The Great Blackout of 2018

We had some storms roll through Tuesday evening; nothing major, just heavier rain than we have had in a few weeks and maybe a little thunder here and there. I was cooking dinner when our power blinked off, came right back on, then went off again for about 10 seconds. "Whew, thank goodness it didn't really go out," I stupidly said out loud. You see, the thought of losing electricity paralyzes me with fear. I desperately want a generator...or two generators in case something goes wrong with the first one.

My friend and neighbor, Melissa, also shares my power loss phobia, and she immediately sent me a text because her house had experienced the same fright. We reassured each other that the threat had likely passed, and I even commented that I hoped I hadn't jinxed us all by the fact that I had already reset two of our blinking clocks. Why, why do I tempt fate?

We ate dinner and continued with our nightly routine. As I stepped out of the shower, the unthinkable happened: everything stopped and I found myself groping for my towel in total blackness. I tried waiting calmly for things to come back on; we hadn't really had any severe weather, so how long could it take? But after several minutes in the dark, Clint brought me the flashlight and I descended into full panic mode. Every minute felt like an hour; nothing we owned seemed to work without electricity.

Our little blind dog never even noticed anything was different.

I made it about 15 minutes before I felt like I was climbing the walls. I had already uttered my every-time-the-power-is-out-nervous-catchphrase, "Did I tell you I read somewhere that a crayon will burn for half an hour?" When the apocalypse comes, me and my Crayola 64 pack with the built-in sharpener will be ready. And so, we did what most anyone would do under the circumstances: we got the dog, got in the car, went to McDonald's for Cokes, and drove around for an hour and a half to wait it out (I'm fairly certain my family crest includes McDonald's golden arches, because when the going gets tough, that's where we head). We passed two Duke Energy trucks and wished them Godspeed on our way to McDonald's, and Melissa sent another text that the estimated repair time was 9:30. Gulp. It would be a wait, but we could make it. We both wondered amongst ourselves about how pioneer people did it back in their day. Then again, they didn't realize they could be rewatching old Dexter episodes in Netflix, now did they?

That's right, people: the more you know.

After an hour and a half of driving around south Charlotte, we decided to venture home. After all, according to Duke Energy, they should have everything up and running any minute. We had also noticed that ours was literally the only neighborhood in the area without power (I scowled at all those happy houses we passed, people inside daring to do things like use lamps or watch television). We came inside, got the flashlights back out, lit a few candles, and waited.

My husband is a stickler for bedtime, so even though we were still in blackout mode, when 10:00 p.m. came, we tried to go to sleep. We typically use a box fan every night as white noise and to drown out Clint's snoring, but in lieu of that he cued up this handy app on his phone that is supposed to provide soothing sounds for sleeping. He uses it all the time when we travel, and I'm just not a fan (no pun intended). The water sounds always make me have to go to the bathroom, and the other options never sound like whatever they claim to be. For this particular night, he chose "Oscillating Fan," although I'm convinced it was really "Hissing Demons" or "1,000 Fingernails Collectively Scratching a Chalkboard." Yes, this was going to be restful night for certain.

With both my spouse and my faithful dog snoring away, I laid there and prayed for the good Lord to restore us to electrical good health. It was so stuffy without the air conditioning that I laid on top of all the covers and tried to convince myself that it wasn't that hot, I didn't feel claustrophobic at all, and that the situation wasn't that bad. But it was terrible. I checked the clock at least every half hour, longing to see the red digital numbers on my bedside alarm clock blinking back at me, but to no success.

Finally, mercifully, around 4:00 a.m., everything whirled back to life and our power was restored. The husband and the dog didn't even wake up to the sounds of our livelihood  being reinstated, so I giddily woke them both to break the good news. The A/C purred, the fan sounded more glorious than it has ever sounded, and all was right with the world.

Melissa and I exchanged more texts the next morning to recount all our miseries. Was the food in the fridge still good (we decided to assume it was, for the sake of not throwing out groceries just bought)? Had she noticed yet that our DVRs did not record a single show (a day without Bravo programming...yikes)? She was of the opinion that Duke should have provided counseling for their affected customers to talk about what we went through, and I completely agreed. We also decided that they only way to right the wrongs done to us was to meet for margaritas Friday night, but if I'm being completely honest, that was going to happen anyway.

I saw this morning on social media that several friends in nearby towns lost their power last night and were waiting for it to be restored. As usual, it was taking much longer than expected and their nerves, much like mine Tuesday night, were more than frayed by the situation. We survived for almost six hours without electricity, which led me to say something that you don't hear very often: thank God for Ben Franklin and his kite! I am still reveling in the miracle of flipping a light switch and seeing a room illuminate, still basking in the soothing glow of our television, still holding my hand over the air vents to feel that wondrous air conditioning flow.

