And yet another era has ended. I returned to the city on Saturday, after a grueling week at the beach. How can a beach trip be grueling, you ask? Try it with one parent in the midst of an Alzheimer's haze and the other parent completely rattled from dealing with it. Add a handful of relatives from the hinterland, and you have the recipe for hell.
When I got back to town it was sweltering. I couldn't get the house aired out to save my life, and the cats refused to get up to go to their food dishes, because they were sleeping on the nice cool marble mantelpieces and didn't want to leave them. Sheesh, THEY don't need to lose weight; I do. Perhaps I should have employed the same tactic.
Now, I must admit that I've been so lazy this summer that I never even got around to changing the rugs, which makes the house at least seem ten degrees hotter. All of that wool and velvet just looks heavy and makes you feel warm, which is just dandy in February. This is not February.
But then, my summer bedroom doesn't have wool and velvet, because it is a summer bedroom and never gets used in the wool-and-velvet season. And it was roasting.
So after three days of sweating my spleen out through my pores, I went to Wal-Mart and bought an air conditioner. I have spent the last twenty years of my life hating air conditioning in houses. I'd usually rather sweat than sit in stale, recycled air, no matter how cool it might be. On those few days a year that I really want air conditioning, I just go to the movies.
I went to the movies about five times and it wasn't working out for me. I bought a damned air conditioner.
Some of you may be aware of my previous air conditioning drama. When I was a child I spent a lot of the summer with sniffles, because our Timonium house was the first my mother had ever inhabited that happened to have central air, and so she kept it cranked down to about -20. We saved electricity, though, because it was so goddamned cold in the house that we didn't have to use the refrigerator. The milk and eggs could just sit on the kitchen counter and still stay fresh.
After happily living through several AC-free years (going to the movies in Richmond was always a good option, since the fabulous Byrd Theatre is not only air-conditioned but breathtakingly beautiful), I moved into my current lair.
Many of you will recall that when I moved into this place, it was chock full of random old crap. Some of this was useful crap; most was not. Among the things that I believed, then, might be useful was a small air conditioner.
Now, I should have realized, based on my previous experience with the house I'd just bought, that there would be something wrong with the little air conditioner. For one thing, it was way too small for any room in the house. For another, someone had effected a repair on its plastic grille that involved duct tape. If I make a repair with duct tape, that's one thing, but I have also learned over the years that if someone else makes a repair with duct tape, it's probably bad news.
Undaunted, I hauled the little air conditioner down to the master bedroom and plugged it in. Lo and behold, it worked.
Sort of worked.
This was an air conditioner meant for a room that measures approximately 10 x 12. I had just put it in a room that measures 18 x 20, and it was decidedly overwhelmed. Also, its dehumidying abilities were impaired (possibly by the duct tape?). So, it couldn't quite cool down the whole room, and rather than being hot and sticky, the room was almost-cool and clammy. Not necessarily an improvement, so the hapless air conditioner had to go. Even then, it continued to thwart me. While trying to take it out of the window: a)the window's sash cord broke, causing the window to fall which b)made me try to catch the window but c) I missed so d)I ended up smashing my hand through the glass while e)the air conditioner fell inwards and landed on my foot while f) a flower box on the outer windowsill fell down onto the sidewalk. All I got for that effort in air conditioning was a broken window, a slashed-up wrist, a very sore foot and a terrorized neighbor who had been walking down the street when a box of geraniums landed two feet in front of her. I then vowed: No more AC.
Until Tuesday, at least, when I'd spent a few miserable days and hied myself to Wal-Mart. I am now air-conditioning-enabled.
Except that every time I turn the thing on, I can see little dollar signs flying out the window, thinking how much it's costing me to run the stupid thing. And I've already found the air in the now-air-conditioned bedroom to be rather stale. And the cats don't like the noise it makes, and I don't like being unable to hear the outside, and I'm having bizarre dreams that I'm sure are caused by the white noise from the air conditioner.
Just my style. You can lead me to the modern age, but you can't make me plug it in.
