No Electricity

Transcription from today's diary.

No idea what time it is. I'm at Dunkin' Donuts because there's no electricity in my house. Or anywhere in the immediate neighborhood.

I called PSE&G and an automatic voice system told me that I could expect it to be back on again at 9:12 a.m. I feel like sitting and staring at my battery-run kitchen clock to see exactly how right they are.
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When I took Dylan to see Hunky Vet on Thursday night, HV said he appeared perfectly healthy, despite his change in habits. "Maybe he's going through a phase," said HV. Still, they drew blood.

Dylan is really sick now. He's sneezing, snotting, and snorting. My poor baby. Now what? Will have to call the vet's office and let them know so HV will be aware of it when he gets the blood test results.
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So. No electricity. I don't really know what I could do at home. Wash the dishes by hand? If I could find matches, I could have made a tiny cup of coffee using the tiny Bodum coffee press I have.

Note to self: Buy matches.
Another note to self: Buy a bigger coffee press.
And yet another: Buy a little floor push brush thingy.
And inevitably: Make more money.
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I'm watching the coming and going of customers. Families getting ready to go down to the shore. Emo girls who will probably fry and turn to a pile of ash when a direct ray of sunlight strikes them.

Hm. Black guy in a brown suit, white shirt, snazzy orange tie. Beautifully polished shoes. A minister? A congregant? A car salesman? Going to a funeral?

Oh. A Little Person. But a different type of Little Person, who is of regular proportions, just much smaller.

An old white guy in blue jeans, mocs, a striped blue polo shirt, all of them through too many rounds in the washer.

An older white woman (no, not me) in beige, beige, beige. And those dangerous-looking shoes with the rounded soles.

A fat little Latino boy.

In fact, there are maybe only two people who don't need to lose at least 20 lbs., including the old white woman wearing jeans and a pea-green t-shirt, sitting in the corner, writing in a book.

A trio of church-dressed black women that look like a before-during-after weight loss ad. The largest lady places the order the way I've seen it done too often.

"I want a medium coffee. But put two sugars in first, put about a third regular coffee, a third hazelnut, and the rest decaff with regular milk on top."

You know what? You want that, you do it at home. Or possibly in a very posh restaurant. At a coffee shop, you order a coffee medium, cream and sugar. You can specify the kind of milk, I go along with that. But standing in front of a dozen caffeine-deprived people and inventing the coffee version of a tequila sunrise is just not a good idea.

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Hm. Skinny white girls go through the same tequila sunrise business, too. The blonder the hair, the more finicky they are. Oh. And the blonder one just called out the other girl about how much sugar she put in her iced coffee. "Lauren-" giggle "How much sugar did you just put in that?"

Lauren blushes, doesn't look at her frenemy and says, "A lot."

See? When you get old, your tolerance of bullshit decreases dramatically. My reply - even assuming I would have such an acquaintance - would be along the lines of "Why don't you mind your own fucking business, Tinkerbell?"
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More people headed for the shore. I can't believe they'd leave now. It's late in terms of leaving for the shore. Even if they're just going to Sandy Hook (which is particularly beautiful in March and is the closest bit of shore around), they've got an entire hour of creeping in bumper to bumper traffic in front of them.

The attraction of doing anything at the shore in August is just beyond me. It seems like way more trouble than it's worth.

Here's how I see a day at the shore:

You get ready. Into the car, you load a beach chair, beach towel (several, in fact), a beach umbrella. You pack an insulated bag. It contains lots of iced water, maybe a snack or sandwich or fruit. You pack another bag with sunblock, possibly a camera, and a book or magazine that will not get read.

Inevitably, you will forget something important and will have to pay four times as much for it on the boardwalk than you would ever pay at Walgreens.

See? And this is before you even back out of the driveway.

And no matter the umbrella, no matter the hat (see? I told you that you'd forget something), the sun block that makes the sand stick to you, a sunburn will be involved.

And while you're there, you might go for a walk along the surf line, you might wade a little but seriously, is it worth it? The sand on your hands, feet, and legs. The sand that will somehow inevitably find its way into the crack of your ass.

This is fun? This is relaxing?

I'm missing something. I don't get it.

Then again, I would always prefer to be in my clean house, curled up on my couch, all my chores done (it could happen) and read a book.