And that, dear friends, is the story of The Great Blackout of 2018. Cherish your power. Hold it dear.

Talk Tiki to Me

Friday night we had a little get together that included lighting our drinks on fire, tiki dolls, and all the Polynesian flair I could find. But first, let me rewind to how it all started: with a trip to World Market, in which I fell in love with what they call a volcano bowl. You may also know this as a scorpion bowl, or you may have no idea what in the world I'm talking about, and if that is the case, dear friend, it's time for you to get acquainted. Please allow me to make a formal introduction:

Presenting the volcano bowl. Get inspired, people. 

That adorable, vintage-looking bowl holds 32 ounces of whatever kind of beverage you deem worthy, and the "volcano" part is where the magic really happens: you see, you add a shot of 151 proof rum and light that volcano on fire. Oooh. Aaah. Exactly.

I saw this bowl, and I immediately remembered a few years back when we had enjoyed a flaming drink out of one such container at a tiki bar we visited in the Virgin Islands. I have never been one to resist a gimmick, and so within a few minutes of discovering this volcano bowl for sale, I had already planned a little party for it in my head. This past weekend, we made that party come to fruition and, if I do say so myself, it did not disappoint.

I wanted to set a very Polynesian scene for our gathering, and I always think themes should ideally begin at the door. In the spirit of all things tropical, I made this fun and festive wreath out of drink umbrellas that really set the scene.

Welcome to tiki time!

I added a little "wildlife" out on our deck, just to keep us company. And then naturally, I moved on to the food and drink (priorities, after all).

You know, just monkeying around.

Because man cannot live on a volcano bowl alone, I set out some Trader Vic's Mai Tai mix (Trader Vic's was the first tiki-themed establishments to come to the United States, and its founder claims to have created the mai tai drink), locally produced rum from North Carolina, and a very appropriately attired bottle of Tito's vodka, plus plenty of fresh mint, pineapple, cherries and limes to help accessorize our cocktails of choice.

You're the Pina to my Colada.

Mai tai, anyone?

It has been almost unbearably hot here in Charlotte the past couple of weeks, so I wanted some appetizers we could make a meal out of that were filling but not too heavy to enjoy outside on our deck. Among our family and friends, there is a cheese ball recipe that I dare say has become infamous over the years. Over the course of my lifetime, if you attended a party in Toccoa, Georgia hostessed by Mrs. Ann Addington, her signature cheese ball was undoubtedly offered on the food buffet. It's light and delicious, and it became a sort of expected tradition at everything from baby showers to engagement parties due to its ever-present nature. I got (way too) excited when I was perusing Pinterest and saw a recipe that was very similar to what we have affectionately dubbed "Mrs. Ann's Cheese Ball," creatively elevated into the shape of a pineapple. I still used my old tried and true recipe, but I added a little flair by using pecans and top of a real pineapple to spruce this classic up a bit:

My pineapple pecan cheese ball. I think Mrs. Ann would be proud. 

And how cute is this baby pineapple?
I thought it was the perfect garnish for our tropical chicken salad plate.

I put Clint to work grilling shrimp skewers with tangy Polynesian sauce.

Since it was too hot to bake, we finished it off with some Hawaiian Rice Krispy treats,
topped with white chocolate, macadamia nuts, and mango glaze.

Clint got so inspired when he saw the food and the decor, he decided to break out his Hawaiian print shirt in honor of the occasion. When I told our friends what he was wearing, they got in the spirit of the evening and sported theirs, too! 

Perfectly attired for a Polynesian party.

Once the sun set, I filled our volcano bowl with the original recipe from Trader Vic's that dates all the way back to the 1940s. It was a potent concoction of fresh orange juice, fresh lemon juice, rum, brandy, and amaretto syrup...in short, dangerously delicious. We each had our own extra long straw to sip, and that high octane rum created an impressive flame!

Our flaming volcano bowl in action.

As you can probably guess, I loved every minute of it.

We had the most fun, kitschy evening with flaming rum punch, fresh shrimp right off the grill, and of course the company of great friends. I'm glad that simple volcano bowl inspired it all, and even though I've put it away for the time being, let me tell you: you can talk tiki to me any old time.

Cheers!

Housewife Life: Helpless Male Syndrome

Hello, my name is Susie, and I am a housewife. For those of you who may not have realized it: I am literally Susie Homemaker. I fulfilled my lifelong goal of retiring from the workforce and staying home full time in 2008, and we have never looked back. Sure, there are days when I miss pretending to like my boss, longing for the three gray walls of my tiny cubicle, and reminiscing of doing mundane tasks for menial pay, but for for the most part, I think we made the right decision.

