Revenge of the Air Conditioner

Most families go on vacation in the summer. Camping, theme
parks, resorts, whatever. Not so with my family.
Most families go on vacation in the summer. Camping, theme parks, resorts, whatever. Not so with my family. You see, we’re spending our summer in the frozen food section of the grocery store, somewhere between the hash browns and the imitation cool whip.

Let me explain.

You see, it all started on the first bazillion degree day, when the air conditioner decided that it no longer wanted the role of Cooling Down the House. I turned it on, and … nothing, except for the words: tough luck, sucker. (Although, I could’ve imagined that part.)

I like to think of myself as a fairly well prepared person, but frankly, I didn’t see this coming. You see, the thing about air conditioners is that you never really pay attention to them until it’s so hot that your lips are melting down your chin, and the cat is sticking to the glass coffee table. By then, I don’t need to tell you, it’s too late.

I’m not sure why this happens. Maybe it’s all just a big coincidence. However, my personal theory is that it’s some sort of revenge for giving exclusive attention to the heater all winter. I mean, there it was, innocently sitting in the backyard and looking in perfect working condition for months, while all along it was silently biding it’s time until the Hottest Day of the Year, which is also known as the Day It’s Impossible to find an Air Conditioner Repair Guy.

So I did what any hot and cranky, non-mechanical person would do: I kicked it.

And kicked it again. And again. And again. Of course, I’d be an idiot to think that something this simple would work. And it didn’t. But, hey, I felt better.

So I moved on to the more mature and less violent Plan B, which was calling my friend, Barb, who’s the kind of person who puts together swing sets and changes her own oil.

“Open the fuse box and check the circuit breaker,” she said.

Is this the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Like, I’m the type of person who knows how to find a circuit breaker.

So I tried Plan C: I called the only repair company in the phonebook that promised “same day service.” And they did. Except for the fact that “same day” meant “sometime between now and midnight” and “service” meant a guy coming out, looking at the air conditioner and, well, kicking it.     

That’s when I implemented the foolproof Plan D: evacuation. Which means hanging out in air-conditioned places until either 1) it cools off, 2) we find someone available to fix our air conditioner, or 3) it becomes autumn. Whichever comes first.

Oh, I know it sounds silly. And it is. But I figure if we lay low and keep rotating no one will catch on. So far, we’ve hung out in two coffee places, ate lunch in the cafe at the local bookstore, and spent the afternoon lurking in novelty shops the mall.

Now some of you might consider us loiterers. I prefer to think of us more as “refugees.” 

That said, we have 30 more minutes in the frozen food aisle until we’re off to the 24-hour mini-mart. So don’t be surprised if you happen to see a mom and two kids in patio chairs beside the Slurpee machine.

Just say hi and pass the ice.  

Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother of two kids, holding down the fort in California. She is also the author of Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat and can be reached at www.familydaze.com, or by writing

fa********@oa***************.com











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