Hurricane Day: Jason and I wake up to no power. Jason fills a couple of empty kitty litter buckets with rain water so we can flush the toilet for the day. We joke about having to read by flashlight and we eat melting ice cream for lunch. After the hurricane passes, we drive around the neighborhood and assess the damage. Jason almost trips twice on downed electrical wires. It occurs to me that we might want to conserve our toilet water.
Day 2 of no power: I pack up what’s salvageable in the freezer and go over to Mom and Dad’s, who have a generator. My nephews and I catch frogs, and then I help my parents pick up branches in the yard. All in all, it’s one of the best days I’ve ever had. Then I return home to my dark pit of a house. I don’t bother reading by candlelight tonight; I’m asleep by 9 PM.
Day 3: Brushing one’s teeth with bottled water is a little tiresome, but I brave through it. I bring some empty jugs of water to work with me as our toilet-flushing water is dangerously low and our house is starting to smell like a public urinal. We visit my in-laws at night to celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday. I’m so jealous of the fact that they can run their dishwasher that my teeth ache.
Day 4: Depression has set in, and I wake up weeping. My carpooling buddy reports that her power was restored to her house the night before. Even though I love her, I kind of want to punch her in the face. At night, the cats start going crazy, hissing and howling as they look out the front window. Coyotes are circling in the yard.
Day 5: If I have to eat one more peanut butter sandwich for lunch, I will hunt down George Washington Carver and disembowel him for inventing the damn stuff. Jason informs me that GW Carver is already dead. Keep arguing with me, Mr. Smarty Pants, and you’ll be dead soon too.
Day 6: I hate everyone. You smug holier-than-thou jerks with running showers at home can kiss my grimy butt. My sister, whom I once would have died for without question, keeps hogging the shower at Mom’s house. We’re barely speaking, except that we’re the only people we know who have it as bad off as we do. Everyone in the entire state of Connecticut has power except for our house, my sister’s house, and my parents’ house. Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as Longo luck. There is, and it’s very, veeeeeery ugly.
Day 7: My husband has run away from home and I’m insanely jealous, because I’m positive wherever he is, there’s a working television. I miss my soap opera. I miss being able to cook a hot meal from frozen meat products. I miss doing laundry. I vow to make the sign of the devil every time I pass a power company truck…except I haven’t seen one on the road since before the hurricane hit.
Day 8: A man wearing a full suit of armor knocks on our door. He is from the electric company, and reports that we can expect our power to come back on in six days. I break all of the fingers in my hand when I try to slap him. Now I understand why he’s wearing the armor! Jason rummages around the basement by flashlight to find a baseball bat to smack him with while I distract Sir Lancelot. He’s not stupid. He runs away in his armor, but I do get a small twinge of satisfaction when he trips and falls over the power line lying across our driveway and can’t get up. I go outside and kick him. Break my toes. Figures.
As Jason says, we have learned a couple of important things this week. For instance, neither one of us will ever bother to audition for Survivor. And if the zombie apocalypse ever does happen, I hope I’m one of the first to have my brains devoured.