By Maura Madden

Yes, you heard that right, folks: I survived the Blackout! I like it when they write it with an exclamation point on a t-shirt. It makes it seem more like a musical. And I guess it was, for some people. You know, the friends of friends you've heard about who made their way home from work on foot, arriving in their neighborhoods just in time for the Blackout Block Party! Yes, I've heard the tales of many an all-night party Blackout! But my blackout was not a party.

 This is not to say that I suffered greatly during the Blackout! I didn't really suffer much at all. I wasn't stuck on the subway below ground in the heat, I didn't have to cross any mobbed bridges to reach a place of shelter, I don't live in Jersey so I wasn't trying to get there by ferry, and I'm not a tourist who was kicked to the curb because my hotel doesn't have windows that open. So when I tell you that my Blackout 2003! was not a party, take it at face value. It wasn't a party, but it wasn't the end of the world. It was just very weird.

My trip home from work in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, was relatively painless. My co-worker and I managed to hitch a ride back to our neighborhood in a random co-worker's car. That was wise. She got us home faster than I usually get home by train. And because we were in a car, we got the information that the people walking across bridges didn't get: 1) This blackout thing was happening all over the country, 2) It probably wasn't a terrorist plot, and 3) We should just relax. The radio DJs seemed really confident that there weren't major problems, and the bulk of the joking between bling-bling jams revolved around the DJs blaming the callers for causing the blackout, hilarious little faux-accusations like, "Damn, did you do this?!?!?!" or "I bet you forgot to pay Con Ed again, fool!", followed by hearty laughter from radio DJs and caller alike.

 Rather than going right back to my house under such bizarre circumstances, I decided to accompany my co-worker home to hang out for a bit. We live just a short walk away from each other, and IÕm a big fan of her six-year-old daughter, who she hadn't been able to reach. I figured that it would be fun to go back to their house, see the kid, break out the hula-hoops and drink margaritas on her stoop for an hour or so. Then, when I felt ready, I would call up some friends and find a gathering place for the Blackout Block Party. This was the way I pictured it happening. This is not what went down.

 We went back to her neighborhood of Park Slope, which was fully in the swing of blackout confusion. People were all over the streets, sitting on the ground, leaning against buildings, watching to see what other people were doing. Most stores were already closed, except the 99-cent store on the corner. They were doing a brisk business selling candles, flashlights, batteries guaranteed to work for less than an hour, and maybe some fluorescent fly-swatters. We didn't join the bargain-survivalist mob, but went straight to her house to get the child.

 No one was home when we arrived, but it was only 5:30, so we just assumed that her daughter and the 17-year-old babysitter were running late and expected them back within moments. There was no way to get in touch with them, but we weren't worried just yet. The babysitter had failed to take the kid out of the neighborhood even once during the summer, so they were probably just in the hood getting free ice cream somewhere. I went along with the casual attitude 'til 30 minutes into our waiting period.

 "I really hope the babysitter didn't listen to me for once this summer," my friend said, "because this morning I suggested that they go to Coney Island." Coney Island is a good 45 minutes away from Park Slope by subway. And if they were cutting it close, which all 17-year-old-babysitter-and-six-yesr-old-kid combos do, then they had probably gotten to the subway well after the power outage occurred. They could be stranded on Coney.

 And that's exactly what happened. Her daughter and the babysitter were stranded on Coney Island. So the Blackout Party plans were replaced with the Sitting Vigil Party! In an awkward turn of events, another babysitter had originally been assigned to a brief evening session when my friend had made dinner plans earlier in the day, so 15 minutes after we arrived home, another 17-year-old babysitter arrived at the house with a friend. An hour after that, yet another one of the babysitter's club members arrived at the house with a friend, wondering where the babysitter and child might be. So there we were--four babysitters, a mother, a friend, and no kid. To keep ourselves calm in this crisis, we were forced to drink margaritas. Maybe the babysitters joined us for a round, but who are you to blame them? These were desperate times, calling for desperate measures. And we were really bad role models.

 So while the sufferers suffered in the hot-hot-heat and the partiers partied in the same conditions, we sat around my friend's table fielding phone calls from the father of the missing kid, the mother of the missing babysitter, and alternate members of the babysitter's club. And at 10:30 pm, when we had all started to think very bad thoughts, they finally arrived home. The kid looked at our party of six with an _expression of disbelief. What the hell were all these babysitters doing in the house? And we looked back at her with love. She was in one piece. Bright red, completely exhausted, freaked out, but home. And witnessing that return was worth more than any Blackout Party replete with free ice cream, warm beer and hot boys. At least thatÕs what I keep telling my self.