I suppose I could try to be positive about Hurricane Irene, given that my home wasn't flooded or obliterated by a downed tree and the fact that I've been able to escape to my father's house during the day and enjoy the creature comforts of his electricity.
But I just don't want to.
We haven't had power in Mulletville Lite since 7 a.m. Sunday morning. I think the storm hit at what, 6:55 a.m.? To say it's been the longest week of my life would be an understatement. And it's only Wednesday.
If you read my last post, you'll see my household was battling a flea infestation. An infestation made liveable by incessant vacuuming and laundering of linens.
Guess what you can't do without power?
Yep. Vacuum and laundry.
Do you have any idea what it's like to try to monitor a flea issue by candlelight and flashlight? It's making me batty.
On top of the lack of power, the lack of hot water with which to wash Diddlydoo's bottles or to bathe, and the not-so-quaint activities of living like you're camping indoors (peanut butter and bread for dinner, anyone?), the kids have double ear infections.
Guess what kind of medicine the doctor prescribed?
One that requires refrigeration. I've got the kids' medicine in a cooler by the bed, and I've been monitoring the cooler's temperature like it's holding organs.
Ice cube by ice cube.
And how bout those candles? If we ever hear of a hurricane approaching again, unscented candles will be at the top of the list. My house smells like the fucking Yankee Candle Company.
Though it does mask the smell of rotting food in my refrigerator well.
Between the pine-scented and holly berry-scented candles and the battery-operated window lights we've been using to keep Junior from wailing "I can't seeeeeeeeee!" during the night (God I miss nightlights), it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Except for the lack of snow, of course. Keeping the windows open and enjoying the cool nights was a real blessing.
Until the neighbor bought a generator.
Do you have any idea how loud a generator is? It emits an obnoxious gutteral rumble that literally shakes your brain. You lie awake at night dreaming of blowing the thing up. Or accidentally pushing your neighbor onto a downed wire.
Sleep? What's that?
Yes, I hate Hurricane Irene. I hate living without power. I hate the pitch black darkness of nighttime and the Holiday Wreath scent of my home. Most of all, I hate that every time you start to talk about how miserable you are, someone pipes up with "It could have been worse" or "At least you're safe."
You want to know what I'm grateful for? I'm grateful I was never a goddamn Pilgrim. If this is what life was like, it must have sucked. And we don't even have livestock.
I'm so soured by this brush with rusticity I'm banning all things colonial from our lives. We're never going on a family trip to Plymouth Plantation or Colonial Williamsburg. Never. I won't even chaperone a school field trip.
Historic Jamestown can bite me.
Right after the fleas are done.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.