and on the 15th day, they rested

Lean in to your monitor. Can you smell it? It's the powerful perfume of electricity I'm emitting. That's right, faithful readers, there's a light. Over at the Epiphenita/St. Barbara house.

Off the grid for over fourteen days. An odd sabbatical from the usual. Educational, too. But all I can think of right now is being in my own bed while the air conditioner lulls me to sleep.

day 13 redux

I don't know whether I'm going to burst into tears or burst into flames.

(As if. When given a choice, my choice is combustion.)

day 13

This is not a catastrophe, it's just a huge inconvenience.

A huge, cranky-making inconvenience. Spent half the night in the truck last night. The trade-off is air conditioning and uncomfortable surfaces OR comfortable bed and sticky heat. Until 2 am, when we schlepped inside for a few hours of sleeping abed in reasonable temperatures.

A half-million Houstonians and I are fucking tired.

I'm not going to use sleep deprivation and temperature torture as license to be a raging lunatic. But, tranquility in the face of sleepiness is not my superpower.

I'm signing off now because I can't stand to hear myself talk about electricity, hurricanes or sleep for one more minute.

day 12

No.

day 10

Slipping over here between jobs to say that we are now in Day 10 of the electricity-free torpor. The cool front has dissipated, the nights are hot, humid and allergenful. A few thoughts...

I am exploring the idea of hurricane-induced alcoholism. I have met more neighbors and drunk more alcohol in the past week or so than in the previous six months.

Steven and his mom imported (from San Antonio) battery-driven fans. Since there is not an inverter to be had in Houston or surrounding counties (or extension cords or batteries...but you can buy a generator for $800. EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS. Shit, we'll just get a room.), he and his mom should be given a medal from the mayor. It's hot but a little fan goes a long way. Thank you, thank you.

Word is that we won't have power until Thursday or Friday. For those of you not suffering from heat-induced counting dementia: that would be Day 13 or Day 14...or as I like to call it: Day Two Weeks. By that time I will have stopped haunting the home improvement stores for electrical inverters and will be stocking up on pitchforks and torches.

One gets cranky after two weeks of no a/c in the subtropical sauna that is Houston. Even pioneer frontierswomen.

Finally, the saddest note:
The day Ike hit Houston was the day David Foster Wallace hung himself. I just learned of this yesterday and am profoundly saddened by his death. What an incredible writer. 46 years old. Goddammit. Goddammit.

losing the pioneer spirit

Okay. I'll continue with the recap in another post. My inner Sister Goodwife is about to get knocked over by a huge whine. It's Day 6 in the power outage. I've been sleeping in ragweed-sprinkled, mold spored "fresh" air for as many nights.

The across-the-street neighbors have power. The goddamn church next door has power. My sunshiny attitude is curdling like last week's dairy products. I want to slap the shit out of myself for being such a crumbly baby but I'm t-minus-2-days away from going commando and I'm sick of eating meals that remind me of warmed-up dog food.

Sorry. Will be back with better news. Soon.

ooooohhhhh

The wind is picking up and the decent weatherman said that the storm stretches out 500 miles from the eye...which is 65 miles wide.

My what a huge eye you have, Ike.
You big ol' Cyclops.

you are so much tougher than i am

So here we are. Rather, here I am. The hurricane is about 9 hours away. I can tell, because of the interactive graphic the Chronicle has called Storm...Pulse...Tracker (Each ellipsis represents dramatic notes punching home every serious syllable. In my head.) and all is well. I mean, I'm not seeing anything but light wind and rain.

I don't watch television. Seriously, I turn it on so rarely that I forget which network is on which channel. It's because I'm not as tough as you are. Really. I don't have the stamina. On every local channel, of course, is hurricane coverage. Each newscaster trying to outdo the others in breaking news. Only it's not. So they take the skimpiest facts and wring them out for every useless iota of information. 24/7. I watch for 10 minutes at a time and I have to walk away. They are saying nothing new and using up all the dramatic adjectives so that when there is really something to report, we're all deaf and dumb to the importance.

The last straw: Geraldo Rivera. I've run out of epithets. Couldn't have imagined getting to this point. I can't find a word filthy enough to describe what a repulsive douchebag (see? it just glances off the side of my loathing) he is. Just now, he allowed himself to be tossed by the waves into the water. So he could cut right to the core of the reporter on location, cameras a'rollin'. His microphone is an electrical device, right?
IF
THERE
WERE
A
GOD.
But no. He doesn't get electrocuted. He isn't flicked out to the sea by the colossal hand of the Almighty. Flicked. He should be flicked right into Ike's gigantic swirling crotch and get fucked up but good. Wow, I got a little closer that time.

You see? I'm not tough enough for prime time news. My Bliss runs screaming out of the house and my Disgust hands me a pepperoni pizza and says, sit down honey, you're going to enjoy this.

Goddammit.

ay! ike

If it isn't one thing, it's a hurricane. We are 12 hours away from a significant hit on Galveston/Houston. It looks like Ike will remain a category 2 hurricane. Which is no reason to panic nor reason to plan an afternoon on the beach.

I'm not all that worried. Like most Houstonians my biggest concern is losing electrical power (read: air conditioning) for the hot, muggy aftermath. Next is flooding...but I do have, you know, that big, wonderful Tundra, just in case. Of course, I have no intention of getting out in all that if I can help it. (Traffic exiting Houston has been predictably insane.) Our streets flood but Tropical Storm Allison was the acid test for flooding (Houston was inundated) and our little house came within 6 inches of being flooded, so I'm pretty sure we're okay.

Last night we went to Target (for printer ink–I know, but you have your emergencies and I have mine) and drove past a half-dozen gas stations: all of them had bags over the pump handles. There is no gas to be had in this area.

Barbara had volunteered to help out at Menninger, so she'll be there from this (Friday) morning until tomorrow (Saturday) night. It's a psychiatric treatment facility so when they say they'll be in "lock-down," they damn well mean it. It's a little creepy to be anywhere using that phrase. She's a saint, I've said it before, and I'm glad she'll be able to help them out. But, of course, I would rather she'd be huddling in the interior bathroom with me, candles and a stack of books. Maybe some wine.

Okay, I'm signing off. Will update you on the thing before or after.