Why would anyone live in New England, you might ask? We’re all mobbed up, we have some of the highest skin cancer rates in the nation, and we have some truly painful-on-the-ears accents (Boston and Cranston, I’m looking at you. Connecticut, on the other hand, has no accent and everyone should speak like us).

One of the reasons why I live in New England—besides the fact that my family lives here which is really the only reason I stay, but since that wouldn’t make for much of a blog post, let’s assume I have other reasons—is because you never know what to expect from Mother Nature here in the upper six. Sure, we have seasons, but even those seasons are not clearly defined. Last year, fall lasted from August through December, then winter was January through April, spring was in May, and we hit summer by Memorial Day. We’re heading into fall again, and it’s been tricky trying to figure out what sort of curve balls the weather will throw at us next.

Last week, the news was full of reports about Hurricane Joaquin. (I love this name. So much fun to say! Waah-keen. Wah-kien. Like a whip cracking. But I digress.) Over the course of a week, we here in New England were told to fill our tubs with water and start our generators in preparation; then we were told to expect flooding, because we were going to get slammed with lots and lots of rain; then we were told to be grateful we don’t live in New Jersey. (Note: I am thankful every day that I don’t live in New Jersey.) Block Island cancelled their ferries for three days in anticipation of this huge weather event. Then Monday hit: a crisp, sunny day, with nary a Joaquin, hurricane or otherwise, in sight. I looked at the stagnant and slightly dingy water in my tub, my thirty cans of corned beef hash, and thought: wasn’t that fun?

There was a cold front coming in this week, and by Monday afternoon, I’d pulled out the flannel pajamas. I was looking my schedule for the rest of the week to see when I could squeeze in switching my closet over from my summer to winter wardrobe (you southerners don’t even have a clue as to what I’m talking about). I wore a scarf and winter coat to work on Tuesday, and started looking up beef stew crockpot recipes. On Wednesday, it was 72 degrees. One of the radio DJs even said the words “beach day.” I peeled off my layers and basked in the sun. But by Friday, I was digging out the winter gloves. See? Fun, right?

This weekend, we’re looking at sunshiny days, a frost that should knock all of that pretty fall foliage off the trees in one fell swoop, and perfect summer “apple-picking” weather Sunday afternoon. It’s all part of the wacky, wonderful life we’ve chosen to lead here in New England.

Seriously, if it weren’t for family, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.

Spring arrived in town today, and she was not happy.

When she showed up at my house, the evidence that I hadn’t been alone was everywhere. Old Man Winter had left his snow all over the lawn. (Believe me, the number of times I’ve asked him to clean up after himself . . . it does no good. I wind up shoveling up his mess myself, only to have him dump more right after I’ve cleaned up.) Stuff that I’ve bought just for him—shovels, a roof rake, a generator—there was just too much evidence around the house for Spring to ignore. She knew I’d been seeing another season, and she was mad.

“How could you do this to me?” she stormed, trampling the daffodils. Great, I thought. Now they’ll never come up.

“Sweetheart. I’ve been praying for you to come back to me for months. You have to believe me. This thing with Winter . . . it means nothing. I didn’t even want it to happen.”

This was absolutely true. It’s not like I had the least bit of interest in having Winter move in. I would’ve been perfectly happy to have Autumn stay around until Spring decided to show up. But I woke up one morning and Autumn was just . . . gone. Winter, probably sensing my vulnerability, swooped in like a white knight, showering me with gifts, like a pretty dusting of sparkling frost in December, and even giving me a white Christmas. I shouldn’t have let the beauty fool me. Beneath the stardust veneer, Winter can be cruel and cold. So, so cold.

I was desperate. I started to beg. “I tell you, I’ve been praying for you to come back to me! Look! I even cleaned for you!” (It was true. I’d scrubbed the walls last week in the hopes that it would convince Spring that I really was committed to having her back in my life.) “See what I bought for you?” I said, pointing to the seed packets on the kitchen table. “I’ve been waiting for you. I thought we could plant them together.”

Spring sniffed. She looked around again. “At least you used protection,” she mumbled, looking at the stack of gloves, hats, and scarves that were piled up by the front door.

