Fiat Lux
We’re experiencing some technical difficulties over here at Foster/Farnsworth Headquarters in the form of electrical trouble.
Back in October after the sellers had accepted our offer, we had the requisite Professional Home Inspection performed on our soon-to-be home. The inspector pronounced the dwelling "in better condition than houses half its age," and Marc and I nearly caused ourselves permanent musculoskeletal damage with the mighty, self-inflicted back pats.
There was one problem, the inspector said, and then he said something about electric and a circuit something and 30 something maybe not being sufficient something. Marc seemed to understand what he was saying, but it would have made exactly as much sense to me had the inspector suggested that our electrical system was controlled by the whims of Master Zygorx and his band of merry body thetans via clever and judicious use of whimsically-colored space sparklers. "You might want to consider getting that taken care of," said the inspector.
Yes, yes, Mr. Inspector Guy, there are lots of things that need taking care of around here. The criminally-hideous blouse valances (with shades of mauve! and rose! gah!) in the living room, for example. And possibly the fact that the downstairs powder room is decorated to resemble a men’s private executive washroom.
The December closing date passed; we moved in, secured and installed a dog, and spent the majority of the ensuing months cursing the three or four hundred feet of snow we got last winter. Correction: I cursed the snow. My husband plowed it off the driveway, and then he and the dog would dance around the yard like a couple of snow ninnies rejoicing in the glory of 9 more goddamned inches. I on the other hand rigged up a television within ear- and eye-shot of the outdoor deck and spent most of the winter watching “The Apprentice” from the hot tub while swigging Belgian lambic straight from the bottle. Who would you rather hang out with?
Eventually the snow melted and approximately five seconds after the last blob of gray winter mush evaporated from the streets, it was 95 degrees outside, because Cleveland does not believe in moderation. Our home lacks central air conditioning, so Marc began the task of installing three window units throughout the house, and the units worked admirably until the day I decided to run the dishwasher while the AC units were chugging away. Suddenly, all the electricity in the house vanished. Marc went down to the basement and proclaimed that we’d flipped the breaker.
But why did it flip, I wanted to know, and my dear husband reminded me what the inspector had said. "We only have a 30-amp system," Marc said. "We should have at least 100 amps, and until that happens, we’re not going to be able to run everything at once."
Fine. Okay. I get it. I really didn’t want to have to sacrifice precious Freon-cooled air, but a couple of temporary warm spots in the house were totally worth running the dishwasher. This wasn’t perfect, but I could make do. Hell, I thought, I used to drive a Firebird with a broken driver’s side door, and I had to climb in through the passenger side. I used to not even have air conditioning. I used to stay alive eating nothing but Ramen and potatoes. I used to drink Genessee cream ale every single day. I can do this.
And I can. I could. I could remember to turn off the upstairs window unit to run the dishwasher. No problem. That is, until the circuit starting flipping whenever I ran the microwave. Or the toaster oven. Or my bleeding hair dryer, and pretty soon I was freezing in horror every time I even considered using any sort of appliance, and not a day went by when you couldn’t find either Marc or me standing somewhere in the house screaming something like, "HONEY! I need to charge my cell phone! Could you unplug the refrigerator?"
We started calling electricians.
One of the more interesting facts that has come to light (pardon the pun) during this process is that not only do we have insufficient amperage, but also a dastardly circuit box called Federal Pacific that, as the lore goes, has a rather alarming proclivity to occasionally not flip when overloaded, thus causing giant fires that kill housefuls of sleeping people.
Now comes the part where we must pay Thousands of Dollars (well, just less than two thousand, to be fair, but that still counts to me as Thousands of Dollars) to have an electrician rip out the wiry guts of our home and replace them with something less likely to contribute to our demise. Apparently we are also replacing the "mast." Mast? Do we live on a pirate ship? I am so confused.
All I really have to say is thank god for Marc and my dad and people like my friends Nat and Keith and Melinda and Will, all of whom have this amazing ability to Know Useful Stuff, like that a mast is an electricy thing that lives outside the house and does … something, and that furnaces have filters that need to be changed, and that sometimes cars need rotors and oil and fluids and stuff. Thanks, guys. Where would I be if it weren’t for you?
Up in flames, apparently.
posted by Kate at 11:55 AM link/comments
