the underwear drawer

power to the people

OK, so now it's starting to get scary. It's still a million degrees out, and there are power outages all over the city. How can there be power outages? This is New York! They know how much power we use! They should anticipate this! That skyline don't light up for nothing! So far the electricity on our block is still holding, but both of our elevators have been shut down indefinitely. And did I mention that we live on the 19th floor?

So you know, when you live on a high floor, water has to be pumped up to your apartment before it can flow out of your faucet. So a power outage would not only mean no lights or air conditioning, but NO WATER. Last I consulted my medical textbooks, human beings need water to live, especially when it's fifty spijillion degrees outside and one of the human beings is a baby who seems to be CONSTANTLY SWEATING even in the middle of winter, sitting perfectly still, in a snowdrift with ice cubes stuffed down his shirt. So what's a panic-prone survivalist to do?

I filled the bathtub with fresh water. That way, I figure even if the power goes out, we have a couple of gallons to work on. Then I filled one of our big soup pots with water. Then I further thought, oh hell, what will I regret more, wasting a little bit or water, or not having the extra water if Manhattan is plunged into darkness and therefore MAD MAX AT THUNDERDOME ANARCHY--and filled our other big soup pot with water too. So now if the power goes out, we'll be hot and in the dark, but at least we can bob for apples.

I actually think that even if there is some mass blackout, New Yorkers will remain calm and civilized, just like we all did the last time this happened. I mean, we've been through a lot worse. But still, I'm not excited about the prospect of weathering a power outage in record-setting heat with a baby who seems to subsist on highly perishable dairy products.

Now to turn off the computer and go polish off the rest of that ice cream. You know, in case of the blackout.

Currently reading: "Possible Side Effects." This book is terrible. I think Augusten Burroughs has reached a point where he thinks he can do no wrong, and what, why wouldn't the American public be interested in reading a story about how he got a nosebleed that one time?