Saga of Christmas Lights part 4

A vehicle slowed in front of my house. I quickly ducked down, not wanting anyone to know we were home. Because of the rain on the bay window and glare from all of the Christmas lights, it was difficult to tell whether it was a car or truck. It stopped, and so did my heart. I didn't breath.

"Go away," I whispered quietly.

Talouse, my daughter's furball, didn't understand the importance of not being seen. To him, this was a game. I pushed him down and peered through the window, waiting. Hoping. Finally, the vehicle drove into the night and away from my home. That was close!

Life wasn't always like this. Until Saturday, my wife and I, along with my daughter, enjoyed the cars slowing in front of my home to see our lights. Our many long hours of hard work were rewarded by the eewww's and aahh's (and one or two "oh my gosh, how tacky!"). Each visitor was like an Oscar nomination. Our hearts swelled with pride, but that was before Saturday.

Saturday, my life changed. There was a massive power outage in San Francisco that lasted for 36 hours. People are upset. Businesses lost thousands of dollars. Attorneys are rubbing their hands in the anticipated legal actions that surely will be coming. Heads are going to roll.

Outages are like obscene phone calls. The source can be traced, if there is the desire. Oh, and there IS a desire. PG&E wants to know what happened. Blown transformer? Fire at a substation? An eight foot blow-up snowman that continually trips the circuit breaker at 81 Tennant in San Jose? Pray they don't find out. I know that some diligent PG&E detective will follow a complicated electronic trail through a power grid computer, and it will point to South San Jose. I'm guessing that there's a little note that pops up when the technician presses F1 that says, "the house with humbug on the fence." Paranoid? I think not. For now, I'll hide.

There may be a silver lining in this dark cloud above my home. I read the covers of the ladies magazines at the check out stand. I know what women really like. Cosmopolitan, the official voice of all American women, wouldn't lie to me: women like bad boys. No, it's true! You husbands who are reading this should ask your wives, but be prepared; women, I know you're blushing. And here's the good news: I'm now a Bad Boy. I'm a fugitive from PG&E. There's no doubt that I can get some leverage from this. Imagine a future cocktail party, when I'll be able to impress some young coed (the one my wife is glaring at... giving The Look). As I sip my chardonnay, I'll casually say-puffing out my chest but trying to hide the bragging tone-"Yep, the Big Blackout in 2003...that was me."

She will look all starry eyed at The Lights Man, unbelievably standing before her. A legend. I'll need to let her down gently and give her the "sorry, but I'm married" speech. I'll do this with real emphasis on very married, particularly because I can see my wife over this young lady's delicate shoulder. Now that I think about it, maybe my wife's Look was directed at me!!