Marrying George Clooney

I am at a loss.
Literally.
We are without power. Which means we are also without Internet service and phones. Which means I am completely disconnected. Which means I feel just like I did when I was twelve years old wishing someone would please, oh God, please… ask me to play with them.

Okay. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

There is a big difference between choosing to go offline, and being forced to go offline. Choosing means vacation. It means vacation, and travel, and Pina-coladas, and hot steamy sex and a do not disturb sign hanging on the door for a few days. Choosing is powerful. You feel like you’re taking charge of your life, where as being forced to go offline feels very much like you have absolutely no control what so ever. No matter how many times you walk around the house with your laptop held up to the fucking skylights & the heavens – you are not gonna hit a hot spot. And that’s called… WiFiCryingOutLoud.

Power. Less.
Or more, depending.

Sitting in the dark, at the mercy of Hurricane Irene, is truly deeply all about relinquishing power, and control. Letting go, as they say. You can’t control nature, just as you can’t control another human being. You can’t stand outside and scream, “Hey, Nature, fuck off, go bother someone else today.” Although, you can do that with a husband or partner, or wife – I have tried that at home – it lasts for oh… about three seconds.

Let me share with you a few things that have come to light, so to speak, these past forty-eight (and counting) hours.

First and foremost – make sure you have candles that are unscented. Every single frickin’ candle in our home is scented. Cranberry, Tangy Mandarin, and Black-Cherry Mint. A few assorted Christmas scents like pine, and Gardenia. The entire house smells like a really cheap badly-stocked Christmas store. Or a bad awful fart. So not only don’t we have power, electricity – the house stinks to high heaven. I will never again drink cranberry juice without wanting to puke.

Do not get flashlights that make your face look long and droopy. You know, like Stan Laurel. You want flashlights that give your face some fullness and color. Otherwise you’ll be miserable. Trust me, nothing worse than feeling like shit and not being able to find your make-up kit.

Wine tastes fine lukewarm.

Do not try any new sexual positions without knowing where your head will land first. Concussions and/or comas are not sexy.

When the power company representative tells you that they will restore your power within a 72 to 96 HOUR time frame, ask them HOW MANY DAYS they’re talking about. When I asked the rep what she meant by “a possible 72 to 96 hour power interruption,’ she said, “Oh, you know, 96 hours, that’s like, what, six days.” Huh, I thought … what the fuck? So not only don’t you get power, or service, or even a spoken prompt … you get real life stupid. And if you’re really on a roll… throw some weight around, tell them that Hurricane Irene was named after your mother – you’ll hear a slight gasp on the other end – and then you’re gonna hear these words: “Wow, cool.”
Uh huh.
Cool.
Way cool.
Fuck you cool.

And last but certainly not least:
PRAYING, CHANTING, MEDITATING, GETTING DOWN ON YOUR KNESS for ENERGY & POWER & ELECTRICITY, and everyone’s SAFETY IS SO DAMN SEXY…

….just like high heels.