When I got back to town it was sweltering. I couldn't get the house aired out to save my life, and the cats refused to get up to go to their food dishes, because they were sleeping on the nice cool marble mantelpieces and didn't want to leave them. Sheesh, THEY don't need to lose weight; I do. Perhaps I should have employed the same tactic.
Now, I must admit that I've been so lazy this summer that I never even got around to changing the rugs, which makes the house at least seem ten degrees hotter. All of that wool and velvet just looks heavy and makes you feel warm, which is just dandy in February. This is not February.
But then, my summer bedroom doesn't have wool and velvet, because it is a summer bedroom and never gets used in the wool-and-velvet season. And it was roasting.
So after three days of sweating my spleen out through my pores, I went to Wal-Mart and bought an air conditioner. I have spent the last twenty years of my life hating air conditioning in houses. I'd usually rather sweat than sit in stale, recycled air, no matter how cool it might be. On those few days a year that I really want air conditioning, I just go to the movies.
I went to the movies about five times and it wasn't working out for me. I bought a damned air conditioner.
Some of you may be aware of my previous air conditioning drama. When I was a child I spent a lot of the summer with sniffles, because our Timonium house was the first my mother had ever inhabited that happened to have central air, and so she kept it cranked down to about -20. We saved electricity, though, because it was so goddamned cold in the house that we didn't have to use the refrigerator. The milk and eggs could just sit on the kitchen counter and still stay fresh.
After happily living through several AC-free years (going to the movies in Richmond was always a good option, since the fabulous Byrd Theatre is not only air-conditioned but breathtakingly beautiful), I moved into my current lair.
Many of you will recall that when I moved into this place, it was chock full of random old crap. Some of this was useful crap; most was not. Among the things that I believed, then, might be useful was a small air conditioner.
Now, I should have realized, based on my previous experience with the house I'd just bought, that there would be something wrong with the little air conditioner. For one thing, it was way too small for any room in the house. For another, someone had effected a repair on its plastic grille that involved duct tape. If I make a repair with duct tape, that's one thing, but I have also learned over the years that if someone else makes a repair with duct tape, it's probably bad news.
Undaunted, I hauled the little air conditioner down to the master bedroom and plugged it in. Lo and behold, it worked.
Sort of worked.
This was an air conditioner meant for a room that measures approximately 10 x 12. I had just put it in a room that measures 18 x 20, and it was decidedly overwhelmed. Also, its dehumidying abilities were impaired (possibly by the duct tape?). So, it couldn't quite cool down the whole room, and rather than being hot and sticky, the room was almost-cool and clammy. Not necessarily an improvement, so the hapless air conditioner had to go. Even then, it continued to thwart me. While trying to take it out of the window: a)the window's sash cord broke, causing the window to fall which b)made me try to catch the window but c) I missed so d)I ended up smashing my hand through the glass while e)the air conditioner fell inwards and landed on my foot while f) a flower box on the outer windowsill fell down onto the sidewalk. All I got for that effort in air conditioning was a broken window, a slashed-up wrist, a very sore foot and a terrorized neighbor who had been walking down the street when a box of geraniums landed two feet in front of her. I then vowed: No more AC.
Until Tuesday, at least, when I'd spent a few miserable days and hied myself to Wal-Mart. I am now air-conditioning-enabled.
Except that every time I turn the thing on, I can see little dollar signs flying out the window, thinking how much it's costing me to run the stupid thing. And I've already found the air in the now-air-conditioned bedroom to be rather stale. And the cats don't like the noise it makes, and I don't like being unable to hear the outside, and I'm having bizarre dreams that I'm sure are caused by the white noise from the air conditioner.
Just my style. You can lead me to the modern age, but you can't make me plug it in.
posted by Daniel | 11:38 PM
2 Comments:
Oh, Dan! That's the kind of thing that always happens when one undertakes any kind of Project in an old house: it's enough to drive one mad. Or, at least, discourage one from beginning Projects in the first place.
I hope your hand is healing well.
Window units are so mid-twentith century! Plug it in.
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