Evening Highlights

Today was really strange, even by my standards.

It's almost 2 and I should really be sleeping, but I feel compelled to update first.  If for no one else, then for my awesome commenter, Jenn.  Plus, my power is back and after spending the better part of the evening with only coloring books and a Disney Princess flashlight, I really feel I should have a quick date with the love of my life.  (In case you're thinking that's my husband or spawn, it's not.  I'm talking, of course, about my computer.)

My house is old.  I don't mean before I was born old, I mean before anyone who could possibly read this was born old.  1894 old.  And it kind of sucks, but it was a hell of a deal and I guess it (usually) beats homelessness, so I'll consider my blessings here.  Anyway, my shitty old house has shitty old electrical wiring.  And fuses!  Somehow, after all the years we've lived here, I still forget that I can't run the microwave and CD player at the same time.  This proved truly tragic tonight when the fuse box delivered its swift and painful reminder that it will not, in fact, allow me to belt out "A Little Priest" while anticipating my first bite of Salisbury steak.  In what I can only describe as one of life's more heartbreaking moments, I found myself in the dark with neither music, nor sufficiently heated processed meat product.

This would be a good time to talk about my basement, which in all fairness really deserves a whole post of its own.  There's only word to describe my basement with any accuracy, and that word is dungeon.  If I were to torture someone (which, and I should probably keep this to myself, is one of my life's ambitions) I'd do it in my basement.  There's even a secret room!  Like I said, it really deserves a whole topic of its own.  For now, I'll keep it simple--I do not enter my basement.  I think I've been down there maybe half a dozen times in all the years we've owned the house, none of them alone and never as far back as the fuse boxes.

It's not that I'm inherently afraid of basements, but I am the dictionary definition of arachnophobic.  Once, as a kid, I even ended up in the hospital over a spider bite.  Not because it was poisonous or anything, but because of the complete mental breakdown I suffered from the abject terror of it all.  True story.  Anyway, being the brightest crayon in the box, this arachnophobic thought it wise to buy a hundred and something year old home on the water.  This should be read as, "We have a spider problem."  Due to my copious use of both poison and natural deterrents, this problem is mostly confined to the basement, but one look around that crypt and there's no denying the problem exists.  There are spiders that died cannibalizing other dead spiders.  It's really bad.  The first time I saw my basement, I wondered if it had been cleaned once since 1894.  Turns out, it probably had.  The manly men in my life (meaning my husband, father, and brother) rid my infested torture chamber of all its eight legged evils bi-annually, but they always come back.  My husband says it's because our house is so old and the water and vegetation don't help, but he's lying to both of us.  I know they're plotting, and I know I am the target of said plot.  I'm not angry about my husband's lies, though.  I know he's just trying to protect me.  Shit, I'm on a tangent, aren't I?

So, the fuse is blown.  Normally, this isn't a huge issue.  I have a whole tupperware container full of those tricky little bastards.  All I have to do is summon my knight in shining armor and the lights are back on in minutes!  However, for all the bothersome staying at home he's done this week, he's chosen this particular evening to vacate the premises.  Fuck!  This has happened twice before, but each time I was resourceful enough to find someone else to save my ass from a night of no electricity.  Unfortunately, about a month and a half ago, my child made off with my phone and I haven't seen that son of a bitch since.  The friend my husband is visiting only lives three blocks away, so I briefly consider just walking over there to let him know he's needed at home.  But the child--sick and sleeping--kills that idea.

On top of being terrified of my basement, there is no one in the world less prepared for personal emergencies than me.  I have two flashlights that are out of batteries.  In fact, second flashlight was my dad's, which he left here because he was frustrated that I never had a working flashlight.  I can't really use candles anymore per order of the husband.  He's not being controlling, it's just his perfectly logical fear of my irresponsibility someday burning down our home.  I keep pointing out that the insurance would cover more than the house is worth, but he insists his fears have more to do with personal safety.  Anyway, since I can't use them, I don't really buy candles anymore.

I spend about 15 minutes just sitting there, pondering the complete fuckaroo I've dug for myself and wondering when it started getting dark so early.  My husband won't be home 'til late.  This really pisses me off because it's pretty rare that the child is sleeping and the husband is gone for that many hours at a stretch and I was really looking forward to this.  Then I remember something!

About a month ago, my parents bought my daughter a princess camping set.  It's really cute.  Too much pink for me, but still really cute.  Anyway, it came with a tent, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a flashlight!  I frown at the realization that my three year old is at least four items more prepared than I am in the event of a catastrophe, but the frown can't last long--I have a flashlight to find!  Her room is pitch black, so before I can do anything in there, I have to dig out one of my husband's lighters.  It's not too hard, since he constantly loses them in recesses of his computer recliner.  I burn myself while scavenging Princess Pie's room for that flashlight, but it's minor and I actually have burn cream and even more shocking, I know where it is and once I have the flashlight, I can easily get it!  In another surprising turn, the flashlight isn't too hard to find.  Sadly, things are going a little too well for me. though--it isn't until I try to turn the flashlight on, that I remember I took a battery out of it a few weeks ago.  I either needed it for my vibrator or my computer mouse, I can't really remember which.  In any case, I know where the computer mouse is and I'm one battery away from light!

It's not the brightest flashlight I've ever used, but it's something and it doesn't burn me like the lighter did.  I tend to my wound, and take a few guesses at what time it is.  I don't have any battery operated clocks.  This is a shame because I love clocks, and I wonder why I don't have any.  I mean, I do--we have three computers, a time display on the range and the microwave, and at least one phone at any given time--but none of those things work in this electrical void.  Meaning I'm clueless about how long it will be until my husband returns.  That sucks.

I can't sleep, so I spend my time creating little stories in my mind. They're mostly awesome, but then my mind settles on a topic that is simply so overwhelming to me that I freak myself out.  There's really nothing off limits here, but I don't feel like trying to deal with any of that again, so I'll leave you in the dark on that for now.  Don't be too upset, everything in its own time.  I need something calming and mindless.  Hey!  I just pilfered a bunch coloring books from the kid!  I know, I know--that makes me a shitty mother, but in my defense, she prefers coloring on construction paper anyway.  Plus, I think it was really stupid of my husband to spend $15 on four coloring books for a kid who is just as happy with the ones I buy three for $1 from the discount store.  I'm the one who can tell the difference between the generic characters and the named, licensed ones.  So, that's what I did until my husband came home.  I just colored.  I even put my best work on the fridge with my little letter magnets.  Tomorrow I'll take pictures!  If you're lucky, maybe I'll take pics of my burn, too!

The huzz finally returns.  He doesn't ask why I'm sitting in the dark, he simply walks to the cupboard, retrieves the tupperware container and heads for the basement.  He takes care of this before hugging me or anything because he's awesome and his priorities are always in the right order.  I'm not even being sarcastic here, he knows how I feel about the fuses.  In that moment, no matter how annoying he's been the past few days, I am filled with awe and love and all feelings warm and squishy.  Once the house is finally flooded with light and everything is the way it should be, I even snuggle up with him to watch one of his boring shows on Netflix.  We chat a bit.  I remember the Salisbury steak and give him half in offering of thanks.  Eventually he tires and tries talking me into going to bed.  I tell him I'll just be fifteen minutes.

Before he heads to our room, he stops for a drink, and that's when he has a question for me:  "Hey Bean?  Did you steal Pie-ra's coloring books?"  I can't tell if he's irritated or amused, so I just pretend I didn't hear him.  Finally, he gives up and pads down the hallway, leaving me where I was when I started this.