My AC/Heater unit just croaked. You know, that big, square, metal block that hides on the side of your house, thanklessly working to make sure you’re not too hot, not too cold, but just right? Well, my aluminum friend just upped and died on me. Fucker. OK, it wasn’t his fault. He’s been diligently working since 1989 (I bought my place in 2003). 21 years of flawless performance from a HVAC unit is impressive. It’s the equivalent of a human being living to 210 years old and forced to run an olympic marathon naked every single day from birth. He was a good machine that far outlived his time. His performance was gold medal worthy. BUT the bill for replacement felt far worse than Mao Asada’s loss to Yu-Na Kim. Far worse than my most recent rejection by Michelle Kwan (btw, I’m still available for casual or formal love making session, Michelle). It was an unexpected, financial butt slap of epic proportions…
$2,250? FML...
Total cost to replace? $2,250. And I had to pay cash. Why? Cause that’s how my HVAC dude rolls. Not a check, not a cash card, but with cold, hard, green paper. Paying my guy felt more like a Miami Vice drug deal than a home renovation project. I felt domestically dangerous in a way that only Sonny Crockett could understand. Now if I didn’t have a history with my HVAC dude, I’d think he was aiming to jack me of my bling, knock me out with ether, throw me in the back of his van, and sell me off to a rich cougar in the Hollywood Hills who would keep me locked up in her basement demanding a vigorous, geriatric pump at least twice a day (hmmm… kinda sounds like the life of my HVAC). Read more...
