I scared the HVAC repair guy today. And in the grand tradition of my whole ‘Jesus Chelsie, shut your goddamned mouth already’ schtick, it was pretty impressive. If I do say so myself.
Our air conditioner cratered over the weekend, which just so happened to be the first days of 90 plus degree weather we’ve had this year. You can imagine how fun that was, especially since opening the windows when Boo is loose is not an option. Something about the screens has a bug zapper effect on him. The screens lure him in with a sweet but deceptive silvery allure, and it only takes about thirty seconds of me having my back turned before he has the screen pushed half way out of the window.
So yeah. It was hot in the house. And I was cranky. That’s a winning combination if there ever was one.
The HVAC repair guy showed up unannounced today a little after five o’clock. Luckily for both of us, I had decided to run out and get the mail about ten minutes earlier so I was actually wearing a bra. He had been here once previously in January right before the Super Special Ice Event of 2011 to fix our heater. To say this guy is weird is like saying the ocean is a little salty.
Y’all, he twitches. Like a fucking hummingbird on meth. And he has a lazy eye. So of course I stare. I can’t help myself. That kind of twitching is has the bug zapper effect on me.
I tried to describe what I thought was wrong with our unit–it, um, blows hot air–but I could barely get that out because every time I opened my mouth, another part of him would jerk. So he nodded like he understood (at least, I think he was nodding. I can’t really be sure) and went outside to check the AC. He was out there for a while and when he came back inside, I had to hastily minimize TweetDeck because I had been bragging about the fact that my tatas were properly contained when he showed up. Because of course I was.
He stood there awkwardly for a minute, good eye darting back and forth between me and the computer. We had a Mexican stand-off staring contest for thirty excrutiating seconds before the unmistakable strains of an ice cream truck’s electric bastardization of Pop Goes the Weasel interrupted us from outside.
“Huh. The child snatchers are early tonight,” I said.
He turned around and walked out the door without saying another word.
But tonight we have working air conditioning. And I don’t think he’ll ever try to use his master key to break into our house to steal our shit, because really, I’m pretty sure the impression I gave off makes him think I have some crazy ninja weapons hidden under my pillow.
Which I do. Only it’s a Louisville slugger and it lives under the bed. I wanted a cricket bat, but those fuckers are hard to find.