A couple thunderstorms ripped through our area last night and we lost power for a couple hours. We live in a part of the country where spring and summer storms can be volatile; it’s nothing unusual. The kids learned our piano is not electric and therefore they could still practice despite Electronic Armageddon: May Edition.
On the other hand, it took a great deal of strength to keep myself together. Power outages didn’t bother me until about three years ago, when a vicious ice storm left us without power for four days. I learned our house is the only one hooked up to its own transistor that needed to be replaced, so when the power company was restoring outages, staff worked on those areas where the greatest number of people were affected. A single house on its own transistor got kicked way down the priority list. To be fair, our neighbors offered us everything from generators to their own homes while we waited an extra two days. The power company called in reinforcements from Georgia and Alabama. (Despite my fervent promise that I would not talk smack about Atlanta Braves
legend tool Chipper Jones for a whole entire week, the Georgia Peaches did not have the equipment to help and as they drove away, I taunted “LAR-RY, LAR-RY” really loudly because that’s Chipper’s real name and I’m extremely mature.)
Last night, power was restored within two hours. But in those two hours, my anxiety kicked in big-time. We have noise machines to help us sleep. My husband has slept with one since we were dating and I always considered him a special snowflake for constantly taking it with him, everywhere, but now I can’t sleep without one either. Without the noise machines, I could hear everything. Even when the power came back, I lay for hours hearing phantom bumps and noises and I maniacally checked on the children every 30 minutes. I was convinced that the garage door was open and people easily could come in and kill us. The following statements are what my anxiety-riddled brain convinced me were completely rational things to consider:
- Our living wills were updated but we never discussed where we would be buried. I wanted to be cremated but I wasn’t sure about my husband. We’d all need to be together because despite cremation, I’m sure a stray sock would end up in my son’s urn and I have to keep on top of him about that.
- Do burglars/murderers judge the houses they enter? There was an epic battle last night in the never ending Picking Up and Putting AwayThe Legos War and I’m pretty sure I lost. However, all the counters were clean.
- The Phillies are in second place in the National League East and I’d be pretty pissed if I were murdered before I got to see how the rest of the season played out.
- HOWEVER, I would be spared any and all disappointment stemming from a post-All Star Break 24-game losing streak.
- What would our funeral be like? Who would attend? Who would proofread the programs? Would they be in Comic Sans font? Surely I have enough good friends to prevent that from happening.
- I’m afraid to go downstairs but I have a notebook and pencil right here so I can start rough drafts of everyone’s obituaries.
- Would anyone name anything after us? I’d be all right with local sporting fields, several park benches and/or bridges. Not OK: turnpike rest stops.
- Food at the funeral has to be gluten- and dairy-free; no red meat or fish. Just like at our house.
- Do you think George RR Martin would send me an advance copy of Wars of Winter if I emailed him right now? I’d be happy to read whatever he has, whatever stage it’s in.
- Wake playlist. ON IT.
- Is that sunlight? Are those birds? Thank goodness. Maybe I’d better shut my mind down now.