Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Columnist speaking. I’d like to welcome you to my midlife crisis. I’ll be your attendant. It’s good to have you with me today. Before we depart, I’d like to make you aware of a few rules and safety precautions.

Please make certain your seat belt is fastened low and tight about your waist. To fasten the belt, insert the metal tab into the buckle and pull tight. If you have difficulty operating the belt, raise your hand and your attendant will be by to escort you the hell out of here, since you’re clearly one of those dunderheads that sets your Columnist’s teeth to grinding. Patience is not her strong suit some days.

Located in the seat pocket in front of you is a laminated sheet showing exit locations. These colorful cards can double nicely as fans for those sudden hot spells, as temperatures in this area can be problematic.

Sit back and relax and take a moment to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. As I am part of your surroundings, I ask that you note this area between my shoulder and elbow is called an upper arm, not my wing span. And despite what my daughter might tell you, I am not a flying squirrel in drag. However, in a few minutes we will be dimming the cabin lights in order to enhance the appearance of your attendant.

Please note that in the event of a loss of pressure, you’ll be on your own. You will be able to recognize that there’s been a loss of pressure because air masks will drop from the ceiling, or because your attendant will be dancing in the aisle, celebrating her first taste of life without pressure.

There will be no smoking allowed, unless your attendant happens to be wearing corduroy pants and walking too fast. (When combined with thick thighs, corduroy has a higher combustion level than flint.)

The sad thing of it is–I’m only half kidding. I don’t know if it’s this never ending winter that has me losing my noodles, or if I’m in the midst of a bonafide midlife crisis.

I catch myself calling the kid by the dog’s name, the cat by the kid’s name. Instead of saying “hello” when my home phone rings, I answer, “Charleston Newspapers.” I’ve worn one blue and one black shoe to work and house slippers to a funeral.

It used to be if I went to the store without a list, I was lost. Now I’m lost if I go to the basement without one. My memory’s shot. The only things I seem to retain are water and fat.

When I see my reflection, that person is a stranger. And gravity isn’t that stranger’s friend.

I did some research on midlife crises and was surprised that it seems to be a very real thing. Before I met the qualifications myself, I figured it was nothing more than an excuse middle-aged men used for buying a sports car or behaving badly, but studies have shown both men and women are equally susceptible, and their symptoms are similar.

For many, there’s the desire to quit a good job or simply run away. There are unexplained bouts of depression, and an inability to concentrate on tasks that used to be easy.

There can be a sudden interest in the arts–drawing, painting, writing books or poetry–or wanting to learn to play an instrument or discover new music.

There’s a self-destructiveness, a craving for pain, of believing it feels good to get hurt. Of being upset with society, wanting to help change the world for the better. Of feeling trapped by fiscal responsibilities. Of craving simplicity.

But most of those aren’t all that bad, so maybe this shouldn’t be cured, but explored. Maybe this should be a time to step back and evaluate what’s most important. To figure out where to go from here, and how to get where we want to be.

If handled right, instead of a midlife crisis, this could be a midlife transformation.

Still, it’s best that you remain seated until we’ve come to a stop.

Since there’s a chance we could be in for a long, bumpy ride. 

My daughter and I were sharing a chair at my computer when she typed in the name of her favorite new website. I was hooked in an instant. The site, MyLifeIsAverage.com, claims to be a place to share your everyday mediocrity. Their goal is to help people realize they aren’t alone in their average-ness, and that normal need not share the same definition as dull. It’s a matter of perspective. (Aided by clever wording.) Listed below are some of my favorites. (In some cases, minor editing has been made to conserve space.) 

• I was texting my friend who lives in a different time zone than me. I told her, “I like to think you’re one hour in the future, so if anything important happens, let me know.” A few minutes later, she replied, “ZOMBIES! RUN!”

• Monday morning, my car wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t start Friday morning either. It did, however, work just fine over the weekend. I like that my car doesn’t want to go to work either.