Nonetheless, most people are still astounded when they find out that I'm a housewife.  Once they pick their jaw up off the ground, the question inevitably follows, "What do you do all day?" Oh, bless. What don't I do all day? What if you were literally always at your job? "Housewife" is really an umbrella, under which the duties of maid, chef, accountant, personal assistant, maintenance supervisor, and activities director all fall. I'm (usually) quite happy to take on all these roles, except that lately I have taken notice that it has had an effect on the other members of my household as well.

I don't have children, other than the semi-grown man child I married and a fifteen year-old blind fur baby. Believe me when I tell you they are a full-time job. At any given moment, I can feel one of them standing behind me, waiting for assistance. There seems to be a widespread epidemic of Helpless Male Syndrome here at Mayhem Manor. And yes, the initials of Helpless Male Syndrome are the same as "Help Me, Susie," and that irony is not lost on me.

Let me give you some examples of how my husband has been spoiled by this housewife life: last week, he 110% thought that an Old El Paso taco kit came with all the ingredients to make tacos. As in, the poor man hasn't cooked for himself in so long he thought that little box had meat, cheese, salsa, and lettuce inside! He seemed taken aback when I told him all Old El Paso really supplies is a pouch of seasoning, a stack of tortillas, and some inspiration. In addition to his taco naivety, he also hasn't touched a thermostat or a landline telephone in about eight years.

I remember being at my parents' house years ago and hearing my dad ask my mom to make him a sandwich. I suppose that's a generational thing, but Clint and I exchanged baffled glances over the fact that someone might depend on someone else to slap two pieces of bread together around some sandwich meat and create lunch. I laughed too soon: granted, my darling husband can make his own sandwich creation, but I noticed last week that he asked me no less than six questions while building his bread, ham, and cheese meal. He says he's still learning his way around our kitchen after our renovation. We renovated two years ago, so I'm sure he'll figure it out any day now.

It must be hard to fit all of this in that tiny taco kit box. Miraculous.

The taco kit debacle let to--in addition to a mountain of ridicule--a discussion of all the things that take place in our home of which he is blissfully unaware. Clint freely admitted that, the majority of the time, he doesn't even try reading the directions on things, and explained, "I just figured you know how to do it, so you can just tell me and I don't need to read the directions." While this is a charming display of trust, you can imagine that this little habit has nearly driven me crazy on more than one occasion.

Meet Cotton, one of my bosses (and let's be honest, the toughest one by far).

Now that I think I've picked on my spouse enough, let me briefly tell you about that little dog that I have managed to spoil completely rotten. He requires coaxing and praise for tremendous tasks like drinking water or eating his food, and his internal body clock now demands that he receive a "chewy" dog treat every afternoon around 4:00 p.m. or there is doggy hell to pay (take it from me and do everything possible in your power to never find yourself in a staring contest with a blind dog). He has an assortment of blankets, each that he has deemed appropriate for various occasions: "Oh, that's his quilt for the car, then the red fleece one is his favorite for napping on the couch, and the fur throw goes with him to bed every night so he doesn't get cold...." The list we left for our pet sitter when we were in Tahiti needed to be indexed, color coded, and spiral bound. It takes a village...or a housewife.

Walking this little dog hasn't exactly been a fast endeavor since he lost his eyesight eight years ago. We dutifully make our neighborhood stroll each morning, completing the same two mile route pretty much every day. As he's gotten older, however, what used to take 45 minutes now takes over an hour. Much to his delight, we have our regulars that we encounter who remark about what a trooper this senior dog is, how miraculous to still be active, and generally just folks who contribute to his pampered, spoiled life. My neighbor Kim tried walking with us not too long ago, but gave up less than halfway in because the pace is so maddeningly slow. "When people ask you what you do all day, I hope you punch them straight in the face," she told me as she made her getaway to more productive activities. Now there's someone who gets it.

This week is a relatively quiet week, since I've only had one round of groceries, five or six errands, one doctor's appointment, two loads of laundry, and a full day of cleaning, dusting, and mopping. Wait, it's only Wednesday? Well, at least I haven't been bored. There's more of this housewife life to discuss, but I'll save that for another post (working title: All Work and No Pay Makes You a Housewife).

Don't get me wrong: I love the two helpless males that I enable take care of, and I still eagerly choose the housewife life over any other alternative. It's just that some days being a human instruction manual and taking over an hour to walk two miles can exhaust even Susie Homemaker (this may explain why I recently threatened to run away from home). Whenever one (or both) of them is being especially needy, I try to remind myself it's good job security. It's a tough life, but someone's gotta live it. Now, if you'll excuse me: I've got a job to do.

It's not that being a housewife is easy; I just manage to make it look that way.