Ticking Time Bombs
My fucking A/C panel broke last night.
She just died—reset—died—reset—died—
and so on.
Meanwhile it was getting warmer in the condo.
I don’t do “hot”—not temperature-wise anyway.
My home is arctic, and I like it that way.
I hate it when things break for two reasons.
1) You know how they say people have, “know how?”
I don’t.
2) Have you had to buy anything in this economy?
My HOA is demanding we get new water heaters.
Don’t you just love them?
The HOA.
They couldn’t have picked a more inopportune time.
I mean America is in debt because of the economy.
Everyone feels it at the grocery store.
I feel it every time I swipe my card at Publix on Spring St.—the balance creeping up, interest quietly accruing.
Cue the HOA: “Do this or we’ll fine you.”
Biiiiiiiiitch—cut me a break.
The building’s assessment of the heaters has criteria:
Normal.
Poor.
Then there’s mine—
“Ticking time bomb.”
That’s a direct quote.
My heater has been living in my utility closet since the building was built—20 years ago.
To be fair to the HOA, it’s never the right time to want to buy a new water heater.
So, the A/C panel went on the fritz during my dinner with M and Evie.
It majorly distracted me from important things like being a good host and ensuring the salad was perfectly balanced with green goddess dress.
After they left, I poured myself a glass of wine and prepared to confront the Panel—
Spoiler alert, the panel won.
I reset the circuit breaker—no dice.
Deleted and reset the app. Goose eggs.
I got her off the wall and looked at the wiring. All good.
And yet—I made it worse.
Somehow I jacked up the wiring.
She went from dead—reset—dead—to just dead.
She was already back on the wall when I realized my error—now I had to get her back off.
This hadn’t been a problem before—she snapped right off.
This time she was holding on to the wall like Christmas tree pitch on your fingers after tossing it in the loading dock.
Great, I thought.
I have no tools.
They all left with the boy.
They were his so that’s fair.
I took a butter knife and attempted to pry the panel.
Well, after I maimed her, I realized I was prying in the wrong place.
(facepalm—sip wine)
I got her back off the wall, googled where the wires were supposed to go and hoped for the best.
The panel powered back on.
I crossed my fingers—
Dead.
Reset.
Dead.
Reset—
I topped off my wine glass.
Drunk and defeated, I collapsed on the floor in my living room.
My mind raced—
I cannot afford A/C problems, a new water heater, and replacing the garbage disposal (I forgot to mention that one).
I lay there—
on the Zebra print rug.
I was down there a while before I realized I was in the same position I laid in the day the boy left—
weird how that happens.
I took a deep breath—
(Hold. Exhale.)
This is all going to be fine. You will figure it out. We will get it fixed. It will be okay.
I got up and walked over to the A/C Panel.
“I’m giving you the night off,” I said, raising my empty wine glass to her.
I turned the fan on high and went to bed.
She was working this morning.