Good Morning, my freaky dahlings. Welcome to another fine Monday.

Yesterday our air conditioner decided to grow a mind of its own, and unfortunately it grew one that contained a stubborn streak. I'm going to do things MY way! it shouted to us, right before it packed its bags, gave us a pink slip, and swept off to Tahiti in a scented cloud of Coppertone with flowery sarong fluttering behind.

Fine. So send me a postcard, you ungrateful cretin. We didn't want you around, anyway.

Hah. As if that's true. Despite the unseasonably-like coolness we have been experiencing of late, this is still August in Atlanta. To willingly be without air conditioner during our summer's hottest month would be like going to New England to take pictures of the fall foliage and then refusing to look at the trees; Makes.No.Sense.

After a night of huddling on the couch near our tiny window unit (which has a tendency to freeze up but does the job), I awoke to the air conditioner repairman who arrived promptly at 8 AM, before coffee. Ugh. He turns out to be one of those monosyllabic grunters that comes in, assesses the situation, and then leaves to go find a working gizmo to replace the offending part. Hey, no problem, that suits me just fine; I want a repairman to fix my malcontent appliances, not engage me in witty conversation.

The problem turns out to be a burned out motor and compasitor. Mr. Air informs me in guttural tones that we are just beyond our one year warranty (figures) and our air conditioner's little trip to Tahitian paradise is going to cost us nearly $200.00 dollars in loose change (ouch!). Fine. Just get the part and change it, please, as soon as possible. He grunts something about being back after lunch and leaves, his presence here spanning little over three minutes.

Big sigh. I think I need coffee. Lots of it. Loaded with fat-free creamer and Splenda. Hot. In a biiiiiiig mug.

I'll keep you posted on what happens after lunch.. I can sense you quivering in anticipation.
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