me anyway, not really connecting that the ENTIRE CITY wasn’t without power, just certain areas. After we got to Main Street, I sank down into the car seat, realizing that I had just walked out of the house without a bra on and I might as well start wearing Faded Glory stirrup pants with a horizontal-striped tunic because if I was going to give up certain standards, why bother keeping any? Mark Twain was wrong. Anarchy comes way before three missed meals. At least anarchy from proper foundation garments. The center cannot hold.
Esteban, however, was very pleased with this situation and did not want to observe two and ten o’clock safe driving hands taught in Driver’s Ed. Clearly, he wasn’t paying attention during those Wear Your Seatbelt and Drive Defensively Or Die A Horrible Mangled Death films we had to watch. Or maybe fear of death flies out the window when in the vicinity of free-range breasts.
So really, it wasn’t so bad. We made a few looting jokes and then got ice cream cones (Dairy Queen in De Pere still had power) and then to Walmart, where I bought some Faded Glory wear (no, I made that up. Actually, Walmart seems to be the only place in town that carries the excellent windshield wiper blades that don’t streak and no, I didn’t go into the store, given my state of undress) and then we went home, sort of dazzled by the huge pockets of darkness in our normally well-lit city.
One would think that with no radios or televisions or constant buzz from our network server, I would have slept soundly, but instead, when we got home, we were treated to the sound of the city truck grinding up the neighbor’s fallen tree (big eye roll on the fact that the truck was right there for the tree, and yet hours later, still no truck fixing the transformer that was hanging by a thread twenty feet above the sidewalk) and the distant high-pitched whines of chainsaws through the neighborhood well into the early hours of the morning. And in the morning, our alarm clock was Esteban’s cell phone, and then I took a shower by candle light and then realized that I would have to go to work with wet hair. Lovely.
Just then, I noticed a big dark something or other edging up over the sink. Upon closer inspection with my Oceanus candle, I found that it was a futhamucking earwig! An earwig! What the hell? I grabbed some tissue, smooshed it, then flushed it. Naked earwig sighting! Gargh! I haven’t seen an earwig inside our house in four years and then suddenly, the power goes out and there’s one in the bathroom? The hell? Were they lying in wait, biding their time until the perfect moment to strike? Right, like earwigs plot.
The power was back by the time I got home from school last night. Oh, and by the way? Dr. Frank is no longer in charge of my program.
I am, of course, much too demure to shout ‘HA!’ out loud. But, you know, there it is.
This morning, I got up and got dressed with electricity, which was such a novel concept that I dressed nicely for work, donning corporate clothes, rather than a pair of jeans, a wrinkled white t-shirt and whichever matching pair of shoes I can stick my feet into without having to bend over and tie them. I didn’t put on socks, because I refuse to admit that the 57 degree morning was a precursor to fall, or rather, the actual cursor to fall. However, despite appearances, I’m still living like a feral child. The fucking laundry is stacked like cordwood in my bedroom (what, only bodies can be stacked like cordwood? Or is that not a clich’ and was rather something I heard once and was so traumatized that I still haven’t gotten over it?) and I haven’t been grocery shopping in a week. And thus, there was nothing in the house to eat, so I went to Starbucks, chatted with Unsurly Girl, and then bustled to work, listening to my new iFetus (a rare impulsive techno purchase but I defy any woman to hold that thing in her hand and not be overcome with maternal instinct) and sipping the mocha when it occurred to me that I should eat something. After sneering at the various fast food places and feeling vaguely queasy at the idea of suffering through an Egg McMuffin, the healthiest substantial thing you can buy in the morning, I ended up at the European bakery. I love bread and love sourdough more fervently than I really should considering that it’s yeast and flour and, um, something sour. This particular bakery makes a sourdough bread with a vein of cheddar cheese, so it’s like a pre-made cheese sandwich, all right there, ready to be enjoyed. Fervently.
However, when I made it into the bakery, the bakery lasses (who wear cloth bandanas to hold their hair back, as though it wasn’t so much utilitarian but rather a hempy fashion statement) shook their heads and said ‘Oh, it’s too early for sourdough.’ And then a choir from the back, ‘Much too early for sourdough.’ Which is just crap because I’ve enjoyed sourdough as a tasty breakfast treat in the past, and now they’re telling me that the sourdough likes to sleep in, like some aging starlet who drank too much last night and man, baby, would you close those blinds for mummy?
Since the sourdough couldn’t be mustered, I requested two rustic rolls and, since it didn’t come with a bunch of cheddar cheese, I also asked for a few pats of butter. Another reason that I love this particular bakery is that they know that you’re just going to eat the bread before you get home, so they thoughtfully sell little pats of butter for five cents each.
I got to work and checked out the rustic rolls, which were very rustic. So rustic, I think they were made from rocks and perhaps also old thatched roofs. I shrugged, glad that I had asked for butter, and opened the first packet, which revealed a dense cluster of black mold. I threw it into the garbage and opened the second packet. Pristine creamy fat. I didn’t trust it, so I tried a bit of dry roll. The thatch was interspersed with bits of what I suspect was sawdust. Very fibery. I decided that I wasn’t that picky, so I used the wee pat of butter for the rest of the roll, then opened the remaining packet with trepidation, thinking it would be like Christmas morning and hoping for a kitten, but instead find a kitten. In pieces.
Bodies and dismembered kittens. What the hell is up with me? Stupid power outage.
The other packet was fine, by the way. The rustic roll, however, has left me unable to muster any kind of appetite for the last eight hours. It’s now well past five and I’m still not interested in food. I think the roll contained shredded MDF. This might be the best diet plan I’ve ever attempted. Good bye ass fat, hello lumber aisle at the Hundred Dollar store.
