Wednesday, August 1, 2012

It's A Heaty Heat

I don't mean to brag. But I am now the proud owner of two pounds of freon. It's true! Don't hate me because I'm cool as a cucumber. Hate me because I'm a braggart. Even though I don't mean to be.

Farmer H has connections, baby! The AC Dude showed up this morning at 9:35. When the dispatcher called at 9:15 to say he was on his way, I asked if he knew how to get here. The Mansion is a bit off the beaten path. About a mile and a tenth off. The dispatcher assured me that AC Dude knew the way. "He's been to 1313 Hillbilly Way a few times." Indeed. He has.

I was barely hanging on. Last night, with inside temps in the 82s, I had trouble sleeping. I'm delicate like that, you know. There might as well have been a pea under my 200 mattresses. Or a BB under my recliner, as things go in Hillmomba. I managed to eke out three hours of sleep, whether I needed it or not. Farmer H could have helped me catch more of those elusive ZZZZZs if he had only listened to reason. And by reason, we all know that I mean ME.

"After the outside temperature gets cooler than 82, let's turn on the exhaust fan," I suggested.

"We can't do that! It would pull the air out!"

"I know. And...?"

"That will pull the cool air out!"

"I don't think 82-degree air is cool. And I certainly won't mind losing it."

"But you would be pulling in hot air!"

"No...I said after the air becomes COOLER outside than inside."

"Oh. Yeah, that might work."

At 4:00 a.m., when I hauled myself upstairs into the blazing inferno, the temperature outside had fallen to 70. I informed Farmer H. He did not seem very excited. I told him I was opening some windows. Thinking he would hop out of bed and start up the exhaust fan. Au contraire. I sweltered in the heat of 10,000 terrariums. The ceiling fan did little to evaporate my flop sweat.

At 6:00, when he left for work, Farmer H fired up the exhaust fan. The temp cooled to 76, then started a slow rise. Thank the Gummi Mary, AC Dude arrived in time. Before I started to look like a Salvador Dali clock.

By 10:10, my new freon was pumping, and we were on the way back to the land of regulated household temperature.

2 comments:

Sioux said...

You were about to roast, like a human turkey.

Good thing Newman wasn't around with his baster, and his chin dripping with drool...

Hillbilly Mom said...

Sioux,
Dang! I forgot to baste myself with the butter Farmer H was using as shaving cream! There was some left over, you know. Because he didn't shave his chest.