• I saw a commercial about a dandruff shampoo that said “85% of women agree that dandruff is a turn-off.” Does that mean 15% think it’s a turn-on?

• I grew up in a college town. One Halloween our doorbell rang and we opened it expecting to see trick-or-treaters, but found another door. A full-on wooden door. It had a sign that said, “Please knock,” so we did. The door swung open to reveal a bunch of college dudes dressed as old ladies with curlers in their hair who proceeded to coo over our costumes and tell us we were such cute trick-or-treaters! One even pinched my cheek. Then THEY gave US candy, closed their door, picked it up and walked to the next house.

• I just saw a commercial for the Snuggie. I thought it was stupid idea but I couldn’t change the channel because I was under a blanket and I didn’t want my arms to get cold.

• Today, I met a girl named Unique. She has an identical twin sister. No one else thought it was funny.

• I was helping my 10-year-old brother with his homework. One math problem ended with, “Is Susie correct? Explain.” I told him you never argue with women. He wrote that. He got full credit.

• Yesterday, I got a motion-activated trash can, then spent an hour pretending to magically open the trash can with a wand.

• I’m in college and today, I got my first kiss. Inside the most epic blanket fort ever.

• When I got home today, I found my cat running around on the roof, meowing loudly. None of the windows were open. I have so many questions.

• I just realized that when I’m trying to be sneaky, I walk like Captain Jack Sparrow.

• My mom and I were at the store today when I saw a cute guy walk by. Mom noticed I was watching him. She leaned over to me and said, “I wouldn’t mind having his grandchildren.” I love my mom.

• A fortnight ago I finally solved my Rubik”s Cube. I waited two weeks to post this so that I could use the word “fortnight.”

• Today I ate a tootsie pop. It took 473 licks to get to the tootsie roll center. You’re welcome world.

• I was at Disneyland waiting for a parade when I saw a little boy playing with his new Jedi Academy light saber. Suddenly, a college-aged girl on the other side of Main Street jumped up, also wielding a light saber. The kid deflected her attack perfectly. I wish I had been a part of this.

And–being happily average–I wish I had, too. 

On this balmy February day of celebrating love and romance, it seemed appropriate to share my years of experience at writing schmaltzy prose with those who long to capture and preserve their feelings via the dying art of love letters.

Lest you believe these weekly columns do not qualify me to offer such advice, I humbly mention my occasional foray into the world of romance writing for Woman’s World magazine.

And thus it is, with heaving breast (only the one breast heaves, the other mostly just sits there), that I offer the following tips, the inclusion of which are guaranteed to make your letter one your beloved will cherish.  

Start with why you are writing. What moved you to want to do this for him or her? This is also a good place where, should there be a chance your darling might not recognize your name, you could include a few identifying descriptive details along with assurances that you have no intention of stalking.

Recall a special memory, such as how you first met, your first impression (if you can’t be certain, be vague!), or those times you spoke briefly before she got that silly notion about being followed.

Describe how pitiful you were and how empty your life was before he or she came along, and express how different things are now. For instance, “Before you, my utility bills were all but nonexistent-a monthly reminder of my solitude. Now, the triple digit bills only serve to remind me of that other, all-important triple-the ‘I’ and the ‘love’ and the ‘you.’”

Recall your first kiss. How did it make you feel? Avoid details involving tonsil tickling and concerns over cold sores or the contagiousness of gingivitis.

Consider including a photo or sketch of a physical landmark that has a special connection to your relationship. For my husband and me, there’s a bench at Cedar Lakes where we sat talking until the sun came up. A year later, that bench is where he proposed. So if I were to choose a landmark that was the icon of our relationship, it would probably be Main Tin in South Charleston, then maybe Los Agaves, and then after Sitar’s of India and Lowes, I’d go with the bench.

Include a nickname (like “sweet Mr. Lumpy” or “my darling be-yotch”) or mention an inside joke, something that’s just between the two of you, like blaming the dog or hiding the salami.