“That’s right, I did!” I said. I thought I was winning her over. I saw a glimmer of hope, like a timid crocus blossoming in the snow. But Spring can be a fickle, fickle woman.

“Maybe,” she said, teasing me with her warm breath, “maybe . . . I’ll come back in April.”

And with that, she was gone. Winter was still freeloading in my back yard, driving my heating bill up, and generally making my life miserable. I was broken-hearted. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

“Come on,” I said to Winter, pulling on my gloves. “I may not like you much, but you sure do seem to like me, seeing as you won’t leave me alone.”

I’m not proud. And I do miss Spring. But at least Winter, with all of his chilly attitude, brings me a shamrock shake once in a while.

I get that life is hard. Sometimes, it out-and-out stinks. Perhaps the snow in New England has been getting you down, or a mounting pile of bills has you thinking of desperate options. More and more, I’m hearing about people going for one solution that many of you might be tempted to try. Are you, gentle reader, thinking about selling your soul to the Devil? Here are some things you need to consider before signing in blood on the dotted line:

Are you aiming high enough?

Your soul should fetch a goodly amount from the Devil. After all, people are selling their souls on eBay for upwards of $475.00 (I’m not making that up). Make sure you ask for all of it—fame, fortune, love, happiness, and maybe a lifetime supply of DoubleStuf Oreos. Go for broke. You can always give up the Oreos during negotiations.

How much do you really know about Satan?

Sure, you probably know the Devil went down to Georgia that one time. Or that a friend of the Devil is a friend of yours. But if the entirety of your information on the Prince of Lies resides in old Charlie Daniels and Grateful Dead tunes, you might want to bone up on your Beelzebub knowledge before entering a contract with him. Find a nice, chatty Catholic priest, perhaps. Or read a book. Maybe the Good Book.

Do you have a good lawyer?

If we’ve learned anything from Faust or “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” it’s that the Prince of Darkness is a tricky little bugger. Before you sign a contract with him, make sure you have a competent attorney review all the paperwork. Don't chintz out on this important step. Might as well go for the best money can buy—after all, you’ll surely be able to afford it once the deal is done and Satan bestows a ton of money on you. (You ARE asking for money, right?)

What can you expect, weather-wise?

Perhaps the most tempting aspect of eternal damnation in Hell is the heat. The glorious, glorious heat. (I live in New England. The thermometer peaked at -2 degrees today. Brimstone sounds darn cozy right about now.) But a quick review of Dante’s Inferno might have you thinking twice about taking up residence in Hell. For instance, did you know that there’s no guarantee you’ll wind up somewhere warm? Dante describes the third circle of Hell, where all the gluttons hang out, as being full of vile slush produced by never-ending icy rain. Icy rain. Brr. And the last circle of Hell? You know, where the worst people go (like maybe those of you that sell your souls for personal gain)? They’re all encased in a frozen lake. Some of ’em are even being chewed on by the Devil himself, but just enough to make them bleed, not enough to warm them up with satanic saliva. Doesn’t sound warm and brimstony at all, does it?

Are you sure eternal damnation is the right choice for you?

If you’re still hell-bent (har har) on selling your soul to the Devil, make sure you’re making the right choice for you. Are you good at handling brutal torture, or does that sound like something you might not enjoy for all eternity? Is fame and fortune really worth being gnawed on by Satan while being encased in an icy lake? Wouldn’t it just be easier to play the lottery or buy your own DoubleStuf Oreos on occasion? And don’t delude yourself—once that contract’s signed, it’s signed. Don’t count on outsmarting Lucifer—if you can’t even outsmart your four-year-old nephew at Candyland, you’re not going to do well against the Prince of Lies himself.

Selling your soul: there are probably better options out there.

