Summer Hiroshima Moon
When I have to keep calling a repair service to fix the same thing over and over, I begin to feel weird about it. Not guilty exactly, but weird. Case in point: our a.c. I called yesterday because it had stopped. The first time I called it started when I turned it back on for the repairman. Yesterday it started just as the next guy called to say he was on his way. WTF.
(Just put Kate in mind with the sword. Our house.)
Last night it went out again. OK. Evidence. Kate asked if I had a recorder. No. But, she said, how about a movie on the phone? Oh, yeah. I can do that. [after checking] Then, it does its dead a.c. thing and I’m there. With my hand-held computer. (phone is incidental, let’s admit it.) Click on video. And, voila, I have 26 seconds of humming, thrumming and then OMG I can’t stand it anymore thunk just before the whole thing stops. Again.
Also, we counted. Well, Kate counted the number of times it performed this same activity. 17 times in one hour. So. We have empirical evidence quantified over time. That should do it.
So, now I don’t feel weird. Maybe it’s a man thing, not wanting to admit I don’t know, can’t fix it? Nah. I can’t fix anything, so an air conditioner? Well above my fix-it paygrade.
Then there’s that damn shower door.
