…a fool for a builder….
As I type this, it is 20 degrees outside. Farenheit, for my readers across the pond. In Texas. And the wind chill is 11. I have friends and relatives in New England and the Great White North who think that sounds balmy right now, but I will happily remind them that not only will I be shelling out a couple grand to the propane company this winter, but come the long Texas summertime, I’ll be forkin’ over the $$$ to keep my house cool-ish (cool-esque?) when it’s 108 outside. Maybe “happily remind” was a poor word choice….
Anyway, it’s cold. And the one thing that makes winter weather salvageable is curling up on the couch in front of the fireplace. Only I don’t have a fireplace. Well, I do have a fireplace, but it doesn’t work.
See, the day my fireplace was installed, I mentioned that I didn’t feel a whole lotta heat being generated. The guy what did the installing said, “Oh, this unit’s more for yer atmosphere than fer actually heatin’ yer house.” Really? I paid you $1,800 to give my living rooom atmosphere? Because I distinctly remember looking the sales rep in the eye and forming the words “I want a fireplace that can heat my house if the heating goes out.” Was I too vague about my sole criterion?
I should have had my builder tell the guy to rip it out and bring me a new one, and truth be told, the words “rip” and “new one” were definitely at the top of my mind, just not relating to the fireplace….
Okay, I have a great imagination. Barring the heater actually going out, I can still sit on my couch with a cup of tea in front of a fireplace and pretend it’s actually generating heat. And I did. For about 3 weeks, at which point we ran out of propane. 500-gallon propane tank, empty. The verynice propane guy actually came out to investigate (“We’ve never had anyone go through 500 gallons of propane in 3 weeks before. 500 gallons of propane should last more than 3 months.”) and discovered that our “atmosphere” sucked down propane like a frat boy at a keg party. I mean, like a frat boy sucks down beer, not propane. Anyway….
Truth be told, the fireplace is only one of many sob stories. There’s also the garage door opener that won’t close when the temperature dips below 40 degrees or when it’s too sunny. And the top-of-the-line 72-gallon air-jet bathtub that the electricians burned out when they accidentally hooked my house up to 220 instead of 110. And the pricey paint that promised to make my hardy-plank look like beautiful stained cedar, only The Hubby couldn’t convince the painters to follow the directions, despite the fact that he implored them in both fluent Spanish and English. And don’t forget the fact that the breaker to the master bedroom trips every time it thunders.
Face it, our builder dropped a few balls. Nice person—well intentioned, and I guess I have to admit that most of the important stuff turned out all right. But every time I break a nail prying open a knobless linen closet door, or I absent-mindedly flip on a switch that’s not hooked up to anything, I curse my builder beneath my breath.
Yes, our builder was a certifiable crazy-woman. I’m just glad The Hubby didn’t divorce her….
to be continued…. possibly….