Let me just say for the record that I love my current job, and just as importantly, my current commute. The job is fun, my coworkers are nice, and the commute is half as long as my last one. I still have about 40 minutes each way to think about deep, important things. Am I polishing up my latest novel in my head, or solving world problems as I drive? You be the judge. Here's what went through my head today as I drove:

• It's rain, people, not snow. Learn how to drive!
• The guy in front of me has a bumper sticker that looks like a hot air balloon and says "FAT" on it. What does that mean? Seems vaguely insulting. Maybe I'll honk at him.
• Ugh. If you're going to hit a squirrel, make sure you kill it. That's all I'm saying.
• My bad knee hurts this morning. Is this due to the rain, or due to the three pounds I've put on this week thanks to the arrival of Hostess Halloween Glo Balls™ in stores now? Am I fat? Really, if nobody gets your stupid fat hot air balloon bumper sticker, why have it on your car at all?
• Are there still people in the world who think OJ didn't do it? How does Marcia Clark deal with that?
• Wow, the lead singer Jimi Jamison of Survivor just died, and he was fairly young. Only 63 . . . You know who I love? Survivor winner Richard Hatch.
• Catchy tune. "I'm all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble." Why did I give up playing the cello?
• The guy in the car next to me can't be more than 30. That's a shame, because he's got a terrible comb-over going on, which, trust me, is the least attractive hairstyle in the world. I'm tempted to roll down my window and scream "Shave it all OFF, man!" Could I get arrested for that?
• You know who hated being arrested? Richard Hatch.
• There's something unpleasant I must acknowledge about getting older. I hate to do it, but it has to be said. While it's true that Nick Rhodes has always been my favorite member of Duran Duran, out of all of them, John Taylor is really aging the best. My sister was right: he's still hot. And, let's face it, Roger Taylor looks darn good these days. Who would've predicted that?
• Oh, Dylan McDermott has a new show out this fall according to the radio? He was in Steel Magnolias, a movie I could quote endlessly. Like Young Frankenstein. I quote that movie all the time. "Werewolf?" "There wolf! There castle!" Ha ha! Seriously, people, it's RAIN, not sleet!
• Did I comb my hair this morning?
• I'm sure there's a story I can write about the snapping turtle hatchery we've got going on right now. Hmmm . . . using turtles as a murder weapon . . . an unhapp—oh, look! I didn't know there was a Whole Foods there!
• They're repaving this part of the highway. Jeez, that tar stinks . . . I wish chunky black boots would come back in style. I mean, I still wear them, but it would be nice if they were actually in style.
• What, are we not in Connecticut? Yellow means floor it, people!

As you can clearly see, I've been quite busy philosophizing and solving the issues of the world during my morning commute. Clearly, there's Aristotle, Nietzsche, and me. My planned musings for the drive home this afternoon: More squirrels, whether or not rain has been proven to lower driving IQs, Pepperidge Farms snickerdoodles, and a little debate in my mind about whether or not Richard Hatch was truly the best Survivor player ever. (Answer: yes.)


Available now! Insanity Tales, a collaboration with my writers' group, featuring me, David Daniel, Dale T. Phillips, Vlad V., and Ursula Wong! Order ten copies today!

