Love, Jimmie

Remember when I told you that Phranke was a smart cookie?  Take a look at the email exchange below:

Phranke:      OMG.  18 months without changing your air filter.  Who are you?  Have I taught you nothing?  You don’t listen to me when I speak. 

Jimmie:       Crap.  I was hoping you would put that off for a while and read it when you were drunk and hopefully not remember that part  . . .

Phranke:      I am in shock.  There are just certain things in life you are supposed to do. 

                           Shave your underarms. 

                           Put oil in your car. 

                           Brush your teeth.

                           And. 

                           Change.  Your. Air. Filter.

Clearly she does not subscribe to the philosophy of “Boy jobs” and “Girl jobs” when one becomes a homeowner either.  Noted.

Once again, I am responsible. Dammit.

Being responsible means that no matter how much you want this

You will have this instead, because it is a better choice. 

There are three things you should know about me, which of course I will share now. 

To begin:  Martie and I grew up in an old house with no cooling system at all, unless you count the two windows we could open in our ATTIC BEDROOM and the decrepit ceiling fan that lazily stirred around a bunch of thick, hot air. Attics are notoriously warm in summer months and boy could we attest to that.  We were only able to open two of our windows because one of the brothers (I won’t tell you which one because I luff him and I don’t want anyone yelling at him for this) cut some holes in the screens so he could pee out the window instead of going down the 12 steps to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  If you are familiar at all with Tennessee, you know that there are some big-ass bugs that can worm their way into those holes in the screens and those big-ass bugs will scare some little kids, particularly if they are the buzzing, fly-in-your-hair kind of bugs.  I’m fairly certain that Martie and I gave each parent at least one mini-heart attack every summer when a bug would fly in our near vicinity – we screamed like, well, like little girls.  To prevent big-ass bugs from attacking us and to prevent our parents from having mini-heart attacks on a regular basis, we only opened two of our four windows during the summer months.  We sweltered because of it. 

Next up:  I would consider myself easily technologically spoiled.  I had the first inkling of this truth a few years ago when my snazzy Isuzu Rodeo crapped out on me.  I had to borrow Poppa’s vehicle for a couple of weeks until I could figure out what I wanted to do for my transportation needs.  He had a fancy car with the key fob that unlocked the doors.  I was in raptures over this.  My Rodeo just had plain old keys.  Now I had a button I could smash to unlock the doors! (I also had a button I could smash to set off the car alarm which I did with great regularity but never on purpose.) After about two weeks of having this fancy car with a fancy buttoned device, the key fob croaked.  It quit working.  And I was completely at a loss.  I had no idea how to get into the car anymore.  The idea that a KEY would UNLOCK THE DOOR didn’t occur to me for a few terrifying minutes.  I know you all luff me, otherwise I would never share this with you.

Finally:  I adopted my two kitties from New Leash on Life.  They are older cats and came together.  Apparently Seamus does not do so well without Murphy and they needed to be adopted together.  I had to sign papers and make promises that I would never, under any circumstances, let them outside.  That was no problem in theory.  Seamus could care less about outside or anywhere but under the bed and the feeding places.  In reality, though, Murphy will bolt outside that door at every single opportunity, no matter if he just came in from a long stroll or has woken up from a nap.  He’s red headed and Irish and male – in other words, he’s a big fan of carousing outdoors until all hours of the night.  If he hadn’t had his neuters cut off already, I’d suspect a girlfriend.

And now, onwards:  Apparently monsoon season is not over.  Every time I drive out of my neighborhood I notice a huge change in the landscape because another tree has been taken down or another branch has smushed a car.  Thank goodness my lone tree is fairly small and unassuming.  It does not seem big enough to attract the windstorm or the lightning like those other too-big-for-their-britches trees do that must be taken down a peg or two.  These last few weeks have been just riddled with thunderstorms. 

A few weeks ago when Martie and Coach and family were at my house we were all sleeping soundly in the middle of the night when the biggest boom and flash of light hit my house.  That is probably not proper terminology, but it’s what it felt like.  Big thunder and big lightning and all of it seemed to happen inside my home instead of outside it.  There was much screaming from children and mini-heart attacks all around.  Since then, my heating and cooling unit has been working only when it feels like it. Mostly I didn’t notice because until this week, our temperatures were in the 50’s and 60’s.  But this past week has been, shall we say, “sticky”.  It’s warm in my house.  Disgustingly warm.  It’s like bath water all the time.

It would make sense that since we grew up with minimal heat in the winter and no cooling system in the summer, Martie and I would be heartier now.  You’d think we’d be able to withstand high temperatures and freezing toes with the very smallest of complaints.  You’d be wrong.  We have since become grownups and thus, spoiled.  I have sweltered enough in my lifetime.  I have earned the right to not do that anymore. 

I pay an electric bill faithfully every month.  I also pay a gas bill faithfully every month.  In return, I expect all appliances to work all the time, exactly like I want them to with no hiccups, key fobs and air conditioners included.  When they don’t, I flail around wondering what to do and how to do it and generally look like a moron, at least in my own head.  As a first time solo home owner, I’m learning that things sometimes break and that I need help.  Enter Coach.  I call Coach a lot with various issues I run across.  I also call Felix, a handful of co-workers, my neighbor Luke, Jose, Daddy-O, Poppa and sometimes Dammit Todd.  And a couple of other folks.  It’s a good thing that I’m a good cook. 

Sunday night was the first of a series of lengthy phone calls with Coach about the state of my cooling system (lucky guy).  I’ve flipped switches and reset buttons and checked for ice and hosed it down.  Those things didn’t work.  I was also instructed by Coach to go outside and listen to make sure the unit was at least doing something.  I opened the screen door just a smidge to squeeze my way out in an effort to keep Murphy in the house because I promised a year and a half ago.  Ha ha. Let me just tell you, I almost died. Murphy bolted out that door so fast and was gone like a streak, after he got all tangled up in my feet and tried to take me down. 

Later that night we had another monsoon.  I fully expected Murphy to be caterwauling at the door after a couple of hours, wanting to find shelter from the storm, but nope.   I kept waking up all night because of the heat and the worry over my damn cat.  He still had not appeared by Monday morning.  Or Monday night, even during another monsoon.  And I still had no air conditioning.  Needless to say, I was Not Happy. 

Some resolution, though.  Tuesday morning, after two nights of having a rock in the pit of my stomach over a missing cat and a broken air conditioner, Murphy bolted in the garage door as I was leaving for work, forty shades of pissed off because I had not let him immediately in the front door when he caterwauled outside of it.  He stalked around the house letting me have it for a good long while.  Damn cat. 

And tonight, the HVAC guys are coming over to have a look-see at my unit and tell me what is wrong with it.  This is the part where I hate that I’m responsible because it means I’m the one who will pay that bill.  It also means that I’m the one who will have the mini-heart attack when they tell me my unit is fried due to a lightning strike.  I really hope that isn’t the case.  I really hope they just tell me it ran out of gas and they can juice it up for a nominal fee.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.

UPDATE:  Lessons learned in responsibility . . . .

Crying does not fix broken appliances.

As a homeowner, one should take responsibility for changing the air filter on a regular basis. Regular basis is more often than once every 18 months. 

The HVAC guys will laugh at you when you try to explain that some things are “Boy Jobs” and some are “Girl Jobs”.  According to them if you live alone, those jobs become “Homeowner Jobs”.   No exceptions.   

As a cat owner, it is best to keep cats inside at all times.  I will be purchasing flea treatment this evening.

Good night, all.  Please learn from my mistakes. 

Smooches,

Jimmie