[Note: I just wrote all this and then Words With Friends froze my computer and I lost my first post. So if this one sounds, well, snarkier than I intended — it’s meant to be snarky to begin with — please don’t come near me with any sharp objects.]
Tuesday: I called the landlord to let him know our thermostat was on the blink. When it’s set to “Heat” nothing happens. To get it to turn on we have to set it on “Off” and “Cool” either blows the A/C or heater, depending on what mood it’s in. Overnight we have to turn it on and sleep in a sauna or shut it off and pry icicles from our nose hairs when we wake up in the morning.
The landlord is friendly and says he’ll call his guy (they never call someone who knows something, they always have a “guy”). I thank him nicely and wait to see if anyone actually shows up.
Late in the afternoon the GUY shows up. WOOT! I think “Maybe Alabama isn’t so bad.” (It’s a fleeting thought.)
He looks at the thermostat and runs outside to play with…something…? Then says it looks like it IS the thermostat (didn’t I say that?) he doesn’t have one of these with him (why would you bring a thermostat to a place with a broken thermostat?), he’ll pick one up and be back in the morning.
Thursday morning: I call the landlord, flinching inside because I don’t want to become a pain in the ass. I know he’s busy. I call and tell him his guy came the other night, said he’d get parts and be back yesterday morning, but I haven’t seen him yet. The landlord is nice and apologizes and says to let him call the guy.
The landlord calls back a few minutes later saying he talked to the guy who “promises” to be at my house “sometime today.” I thank him again for following up and wait.
Friday morning: With a heavy sigh and reluctant heart, I call the landlord….who doesn’t answer his phone. I have offically become “that woman” of “Ugh, that woman is calling again.” To his voice mail I apologize and say I hate to be a pain in the ass, but the guy hasn’t shown up yet and now the baby and I are sick and need the thermostat to be repaired. I say thank you and manage not to mumble “slumlord.”
Weekend: I’m not expecting anyone to show up over the weekend, but I watch the driveway with one eye at all times…just in case.
Monday: F**k it.
Tuesday, lunchtime: There’s a strange van in the driveway. Could it be? *fanfare* Why yes, yes, it is! It’s THE GUY! I run to the door and throw it open thinking, “HELLO, GUY!”
The bumpkin half smiles at me and asks, “Didja get your heater sorted out?”
Because obviously if he never came back to fix it it would have magically “sorted itself out” by osmosis or something.
I HATE ALABAMA.
I tell him no. The thermostat is still broken.
Smiling like the dashing hero he thinks himself to be he says “well I got one right here.”
Well, isn’t that f**kin’ handy?!?! **REDNECK**
With about TWO MINUTES of work in the house and another ten bumbling around outside he declares the thermostat fixed and then bestows me with lessons on how to push the buttons all by myself to make it go.
I’m 42. I went to college. I think I can handle pushing the buttons to turn on the thermostat….
…unless he’s implying *I* broke the old one by mindlessly bashing it with my big fat sausage fingers…
Hmm. *fuming* It’s a good thing he left before I thought of that.
Now the question is, do I call the landlord to let him know all is well — or do I leave him alone so he doesn’t have to exert the energy needed to avoid me?
*sigh* I hate Alabama.