Faithful readers have long heard me lament about my ancestors' inability to settle in warmer climes. Noooo, my stupid forefathers decided to prove they were of heartier stock, and settled smack in the middle of blizzard country. The only decent thing they did was put down roots in Connecticut, which is practically balmy compared to Maine. However, as this past week reminded me, it's still cold in Connecticut for eight months out of the year, and we get a lot of snow.
Fresh off of New Year's Day, the powers that be (yup, I blame God and Scot Haney) decided to dump some more snow on us here in New England. I was not amused. Instead of relaxing on my day off, I now had to make beef stew and bake cookies, because being a good New England girl, that's what I was trained to do when it snows. I spent my day in the kitchen, wishing I lived down South, where surely I would be lounging by the pool and drinking mimosas. Instead, I was trapped in the house with a tub full of water, not for lounging in but just in case the power went out and I needed water to flush the toilet. Also, I couldn't even *pretend* that I was somewhere tropical, because the only mixer I had for the champagne was hot chocolate. Have I mentioned I hate New England?
It snowed into the early hours of Friday, and when we woke up, Jason began shoveling. I had to go into the basement with my hairdryer because a couple of pipes had frozen solid. I sat there in my flannel jammies, aimed the hairdryer at the pipes next to the wall, and read a book. 
Once the water started flowing again, I made myself some coffee, and waited for Jason. He came in and announced that my car battery was dead and one of my tires was nearly flat. Figures. We tried to jump it with his car, failed, and called AAA. We waited for six hours for them to arrive, and in six seconds, they had the car running again. None of this, you realize, would ever have happened if we lived in, say, South Carolina.
I suppose I should count my blessings. For instance, I hear that down south, they have a problem with newts and other various lizards getting into their homes. Seeing as I disturbed a family of mice and no less than sixteen wolf spiders to get to the frozen pipe, I really don't see how a few cute little geckos in the house are a problem. But maybe they are. Maybe Southerners get tired of the lizards trying to sell them insurance all the time. At least the mice in our home mostly just poop and run away.
Also, in the warmer states, they spend a lot of money keeping their homes air conditioned year-round. I'm sure that costs a pretty penny. Although not as much as electric heat, which is what we have, and which we turn on in October and keep running through June. I hate you, Southerners!
I should remember that some people get a lot of enjoyment out of snow. I've actually heard others comment that a blanket of snow is rather beautiful, though I've always chalked that up to crazy talk. Plus, my nephews told me today that they were out sledding and building snowmen. My sister came on the line and told me she couldn't talk long because she was using her hairdryer to combat the frostbite on the boys' fingers and toes, but hey, as long as they had fun.
New England: cold, snowy, and we're a notoriously unfriendly population. Remind me again why I live here?

I have a closet in my office where I store my off-season clothes. See, in my family, the women have a full wardrobe for each season. Since it was an alarming 35 degrees out when I got up this morning, I figured it was time to break out the winter clothes.
This isn't simply a matter of pulling out everything in the office closet and switching it with everything in the bedroom. No, a change of seasons means that each item of clothing must be gone through to see if it still fits, remains fashionable, and is free of stains and/or  holes. Join me on this adventure, won't you?

Pants: I have seven pairs of winter pants that don't fit, and two that do. See, on my mother's side of the family, if we're not on a diet or undergoing major dental work, we're gaining weight. Since I take after Mom, it was no surprise that my pants seem to have shrunk while in storage.

Toss the pants that don't fit? Heck no. There's a chance I could weigh less next year. Plus, I have long legs, so finding slacks that reach the bottom of my ankle is difficult. They can live in the bottom drawer of my dresser all winter.

Sweaters: I found several sweaters that still fit, mostly because I tend to shop in the menswear section for these items (women's sweaters are made for fashion, not warmth, and I like to be warm). However, I did find a few that got shorter over the summer.

Toss the sweaters that fall just above my belly button? Absolutely not. While I won't be baring my midriff in the dead of winter, they're too cute to toss, and they might magically grow longer in a few months. (What? It could happen.)

Turtlenecks: Nobody looks good in a turtleneck. I'm serious. If you think you do, you're lying to yourself. Even Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson looks like a doofus in a turtleneck, and you know I love me some Dwayne Johnson.

Toss the turtlenecks? Sadly, no. I have some sweaters that are loose-knit (read: see-through) and the only thing I have that offers warmth and complete torso coverage are these stupid turtlenecks. Keep.

Suits: I still have several sharp-looking suits from my "have to go to a board meeting" days. Now I run a bookstore, where the standard office attire is "not a sweatshirt." When will I wear these things again?

Toss the suits? Nope. If I toss the suits, my store will go bankrupt and I'll need the stupid things for job interviews. I'm too superstitious to jinx myself like that. They'll live in the closet all winter.

Dresses and skirts: Also a little too fancy for work, but they're good for holidays and funerals. Plus, when I'm feeling lazy, there's nothing like a dress to quickly pull on so I'm not walking around naked. However, I may need to invest in some more control-top pantyhose. 

Toss the dresses and skirts? Nope. Too handy for lazy days.

See how tiring and time-consuming this can be? It also explains why I have a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear. Going to be a long winter, folks.

