Dear random dude at the hardware store: Sorry you thought I might kiss you, but in my defence, you did tell me where I could find a cheaper, more effective air conditioner. Call me maybe?
98 Degrees was a pretty good boy band back in the day.
87 degrees, though, that’s a terrible room temperature. It has a way of amplifying every sound my child makes and compounding every ounce of irritation. For me, being hot is like being hangry, except my boobs are stuck together. Worst.
I had a dinky little fan but one night in my sleep the cat ninjas knocked it over and disassembled it. I woke to the smell of melting plastic and that was the end of that. When the most recent west coast heat wave rolled in, I coped by laying on my deck in my bathing suit every available moment. The way I was completely losing my stuff about the oppressively loud chewing of my child while I melted like a popsicle on the couch inspired me to go out and buy an air conditioner.
My son’s dad called me when we were out on our journey to discuss scheduling visits so I invited him to continue the conversation with me at the local electronics store over near the air conditioning section. This was the “phone a friend” approach to climate control. He helped me select a unit that appeared to be effective in managing both the temperature of the apartment air and my expectations around ever being able to afford to send my kid to college.
The helpful clerk instructed to ensure it was transported upright or we would have to wait 24 hours to install. I gave my ex a look that clearly conveyed if he transported it sideways, I would cut him. He obliged.
We commenced the install.
It’s dual vented, so of course, my son’s dad had to do a “Danger Will Robinson!” impression while flailing the long bendy connector pieces on his arms. He tried to block off above the air conditioner between the sliding doors with cardboard, but it was kind of what you expect would happen if Flat Stanley tried to take up belly dancing, a lot of shimmying and flailing before it eventually slunk down to the floor in a heap.
He went off in search of wood (after accidentally flinging my measuring tape onto my downstair’s neighbour’s patio, allowing them to measure the length of the Lego collection that we’ve dropped there before (#CondoLife #WorstNeighboursEver).
I took the time to get our son some lunch because we were both hangry and sweaty. We were at the drive through window and he was babbling from the backseat about wanting a “red event”. It took me five minutes and the wrath of the folks behind me to determine his dyslexia had misinterpreted red velvet ice cream. We brought it home so the install could be completed and he could dump his “red event” ice cream all over his bedspread. Memories!
It’s now a comfortable-ish 81 degrees. The debris from the packaging is all over the floor. There’s an extension cord stretched into the kitchen to run our little engine that could aka Liam’s college fund because the electrical circuits around here are hooey. I’m enjoying the cool air, and composing a missed connection to the hardware store guy. Sometimes dating you have to think outside the box – the air conditioner box, this time.