But don’t be too erotic or suggestive. Don’t make the letter something you’d be embarrassed for someone to see. Like your spouse. Or your defense attorney.

Express gratitude for something he or she has done that means a lot to you. For instance, you might draw a cartoon of a dripping IV next to the words, “THANKS! for all those times you sold your plasma so I could pursue my dream of being a professional poker player, and for being so understanding about the confusion over mawmaw’s transplant fund.”

Mention a dream or goal the two of you share. Like the day you’ll both hear that you qualify for disability, in spite of the news coverage on your doubles tennis tourney win.

Find ways to work elegant descriptives into your letter, like alabaster skin, raven hair, lips red as a boil. Compare him to a stallion and use phrases like “well-muscled torso that glistens with man-dew.” Declare yourself a prisoner of love, and make frequent references to him or her being your soulmate. If you directly reference moments of passion, don’t just describe what happened, but also the meaning of what transpired. For instance, don’t just recall “our night of passion,” remember the night “after our wedding when your chest was heaving like a bulimic after Thanksgiving dinner.”

And finally, be sure to use nice paper since love letters are almost always saved by the recipient, be it in a stack that’s tied with a ribbon, or a sealed baggie marked “Evidence.”

It was a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets. Punxsutawney. Pennsylvania.

Shamtown. Conville. The Nation’s Deceivers. 

There was something fishy going on in Punxsutawney, and I was determined to find out what it was. My name is Noir. Gal Noir.

I was minding my own business, strolling about Punxsutawney after the festivities were over, after the last of the camera-toting tourists had snapped their final shots, when I first laid eyes upon him.

He was short and rugged. His brown hair shone like what Beethoven had in mind when he wrote the Moonlight sonata. He wore nothing but his fur coat-a fur so tight it was like he’d been poured into it and forgot to say When. He moved in a way that could take a woman’s mind off the state of the economy. At least for a minute.

Though I’m not the kind of hard-hitting newshound who works doggedly (or hoggedly, as the case may be) to out a beloved celebrity involved in a scandal, I knew who and what he was in an instant, and could not allow his charade to continue.

“Phil,” I said, my voice husky from one too many cream sodas (three fingers, neat), “you’re not a groundhog at all, are you?”

Phil retreated a few steps, an expression of surprise and alarm on his furry face. Then, much like I would’ve expected of one grown comfortable with his facade, his beguiling guise, Phil smiled confidently. Disarmingly. His teeth white and long. So very, very long.

More like the teeth of a woodchuck.

I pelted him with questions, rapidly firing one after another, hoping to catch him off guard.

Question. Question. Question. And then, “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

His answer? “Seven.”

“Gotcha!” I said. “You’re an imposter! No one but a woodchuck could’ve answered that question. I’ve done extensive research on Google. Looked at countless images of groundhogs and woodchucks. And you, sir, are a woodchuck.”

Phil yawned.

“So tell me,” I continued. “What does PHIL really mean? Is it an acronym for Perspicacious Histrionic Impish Liar? Or Punxsutawney’s Hilarious Imitation Lothario?”

Phil appeared unruffled by my accusation. 

“Groundhog. Woodchuck. Land beaver. Whistlepig,” said Phil. “They’re all pretty much interchangeable.” 

Scandal scuttled, I left some apologies with the large, drowsy rodent and bid a hasty farewell. Headed back out into the dark night in the city that keeps well its secrets. 

Chuckville. Hogtown.

Punxsutawney, PA.

My friend Julie Blackwood sent a link to the Web site of photographer Susan Mullally, who started a photo project featuring members of The Church Under the Bridge, a nondenominational church that for the past 16 years has been meeting weekly under the Interstate 35 bridge in Waco, Texas.