It's that time of year when all of the towns you've never heard of start posting signs about their annual fall festivals. Jason and I like to do the fall fair circuit, mostly because we're both big fans of fried food. We've had to limit our fair-going this year, as we have a business to run, but we managed to stop by three. Here were the highlights of each fair this year:

The Middle Haddam Fair: Never heard of Middle Haddam? Neither have we. We sat in traffic for 45 minutes waiting to get to this little fair, nestled amid corn fields and cow pastures. I was surprised that the parking was causing so much traffic backup. Their sign said they'd been holding this fair for 102 years, so I'd hoped they would be able to figure out a more effective parking setup by now, but no such luck. It was convenient that there were so many fields nearby, however, as I spotted more than one fairgoer jump out of their car and pee in the pastures while stuck in traffic. It did make me thankful that I don't live there.
Once we parked, I noticed immediately (and with some alarm) that I was clearly overdressed. I'd worn a black blouse and neatly pressed jeans, and I looked like I was on my way to a formal dinner compared to everyone else. Clearly, I should have worn a shredded tank top that highlighted my bra, short-short cutoffs, and my cowboy boots (if I were the sort to own cowboy boots. I am not). I might as well have carried a sign reading "I grew up in Glastonbury, and I think I'm better than you" which, quite frankly, was what I was thinking.
The fair was small, a camel bit my finger, and I opted not to use the port-a-potties for fear of catching crabs.
Highlights: The apple fritters were yummy.
Lowlifes: One truck actually had a confederate flag hanging off of its trailer. I borrowed a lighter from one of the gentlemen trying to light cow pies on fire and managed to set the flag up in flames. Then I had to run like the wind to get out of there before the hillbillies caught me. Luckily, because I was not wearing cowboy boots, I made a swift getaway.

The Woodstock Fair: This is a pretty big event held in northern Connecticut every year, and since I once found a lovely watercolor depicting Jack, Bobby, and Teddy Kennedy here, I have fond memories of this fair. We went on a rainy day, which cut down on the crowds, and admired the cows, rabbits, and most importantly, food. I'd dressed more appropriately (tee-shirt, jeans that were too tight) and wound up feeling pretty good about my body by the end of the afternoon. Honestly, people: if you need to lose more than ten pounds, don't wear a thong, and if you do, for the love of God, don't let it show above your spandex pants!
Highlights: I ran into Dennis, my former coworker, and got to meet his wife and see his new baby. Also, there were no camels. 
Lowlifes: There was plenty of camel toe, however. Male and female.

The Hebron Fair: I've been going to this fair since I was a kid. Also, it's practically in our back yard, so it would be sacrilegious not to go. My aunt was kind enough to cover the store so we could attend on Thursday night. I do wish that I'd remembered Thursday night is Demolition Derby night, and that Jason loves the Demolition Derby. We walked around, Jason got a corn dog, I indulged in some cheese fries, and we settled down to watch a bunch of cars ram into each other. The temperature dropped to about 30 degrees right before the event started. Here is the actual text message conversation I had with my sister:

Me: I'm at the Hebron Fair, waiting for the Demolition Derby to start. If you could stop by and shoot me, I'd appreciate it.
Kim: You need to be shot. What's wrong with you, sis? Are you blowing out black snot yet?
Me: Hasn't started yet. The derby, I mean. Not my tears. Those started 20 minutes ago.
Kim: Want me to pick you up? I have tissues.
Me: No, my tears have frozen to my face.
Kim: Do they sell hot chocolate to help defrost the ice on your face?
Me: I bought hot chocolate and dumped it on my head to warm up and now my head's cold and wet.
Kim: How are the third degree burns?
Me: Painful. I passed out from the pain for a little while, so that helped kill some time.
Kim: AND helped keep you warm.

We made it through the event without getting hit by any flying bumpers, so overall, I'd say our outing was a success.
Highlights: Those were darn good cheese fries.
Lowlifes: The camel that bit me at Middle Haddam was at Hebron, too. It saw me, winked, and slowly ran its tongue across its hideous camel teeth.

Overall, our fall fair attendance went well. Jason bought a few clunker pretzels (he nearly chipped a tooth on one) but we bought some yummy apples from the Cavanna Farm Stand to make up for it. There were very few clowns, which was a bonus, but now I have a deep fear of camels. Also, I'm ashamed that there are people in my state who fly confederate flags and others who wear thongs when they shouldn't.
So there you go. Make your fair choices appropriately, and have fun.

