So Kyle and I have migrated for the summer down to the Phoenix area. The weather’s really not so bad yet. It was in the 90s today, but without humidity the 90s don’t really phase me.
When we got into our apartment, though, we couldn’t figure out how to get the air conditioning working. Well, really, at first we thought it was on, so we happily unpacked the car (read: Kyle unpacked the car while I sat in it to make sure nobody stole our stuff; can I just say the fact that he did this without complaining or bitterness makes me love him just that much more. Kyle says it’s all part of his master plan; he’s ridiculously nice to me all the time so that I never leave him) and began putting things away. But after a trip to Wal-Mart and putting away about half of our things, my feet, fingers and ankles had swollen to sausage-like proportions, and I declared it time to do something. I could not live in this AC and swamp cooler-less apartment all summer pregnant and then with a baby. So we went down to the office, and inquired.
It was shortly before this moment that I was vacillating between “Mrs. Fatfingers” and “Mrs. Fatfeet” as my new nickname.
It turns out that whoever installed our thermostat did a bad job, and in order to get the AC to work you have to set it to the highest setting (70-80 degrees) in order to get it to turn on. If you set it on the lower temperatures (as we had done, foolish people), it thinks you want it hot. So we set the thermostat to “80 degrees” and behold! Blessed cool air began coming from our vents. We left it on all night, and woke up freezing cold.
Yes, our AC works very well thank you very much. Neither of us wanted to get out of bed because it was too cold. We’ve since turned the AC up a bit so that we don’t freeze out our insides.
After sitting around with my feet up for a few hours in a cooler room, you can tell that I have ankles again, my feet fit into my flip flops once more and my wedding band is no longer stuck on my finger, so I declare our AC Adventure a success.