As Liz mentioned earlier, our air conditioning was broken. Upon returning from Cincinnati, I walked into the sauna that was our living room. Hot. Humid. Yuck.
I set the thermostat down to around 70 (still a bit too warm for my tastes), and hit the bed. I was unpleasantly surprised to wake this morning, sweat glistening on my brow. The thermostat read a toasty 80 degrees. And it was like 7 a.m. A panic induced call, e-mail, and later text message sent a cry for help to our landlord. I thought she’d never respond. I even called the Hyatt down the street to check the rates (in case the need to set up camp there would arise; $400 nightly in case you’re curious). Finally, the response I was waiting for arrived. Call the repairman!
The repairman was Robert of Robert’s Appliance Repair. He spoke with a heavy accent, but the words came through loud and clear. “I can meet you at your place at 4 p.m.”
90 minutes and $350 (to be deducted from June’s rent) later, he was on his way. We’re currently down somewhere between 6 and 7 degrees. Here’s to hoping I can sleep tonight smother-free.
And that, my friends, is why I rent.