After last year's Hurricane Irene debacle, I was less than thrilled (read: frothing at the mouth in anger at God) to hear that Hurricane Sandy was heading our way. "The Perfect Storm," meteorologists were calling it, trying to fool me into thinking that George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg were going to wash up on my front step. Not so. A bad storm was a-comin'.
We drove to BJ's to stock up. Once we had a cart full of candy bars, soda, Doritos (two kinds!) and sour cream, I began to feel better. Apparently I associate hurricanes with a license to eat as much crap as possible. I called my mother, who had picked up cheesy poofs, brownie mix, and a pound of Italian cookies from the bakery. Clearly, eating junk food during stormy weather is a genetic thing.
Monday, the storm hit. The black clouds opened forth and poured rain. The wind blew, rattling the windows. We lost power twenty minutes in. I munched on a Butterfinger bar and watched Creepshow on the iPad.
The storm ended. We fired up the generator (finally, we had smartened up enough to purchase one of those bad boys) and turned on the television. Our house was still in one piece. I didn't have to brush my teeth with toilet water. I called my parents and my sister, who were all safe and sound and bored out of their minds. George Clooney had not appeared at anyone's house (stupid @!!*! meteorologists!) The worst thing that happened all night was that "Criminal Minds" was a rerun.
We had power again within 48 hours, which was a commendable feat by Connecticut Light & Power. The temperature outside never dropped below 60, so we hadn't needed to turn on the heat. Overall, it was a survivable hurricane.
However, I now have 35 more Butterfingers to eat and four pounds of Doritos to consume (which I've been dipping straight into the tubs of sour cream). Clearly, hurricanes are dangerous...to my arteries.
Hope everyone else made it through safe and sound!

It's been snowing outside for five hours now, and I have yet to hear a snowplow drive by. I don't understand why the road crews are always so surprised and remarkably unprepared when it snows in New England in January. It's kind of like being shocked when Christmas arrives every December. You can count on it to happen, people!
This is the second time it has snowed this week. Personally, I fully believed the weather man on Monday when he said it would snow that night and in to Tuesday. I went down to Columbia Ford and they were surprisingly tolerant of my request to put snow chains on my favorite boots. I clomped back home, filled the car with windshield wiper fluid, and waited for the snow.
Over on Facebook, one of my high school friends complained that her children hadn't been able to try out their new snowsuits yet. I began to reflect on how nice it would be to be able to actually reach in through a computer screen and throttle someone. I tried it a few times, but just kept bruising my fingertips. Eventually, I just suggested to her that she bundle up the kids and take them to the freezer section of Stop & Shop. She 'unfriended' me an hour later.
Well, the snow did come. I used my new boot chains to stamp my way to the car (which Jason had cleaned off for me—hooray!) and drive to work. I smugly used my newly-filled windshield wiper fluid to clear off the glass, which promptly left a giant smear right in my line of vision. I'm not sure why that happens every time it's cold out, but it always seems to happen on the driver's side of the window. I crouched down to see through the one clear spot right above the dashboard, and made my way down the road. It took me three hours to travel twelve miles, but I made it to work right in time for lunch.
Jason called me when I arrived. He'd been in an accident on the way to work, and the car was in bad shape (luckily, he was fine). From the way the guys at the body shop were pointing at him and laughing, he expected it to be totaled. Just for the record: that is one death in the family, one three-week-long sinus infection, and now one car accident so far for 2012. 
Which is why I am perfectly content to stay in bed this morning and listen for snowplows. Unless Paula Deen is standing outside in my driveway with her fingers frozen around a giant chocolate mousse cake, I'm not cracking the front door open until I see some daffodils popping up.
See you in the spring!

I like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman.  However, it turns out that if you take away my electricity for a few days, I turn in to a slobbering, weeping mess of hysteria.  Honestly, the cow in Twister displayed more tenacity than I have this past week. Let’s take a look at the past few days:

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.