Yesterday the power was out for 10 hours. It went out at 5:35. I know this because the Almighty Maribel shows up at around that time. No sleep for the faint of heart.
Except there is only so much you can do without the power. Especially if your well is hooked up to the power. Damn it. When I finally got out of bed, the kitchen was spotless. I called The Husband.
K: Yo. Didn’t you tell Maribel about the water?
I could use my phone because I have an actual phone with a cord. They said these would go out along with VHS, but I’m no fool over here.
D: I TRIED. I thought she understood.
K: Oh, she understood after she drained the 50 gallon tank. And I think it’s ironic that I have to RIDE THE BOY’S ass to get him to flush but I’ve heard the damn toilet 3 times this morning. You gotta love it.
Thirty minutes later the phone rang.
K: Good morning, Cake Lady.
D: Well, I know your husband is preparing for the end of the world so I was wondering if your generator was hooked up to–
K: The oven? Nope. But by golly my chickens will stay frozen.
D: I guess I’ll be driving across town to bake my cakes.
Had we turned the generator on my chickens would have been frozen. Not exactly sure why that never happened.
So there we were in the dark and Maribel wants to do something. Anything. She had enough light to clean the grout with a toothbrush and she was fresh out of obsessive-compulsive cleaning tasks. I decided to do inventory.
If you are my accountant, pretend it’s January 1. Or, if we are pretending, let’s make it December 31 after close of business.
So I’m down in the basement bringing stuff up for Maribel to sort because it’s not like we can sort sizes by light of the cloudy sky in the corner sliver window. I’m alternating between taking shirts upstairs and eating Nate’s birthday cake that I have retrieved from the fridge on my one-time-opening-the-door-per-power-outage. It’s just that the Cake Lady’s buttercream frosting is just so damn good. I’m downstairs and as I grab a bunch of shirts in the dark, I feel something on my hand. Not wanting to get mocha frosting all over the shirts, I shoved my fingers into my mouth.
Except the frosting didn’t taste like anything. There was a lot of it and it had the same consistency, but no flavor. I walked across the basement. One, two, three, four steps. And it hit me. I ran around feeling for paper towels and began to spit out the contents of my mouth.
It’s not that the tan ink tastes bad. It just can’t be good for you.