According to the Web site, many of those who attend this church “had significant disruptions in their lives, experienced periods of homelessness or incarceration, addiction to drugs and alcohol, mental illness or profound poverty and hopelessness.” Although some church members now have jobs and more stable lives, others remain homeless, and nearly all have little in the way of belongings.

Mullally’s project is to photograph each of the church members, one at a time, with the one item each considers their most meaningful, and why it is valued.

One picture shows a tough-looking, 40ish man in dark sunglasses holding out a black cowboy hat.

“My hat represents who I am,” he’s quoted as saying. “Everybody calls me Cowboy. Without my hat, I’m just like everyone else.”

Another man, clean-looking and serious, with a neatly trimmed beard and glasses slid down low on his nose, holds up a tin filled with games.

“I was a librarian,” says the 51-year-old man with four college degrees. “I’ve read more books than you can fit under the bridge. I like chess and backgammon. They’re intelligent games. I play with another homeless person who’s probably as well rounded as I am.”

There were photos and reminders of time spent in the service. There were tattoos and found jewelry and a few special items passed down from family members.

The same day the article arrived in my inbox, I’d been telling a friend about this nubby old recliner I need to get rid of, but can’t. It’s been offered to friends, then retracted. Put out at a yard sale, then dragged back inside.

It now lives out on our covered back porch. The memories attached to that chair aren’t particularly happy ones to recall, but because the memories I have are so few and because that particular piece of furniture happens to be a landmark, the chair remains.

I both love and hate it.

And if I were to be photographed like the people under the bridge, I would be with that chair.

When I asked my husband what his one thing would be, he had a hard time deciding. Not because there’s so much, but because there’s so little.

“When you move as many times as I have, you lose things along the way,” said Geoff, whose most treasured belonging, he decided, is his “cat-araff,” an odd, carved wooden creature his grandmother gave him ages ago.

The cat-araff stands nearly 4 feet tall, and the twice broken and twice-badly glued creature features a Grinchlike grin and strange orange eyes that — thank God — don’t seem to follow you when you walk by. Though it’s taken awhile, I’ve grown fond of his cat-araff. It seems the perfect memento of his grandmother, who is unique and quirky herself.

My neighbor, Carolyn Hawley, said her one thing would be her grandmother’s ring, since, “It’s like having a part of her with me every day.”

Others said it would be their cell phones or computers or cars they could not do without, while one said, “My bra and my coffee maker. The Kanawha Valley is not aware how much they appreciate me having these items. It would be like ‘Godzilla Ate Tokyo’ if I didn’t.”

Ric Cochran liked the question because he said it caused him to consider that there really isn’t any specific thing he couldn’t be without. Said Ric, “The idea of canceling out some stuff is refreshing. I recently put a crawler screensaver on my computer that says, ‘Give up something.’”

Like Ric, the idea of getting rid of things is appealing. I long for a simpler life, for less to clean, an attic I can move around in, a garage that would actually accommodate a vehicle.

I have many things that I love and cherish, but few I could not live without. I need my people, my pets, and my pictures of my people and pets.

It’s strange that I can so easily grasp and passionately believe that it’s who we are, not what we have, that determines whether we’re rich or poor, yet I’m still having such trouble getting rid of my stuff. I don’t like that it has power over me.

That’s why I’m going to take a photograph of my wonderful, awful, nubby old chair. And then give it away. 

The following poem was sent to me by its author, who said my column on what we owe our children “rekindled thoughts I penned some years ago, while in the process of childrearing. Couldn’t resist passing it along to you in agreement that the most treasured gifts we give our children are intangibles that they must eventually mold and develop for themselves.”

I think this poem is absolutely wonderful, and asked her permission to share it here.  

