"Oh, he's dead. You killed him when you left the door open with the air conditioning on." - George Bluth, Arrested Development

 

Houston. Looks hot, doesn’t it? Did you know that dogs, steel, and The Mrs. melt without Air Conditioning here?

I’ve been asked (on more than one occasion) on why I write. The Mrs. usually phrases this with the “instead of _____” ending, where the blank could be replaced with “talking to me,” “taking out trash” or even “making sure the children don’t get into a machete fight.” Since she discovered Myspace, well, let’s just say The Mrs. doesn’t ask that any more. Why do I write? On most nights, it’s like, well, having a baby (I speak with all the authority of a male on that one). It may be painful, it may suck, but in the end, you always come up with the instinctual need to push it out and have a tumbler of whiskey Pinot Noir.

Oh, sorry, did you miss me? I had to run and check on Pugsley. It seems that Pugsley just chewed the last of the slats from his crib out, and I had to throw in some raw birch for him to gnaw on. You have to do it in the dark, so he doesn’t spring at you in a starving rage. Travelling across his floor is like travelling across that Southern California French field in that WWII movie I watched when I was kid where they had to traverse a mine field, using a bayonet to find them. I stepped on Elmo®. I must admit, Elmos© don’t blow up, but I also must admit I enjoyed stepping on Elmo’s™ face. Is that wrong?

Anyhow, we’ve reached summer in Houston. By summer, I mean “exactly like December” in Houston, except muggier. Our house (having been built back when sweet, sweet oil was the equivalent of $140.32/barrel (that’s €5.00/kL)) has the virtue of being built with two air conditioners to save energy. This air conditioning set up, meant for a much larger house, is there. Thankfully.

One of the air conditioners broke. The Mrs. says it made an awful noise before it took a big dirt nap. Despite much coaxing, I could not get The Mrs. to imitate the sound it made before it went to the big Thermodynamics Graveyard. I went “rrrr, rrr”. The Mrs. said, “No.” I went, “crrrrrrrsh,” and again The Mrs. said, “No.” Finally, I went, “grrrrr – chh – grrrr – chhh,” and The Mrs. said, “That’s it.”

Okay, the bearing on the condenser motor was shot.

Again, thankfully the air conditioning still functioned on the side of the house where people sleep. So, on one side of the house it’s as hot as Sharon Stone, 1983. On the other side, it’s as hot as Sharon Stone, 2013. Yeah, it’s cold on the 2013 side. We drug out a box fan, and used it to push air to the 1983 side. The result: lukewarm Wilders, and waaaay too much Sharon Stone.

When we bought Casa Wilder South, the realtor™ said, “Let’s write a home warranty into the offer.” I think the realtors© get a commission for that, or at least mousepads. We did. At closing, I asked (greedy little Wilder that I am) if we could get the money they’d agreed to pony up for the warranty in cash. No dice. So, a home warranty we have.

I called up the company, and, after verifying that I had a policy, some 18 year old in El Secundo, California said that the AC was covered. They’d get someone right on that.

The company charged with carrying out the warranty came out and said, “bearing on the condenser motor is shot.”

The Mrs. said, “I know it doesn’t work. I didn’t need you to drive here and tell me it doesn’t work. I need you to fix the damn thing. UGH, THE MRS. WANT COLD.¹”

Am I good, or what? Can you judge a bearing failure through imitating noises to your wife?

Anyhow, another week goes by. The motor is on (drumroll, please) order. I’m (at this point) just hoping the air conditioner motor is not made from strontium 90 and Loch Ness Monster fur, and on back order until Sharon Stone has enough surgery that she’s hot again.

Of course, we’re hot.

Another week goes by, in which the kitchen is 132°F (453,349°C) and the bedroom is near -432°F.

Oh, did I mention that the electric meter to the house went out (due to lightning strike) at the same time the AC went down? No? Well, my guess is that the electric company will make a weasel-like argument that I would have paid that much to cool my house, anyway, so, in some sense, I owe them the money as if all of my appliances were working.

Did I mention that I reported the electric meter was out?

Does Pugsley need more wood to eat?

¹Article 3, Section 8 of the Wilder Marital Agreements: “The Mrs. shall never, ever, ever, ever live in Texas unless she has unlimited access and complete control of sweet, sweet air conditioning and utter control of the thermostat.”