Vocational School Is Totally Worth It

Dear Mr. Air Conditioner Fixer Man:

Last Friday I noticed that for the previous several days I’d been repeatedly lowering the little lever on the air conditioner box in the hallway, the one that controls my selection of heat or cool, fan or auto. By the time I’d pushed it down to 62 degrees it dawned on me that perhaps the air conditioner was not doing its job of, you know, conditioning because I consider a setting of 62 a rather frigid temperature and the only thing frigid in that apartment were my eyeballs as I stared down the temperature gauge as it calmly displayed 84. In case you are wondering, I categorize 84 degrees as sweltering and there is nothing about breaking a sweat in your own apartment that makes you a pleasant person. Nothing.

I suffered through the weekend with the help of my one meager fan, purchased not for it’s cooling qualities but because it was a brushed nickel throw-back to days of yore. Translation: I bought it because it was cute and because I had intentions of always living in an air-conditioned environment, hence negating the actual usage of the fan for anything other than possible smoke dissipation after I’d set something else in the kitchen on fire.

On Monday I made an in-person visit to the office of my landlord where I firmly stated my position concerning the air conditioner: Fix It Now Or I Will Cut You. After last summer’s cooling debacle involving two weeks of laying on my bed in my underwear with the windows open, sweat dripping from my forehead and pooling beneath my back, promising any listening deity my eternal soul if they’d just send me a breeze, any breeze, I was so not about to play the nice card or even the polite card. I wanted it made clear that while I may be a Southern Lady, don’t think I won’t find somebody named Guido who’s willing to break your knees.

So when I came home that evening and saw the foyer light on I was giddy with excitement that someone had already been inside, fixing whatever it was that made my air conditioner unhappy. I unlocked the door and heard the sound of rushing air and I had a whole five seconds of happiness before I realized that the blowing air, it was hot. I walked into the hallway and looked at the wee little box and noticed it had a) been turned back on and b) been set to 55 degrees. I’m not sure what statement you were trying to make by leaving the apartment like that but let me assure you that I knew the air conditioner was off and that one must turn it to ‘on’ before expecting air to come out of those festively placed vents. Also, you left the toilet seat up and the bathroom light on. Not cool.

Tuesday rolled around and I placed a call to my landlord who indicated that the problem had been fixed. It was unfortunate for his sake that I had to correct him that it was, in fact, not fixed and that leaving the a/c on 55 does not guarantee a working system. He promised to send someone out that day but lo, I came home to a very dark and very hot house.

Then Wednesday, another phone call to the landlord and another evening of coming home to a very dark and very hot house.

Finally, yesterday, yet another phone call to the landlord with not-so vague references to property damage and his possible conversion to eunuch status. Apparently this is what got the ball(s) rolling because when I came home the air conditioner, it was working. Working so beautifully that the cats had curled themselves into a onsie in the corner of the couch, noses buried in each others necks rather than lying on their backs, bellies exposed, hoping the wood floor would provide some measure of coolness.

And even though you managed to blow the grid for an entire six-block radius while replacing my compressor, I don’t judge. You have provided me with Air Conditioned Splendor and for that, you are my new BFF. My only request is that you remember to put the seat down when you visit because otherwise, I will have to remove your pinkie toe with pruning shears. Rusty ones.

Group hug with respect knuckles at the end,
Robin