Yourself
I gave you life,
Not living.
I gave you goodness,
Not giving.
I gave you joy,
Not ecstasy.
I gave you peace,
Not tranquillity.
I gave you desire,
Not passion.
I gave you kindling,
Not fire.
I gave you love,
Not rapture.
I gave you  the universe,
To capture.
I gave you compassion.
Not sympathy.
I gave you understanding,
Not empathy.
I gave you hope,
Not confidence.
I gave you trust,
Manifested through providence.
I gave you happiness,
Not elation.
You are my child,
not my creation.
***
Jane-Ann Heitmueller

“Just needing a little feedback and thought you might be a good one to ask,” the email began. “I’m wondering how much you think a parent owes a child. I have no children of my own, but I have many friends with kids, and it seems to me the children think their parents owe them everything, saying, ‘I didn’t ask to be born.’ It’s like they believe this means their parents should do everything for them rather than doing it their selves.”

She said her friends make plans to do something without the children, but the kids make them feel so guilty they end up giving in and taking them along.

“So I’m wondering,” she asks, “has this become the norm?”

Much as I hate to say it, I think the answer is yes. At least among working moms.

I can’t speak for all working moms, but of those I know well, even the most career-loving and poverty-fighting among us have at one time or another experienced such tremendous guilt over the time others have our children that it’s reduced us to tears. And to overcompensation.

So consumed by guilt are we over what we perceive ourselves (and our kids) to be missing that we try to make up for it by overcompensating to ridiculous degrees. Birthday parties become competitions of excess. Every gift mentioned in our child’s letter to Santa is purchased. Coworkers are hustled to buy cookies and candy bars and overpriced wrapping paper so our children can win tacky trinkets for meeting some ridiculous goal.

It’s like many of us–myself included–have difficulty seeing beyond the perfect childhoods we want our children to have long enough to consider the adults these kids will someday become.

I wonder if, by spending so much time agonizing over their childhoods, we’re cheating our children out of the opportunity to learn some of the most valuable lessons they’ll need.

We do owe much to our children. For instance, we owe it to them to support and believe in their dreams. If our child chooses a dream that seems unrealistic to us, we should still try to find reasonable ways to help them pursue it.

We owe it to our children to teach them how to make decisions by not making every choice for them. We owe them the lessons they’ll learn from having made bad or hasty decisions.

We owe them the opportunity to be treated unfairly, to learn which battles are worth fighting, and to know you’re there in their court if they decide that you’re needed.

We owe our children the chance to make do with less than they’d hoped for. We owe them suggestions for how they can scramble and improvise, without doing it for them.

We owe our children the opportunity to see us try harder, to not accept bad behavior from our partners, friends, and even employers. We need to look at every decision we make through our children’s eyes and make our own choices based on what we’d want our children to do if they were in our position.

We owe them the opportunity to see us working to make the best of the absolute worst situations.

We owe our children a constant sense of security, of knowing we’re there, that we love and accept and respect them, even if we don’t always understand or agree.

We owe it to our children to feed their creativity and curiosity, to learn how to ask questions, and when to question authority. We owe it to them to not expect handouts, to be the one who acts instead of the one who complains. 

We owe them parents who are good examples. We owe them the absolute best of ourselves. 

The thing is, we don’t owe it to them because they didn’t ask to be born, but because they were born. 

And because being a parent is a debt we’re lucky to owe.

In last Sunday’s column, I proposed a number of laws (mostly in jest) that I’d like to see enacted and invited readers to submit suggestions of their own.

So if there are any politicians shopping around for a cause to champion, I offer the following.

David Miller thinks there ought to be a law requiring people to move their vehicle after pumping gas BEFORE going into the store to buy drinks, snacks, or use the restroom, while leaving the pump blocked for the next customer.

Miller also thinks there ought to be a law requiring Ohio drivers to drive around West Virginia unless they are able to drive in the right-hand lane.

He also thinks there should be a law requiring the female-to-male restroom ratio in public facilities to be at least 2-to-1, and says that while this may seem like a concession to women, he hates waiting for female drivers from Ohio to return and move their car at the pump just so he can buy gas and then later catch up to her down the road, driving in the left lane.

