Windswept

Stress is defined by the power going out two hours before 15 people are supposed to show up, home alone with two kids, two cats, one pitbull and 3 lanterns. As fate would have it, the primary generator was unplugged in anticipate of a new, bigger, more efficient model that turns on automatically.

Why, you might ask, would one actually unplug the old model before the new one was installed? I wondered this myself, as I stood in the dark, stirring the puff pasty dough on the non-working stove. Anger, a useless emotion in the moment, gave way to pragmatism and faith.

My ferocious, windswept dog

To raise the stress level, the gate was open, the lights were off, an open invitation to come rob me while my dog is huddled under the great bear blanky. I think about the guns, wondering if I even remember the electronic combination. My arm pits get sweaty when I worry that electronic means it needs power right (right? or does this show how dumb I am about the subject), and then think that perhaps it is battery operated.

"Do these things have batteries?" I ask out loud, staring at Penelope, or raises a dog-eyebrow. P-dog doesn't care.

I open the front door, inviting her to scope out the property. It's her job after all. She took a step outside and turned right around, jumped up on the couch and cuddled in a big, furry, black blanket. Thanks girl. Really helpful.

Porsche came up the stairs. Unafraid of moving around in the pitch black.

"Now can I use the flashlight?" she asks. We'll go months without using one, the forbidden object, plugged in to the wall (we use the rechargeable kind), an ever present temptation for a kid, is now permissable.

She runs around the house a few times, then suggests the lanterns.  She takes great fun in lighting the lanterns, and the place was already a glow with a gazillion candles, part of the mood-setting thing. The hillside was a dark as a tomb, allowing me to see the glow of Seattle lights in the distance.

The house was getting cold, for I had told Rog not to bother starting the wood stove or fireplace. It was 50 outside, I reminded him. Hot! But when the temperatures drop so low that my room temperature food becomes refrigerated while still on the counter, it's time to get serious.

I said a prayer, more for Janel and Auryel, the auction co-chairs who I didn't believe wanted to give their presentation by candlelight (though the theme for the fundraiser this year is Bond- e.g. Diamonds are Forever, and it might have worked). We'll never know. The lights came back on, I finished my creme puffs with chocolate pudding filling, and the ladies did an awesome job.

That said, the night wasn't over. The stress crawled back up my spine, finding a nice, cozy, resting place between my shoulder blades when Rog got a call as he got in to bed. A 900 lb tree fell on our road, miraculously doing so between  leaving, Rog and the girls coming home, and the late stragglers out of our house. The tree wasn't enormous by northwest standards, only 8-9 inches round, but big enough to have done some damage. Rog, bounded out of bed, armed himself with his favorite man-tool (chainsaw) helped the stranded women, who, bless their crazy, Cameron Diaz wind-swept hair, tried to move it themselves, and cut a passage through the road.

This morning, I get a text from She, who is bummed I've sStopped writing my blog." No, to the dismay of some readers who feel a sense of obligation. In fact, it has not stopped. I had to get the electrician (to get his act together for the new generator), take pics for the pellet stove that stopped working (when the power went out, something blew. I know not what). Bring in some firewood from outside, and then make a fire. Now I'm reminding myself I'm really not a pioneerwoman, but live in a semi-modern home outside a semi-modern city.

At least my stress departed. Now it's cleanup time so the next set of guests can arrive tonight for yet another mtg. Right now I'm off to work on my dog about that wind avoidance issue.