Two years ago, if you were living in Houston, you were beginning your long, long journey of post-Ike living without electricity.
Maybe you were very, very lucky, or maybe you were one of those people who planned ahead and got a generator, but chances instead are that you were without power.
If you were in Houston, you probably escaped major damage from Ike, so the only tangible result was the lack of juice. And for the next -- week? (if you were lucky) two weeks? (if you were me) -- you'd be living back in the Stone Age.
So you woke up on Tuesday, safe and that's the important thing yaddi, yaddi yaddi -- but no electricity? Ah, the glorious, amber-tinged memories:
1. Coming to work and furiously checking for every update from CenterPoint Energy.
Surely they couldn't mean it when they said it might take a week or two to restore power. They must be talking about Galveston and Bolivar, not the barely damaged neighborhood you're sweating in, right?
2. Look!! It's a CenterPoint truck!!
Follow that fucker! Maybe he's going to our neigb-- son of a bitch!! This scene, played out on the highway as you commuted each day, would eventually be replaced by seeing the trucks within your neighborhood but not quite on your street. So close. So damn fucking close.
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3. Houston gets hot in September.
There was actually a bit of a "cold spell" in Ike's wake, one of the reasons the divorce rate didn't spike appreciably. But still, sleeping in what passes for a Houston September "cold spell" is not the height of comfort.
4. No TV? No problem. I'll just read.
Until it's nine o'clock, you find yourself contortioned outside trying to grab every last bit of sunlight onto your page, and then you finally put the book away and face the long hours of doing nothing.
5. Doing nothing? Why, break out the candles and let's play cards as a family!!
No, let's fucking not. It's 98 degrees inside, the beer is warm, everyone's pissed off and the kid only wants a working laptop. Playing poker isn't going to produce any smiley faces.
6. Let's barbecue. Again.
By the 10th day, really, you just smell like gassed-up briquettes anyway.