Miller would like there to be a law that prevents product manufacturers from changing their packaging so that everything looks just the same, except it actually contains less product.

And there ought to be a law that stops products from being made that become invisible to males once placed in the refrigerator.

I especially second that last. And, well, I also second the stuff about the Ohio drivers. (Before the hate mail starts, please note it was Miller who threw the first punch this time around.)

(An aside:  We recently gave our Toyota Matrix to my oldest niece, who lives in Ohio. As she headed for home, the Matrix ran fine right up until they were closing in on the Ohio border, then it died. I suspect suicide.)

Chris McVey of Cross Lanes thinks there ought to be a law that if a store has 50 checkout lanes, they should be required to have more than 10 percent of them open at a time. And he says while they’re at it, they should require an overhead digital counter at the express lanes to keep count of items checked out and assess an additional fee of 25% on each item over the posted limit. That fee would then be applied to the order of the next person in line to compensate them for their time.

McVey would also like to see a law that makes doctors reimburse patients for their time when they schedule 20 patients for the same 9 A.M. appointment time, but it takes hours (or a rapidly approaching tee time, whichever comes first) to be seen by the doc.

After I proposed a law requiring that, once a television show is canceled, the network show a final episode in which all story lines are concluded in a logical manner, Amy Brenan emailed to tell me “there’s an episode of 30 Rock where Kenneth (the NBC page) brings the Night Court cast back together so that Christine and Harry could get married, because it bugged him so much over the years.”

Said Brenan, “I guess you’re not the only one who wonders about that stuff.”

Barbie Dallman says she’d be happy if the authorities just enforced the laws they already had on the books. “Like when the neighbors put their garbage out two days before pick-up day, then animals string trash all over the street. They should get a ticket, or at the very least be required to pick up the mess!”

And Pam Braden thinks there should be a law that clearly defines how the BCS determines the No. 1 college football team in the country–based on who wins, not a dumb poll of coaches and media types.

Braden also thinks there ought to be a law that no more stupid reality TV shows can be created that will ultimately tear families apart.

But it was Braden’s final suggestions that made her my favorite. She proposed that newspaper columnists be rewarded. She didn’t specify what kind of reward, but cash works for me.  

It seems as though we’re forever hearing about laws being passed or proposed that mandate something For Our Own Good.

The banning of trans fat. Directives on how long flights can be delayed. Helmet laws. Smoking laws. Laws concerning more realistic proportions for Barbie’s bustline.

It got me to thinking — if the government is determined to micromanage even further, I’d like to offer the following propositions for them to consider:

For instance, I think there should be a law limiting movie theaters to showing no more than two coming attractions prior to the start of a film. I’m there to see a certain movie, not bits and pieces of every movie coming out in the next six to 12 months. And those coming attractions shouldn’t be run at a volume so high that patrons are forced to use Milk Duds as earplugs.

And while I’m at it, ticket prices should be reduced in an amount equivalent to the number of commercials we’re forced to sit through prior to the start of the film.

If our government is going to be über-powerful, it should do useful things, like instituting mandates that restrict bad weather to three consecutive days and limit snowstorms to weekends. They should also prohibit forecasters from attempting witty banter or saying “the white stuff.”

I think we need a law making it illegal for textbooks that students must carry home on a regular basis to weigh more than the student. Chronic back pain should not start in grade school. 

Another thing: I think people who wear so much cologne that a visible haze can be seen surrounding their body should be legally restricted from the same public places as those who smoke.

And in the interest of fairness, I think there should be a law prohibiting politicians and executives from enjoying health-care benefits that differ from their employees’. (No tongue in cheek here.)

While we’re at it, I think we need legislation that requires, once a television show has been canceled, a final episode in which all story lines are concluded in a logical manner. Ever since grade school, I’ve lain awake some nights wondering if Barney and Thelma Lou ever tied the knot on “The Andy Griffith Show.”

