There’s a filter? Like for regular or menthol?
In my recent experience (before my nap) I learned that when
the filter is clogged, all the good, cold air goes back to the unit and turns
into Frozen, the Backyard Reenactment, and the wicked bad air blows up my pants
leg. If you’ve never had a blast of thermodynamics up your leg in the
midst of a humid Southern Summer, let me assure it’s no different than dropping
a boiling hair ball down your pants.
Never mind the Fourth of July. We’ve already seen fireworks at my house.
I suddenly discovered the urgent need to call the Heat Pump
Fixer People. They suggested that as long as we keep Labradors scattered
around the house like throw rugs, we might want to consider changing the filter
more often. Who knew that big dogs were good for more than finishing up
your ham sandwich or standing in the open doorway to watch the neighbor’s cat
wash between its toes? They also keep us up-to-date with filter changing.
The filter is in the basement.
I barely have the energy to crawl into the kitchen and hold
my mouth open under the ice dispenser when it’s this hot, and this guy is
suggesting I skip down two flights of stairs like it’s the Yellow Brick Road,
and crawl through the Tunnel of the Dead to change the filter? Everybody
knows that shady characters go through neighborhoods hiding bodies in
basements. Doesn’t this guy read? Or watch reality shows?
“What did they say?” Captain CoolDown, clad only in
Things He Wears When It’s Too Hot to Dress is mopping is brow with the daily
newspaper.
“They say you need to change the filter.”
“I’d better do it. This heat is going to make the
bodies smell.”
Great. I’m looking for Green Acres and he’s giving me
Twilight Zone.
Armed with a new filter, flashlight, and a flask of Holy
Water, the Captain heads downstairs. I hear various noises that may or
may not involve screaming and swordplay and the breaking of glass that I’m
pretty sure involved what’s left of the Holy Water.
In the silence that follows, I’m trying to decide whether to
call my pastor or dial Emergency Services for the Jaws of Life. Suddenly
the Survivor of Basement Battles: Zombie Heat Pump edition pops his head in the
kitchen.
“We should be good in just a little while. Do you know
anything about this?” He held up a coil of Christmas garland bedecked
with tiny lights.
Garland that had been in the way when we brought up our decorations last December and I blindly piled in a convenient crawl space, effectively blocking air flow for six months. There was only one thing to do.
“Never saw it before.”
Let the Spirit of Christmas Past stay down there with the
rest of the bodies.
