Suburban Zen and the Art of HVAC Repair

Served hot with a side of denial and leftover taco meat

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There’s a kind of awareness they don’t include in vacation brochures.
Not the kind that blossoms on a mountaintop or glows poolside with a drink in hand.
But the kind that shows up the moment you realize
your day isn’t going to be good—
just a shifting scale of how much bullshit you’ll tolerate before your eye twitches.

---

It starts with texts from work.
They can’t find an asset.
They’re looking for the wrong thing, of course,
because someone saw the word “sling” and decided to freestyle the rest.
I tell them to check the part number.
Then they text again.
Now it’s paperwork.
And Admin wants to explain how paperwork works to me,
which is like the mailroom clerk offering a TED Talk on how stamps feel.

---

Meanwhile, Lil Dude is kid-splaining Minecraft coins to Wifey
while she’s wife-splaining something else to me.
He gets pushy, she gets snappy, and suddenly we’re the worst parents ever.
He loses iPad time.
I lose my will to parent before caffeine.
And just like that, the day has entered its Ass Phase.

I finally sit down with my coffee and hear a noise—
not Big Dude, not Wifey.

It’s Lil Dude, chucking things at his door to get my attention
because he’s hungry.
He skipped breakfast out of protest
because we used real apples instead of those sad little dehydrated apocalypse cubes he prefers.
He tells me I need to be a better parent.
Cool.
Make your own oatmeal then.

---

He spirals. I opt out.
Wifey defuses him.
I finally get to drink my coffee.
Except—
now the AC is fighting for its life
and the fans are just redistributing hell-air.

I escape to the garden.
My Tabasco peppers are thriving.
At least someone is.

---

I check my stock.
It’s tanking.
Turns out the company filed for dilution and the CEO dumped his shares—the day before I bought in.
No news until the damage was done.
I rage-research SEC filings while sweat drips from places I didn’t know could sweat.
Find another stock that actually checks out.
Looks solid. I pull the trigger.
Finish my coffee like I didn’t just lose half my serotonin to capitalism.

---

Round 2.
I’ve taken my meds.
I’ve done some yoga.
I’ve remembered how tight my hips are and how little patience I have left.
I’m mid-hip stretch when the hey Dad and hey hubby pings start again.
Groceries. Dressers. Furniture math.
“WE” should just repaint it. “WE” should just swap the handles
“WE” need a new nightstand.
“WE” are about to be blocked until I can finish stretching my spine.

---

Then the AC company calls—early appointment.
We panic-clean like raccoons in a pressure cooker.
The guy shows up, finds the issue fast: blown capacitor and fried wires.
He offers to fix it—for several hundred bucks.
I smile politely while Googling wire gauge specs and Amazon Prime capacitors.
I’ve got this.

---

He finishes the inspection and leaves everything unplugged.
I realize I don’t know where every wire goes anymore.
There are extra wires.
There’s a kickstarter involved. No schematics.
I start spiraling.
I see the Kool-Aid Man in my mind—but instead of “Oh yeah,”
he just screams and flips the bird at the world.

---

I take aggressive breaths.
Call the company.
They agree to send someone back tomorrow to finish the job.
Crisis downgraded from meltdown to mild emotional simmer.

---

I grab Big Dude and head out to pick up groceries.
Peaceful rain drive.
Daddy Store stop.
Pick up wires and connectors.
Check every spec twice.
Feeling… almost competent.

---

I come home.
Lil Dude’s on the iPad again.
It’s plugged in while charging.
Overheating risk.
We’d agreed no more iPad today.
Wifey forgot. He exploited it.
She apologizes. I let it go.

---

Then I find him on the TV.
Again.
We’ve had this conversation a thousand times:
You don’t jump from one screen to another.
You take a break.

---

I offer a compromise:
Family Switch time.
Boomerang Fu.
It’s fun until Big Dude rage-quits over losing.
I let him.
I’ve got nothing left to give.

---

Showers take an hour.
I eat for the first time since breakfast.
Fried rice with taco meat, garlic, onions and peppers.
No recipe. Just vibes.
It slaps.

---

I pass out mid-movie,
too tired to be mad,
too tired to be enlightened,
too tired to even care that I never made it to the peaceful part of vacation.

---

Next morning:
More texts from work.
More problems I didn’t cause.
Capacitor shows up early.
I fix the AC.
Repair guy shows up right after, plugs everything in.
Says I did great work.
Cold air flows.
I saved $400.
And maybe a piece of my soul.

---

Now I’ve got coffee.
A therapy appointment.
And a whole new day to survive.

Namaste, bitches.

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