I believe there should be limits put on cell phones so they won’t work if a person is moving more than 10 mph. And as a favor to parents, cell phones should shut off automatically after a daily maximum of 20 text messages has been reached. And last, of course, cell phones should be by law be rendered inoperable in theaters, halls and auditoriums.

Maybe the government could put together an ad hoc committee to study the viability of requiring retractable cords on shopping carts so that upon being released, carts would automatically snap back into the lot’s cart corral.

And I believe that companies based in America, or that do the majority of their business in America, should have customer service centers that are also based in America.

What laws would you like to see enacted, ones that would make America a cleaner, safer and calmer place? We can never have too many laws, you know. For Our Own Good. Send them to karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

If I were to complain about being powerless, a lot of you would understand I don’t need a pep talk from Oprah, but one from AEP.

I’m all about pre-Christmas snows, especially the ones that don’t start until well after my evening commute. Even better are the ones that hit on a weekend, since there’s no stressing about getting to work on time while wrangling with two-hour school delays.

So when the rumblings began about the snow storm coming our way, my husband and I did the West Virginia equivalent of a seasoned Floridian who has just heard that a hurricane approacheth—nothing.

While our coastal cousins are warned of the need to board windows and batten hatches, our forecasters send us rushing to Krogers for eggs and milk.

But like many StormTeam disbelievers, we scoffed at the predictions and chose to ride out the storm without benefit of freshly stocked larders.

It was nearing midnight Friday and Geoff and I were deeply involved in a movie where the main character was facing down a squad of emergency responders while wearing nothing but his not­so-tighty not-so whiteys when our power went off.

Annoying, we thought, especially considering the phone was out, too. But it was no big deal. We’re in South Charleston, after all. Land of three-times-weekly trash pickup. Surely a place this civilized would have power and phones restored by morning.

By morning all we had was more company in our bed. Nothing promotes closeness like no heat.

And nothing promotes creativity more than desperation. Which is what happens when those accustomed to hot coffee are faced with cold turkey.

Our home has a gas fireplace, but having moved there after decades of all electric, I’d been too frightened of the dangers of gas to try it. Even on nights when I longed for the ambiance of a fire, I didn’t dare give it a shot. Still, with the power out and the house growing colder, it wasn’t the chill that sent me after the matches, but my gnawing need for caffeine.

That the house got warmer from my water-boiling apparatus was merely a pleasant side effect.

Being snowbound without power on Saturday was nice, once the fire was lit and the demon quieted by his dose of caffeine. My husband, daughter and I played board games while our meal of potatoes, carrots and meatballs cooked campfire-style in foil pouches. Later, we read and napped, then played in the snow, anticipating the power would come on any time.

When night came, we looked out on the streets below us—the well-lit streets below us. The ones with those silly Christmas lights I’d once so admired, the ones that were now senselessly wasting precious electricity we’d have given our daughter’s eyeteeth to have. (For the record, those teeth kinda need to come out anyway.)

By Sunday morning, we no longer had to look up the power company’s phone number in the Yellow Pages. It was committed to memory. And we no longer needed to listen through the recorded message to hear which buttons to press to hear the latest power restore time prediction.

By Sunday afternoon, it was no longer amusing to go into a room and catch ourselves mindlessly flipping a switch.

And by Sunday night, we were phoning friends, looking for one who had both power and space. Celeste and I bailed, staying with our friend Shannon while Geoff chose to brave the night alone in our cold, dark house.

Come Monday, I took my disheveled, frizzy-haired self in to work, where I listened jealously as coworkers told of having their power restored in mere minutes or hours, or of having stayed in a hotel.

Alas, by five o’clock, our lights were still out. Since my parents had power, I fought traffic all the way out to Red House, then lugged my stuff in and eventually got situated at their computer, preparing to work on my column.

Which is, of course, when the telephone rang.

My husband was calling to say he’d seen the light. That there was power to the people. That we were re-volted. No longer de-lighted.

So I pulled the plug. And headed for home.