It is a common misapprehension that humidity only exists below the Mason-Dixon Line. Well, I’m here to tell you that New England also carries that curse. It is not as ever-present, I’ll admit that, but when it hits it brings back memories of choking on thick wads of my own breath back home in Louisiana. Not only are we supposed feel our environmental oven hit a toasty 95 degrees, the air is already so thick and hazy that I took my contacts out twice for a re-cleaning before I realized my greasy fingerprints weren’t responsible for what my eyes were seeing. Any paint applied to my house today won’t dry until Christmas.

One of the few high points of this new house is central air. All homes up here have central heating of some form, but central air is still something of a novelty. My condo lacked central air and one of the reasons I took a 2nd mortgage was to get it installed. My condo had nice forced hot water heating on the first and second floor and nothing for the room on the 3rd floor and lugging window AC’s up several flights of stairs from the basement was something I did once and still am not sure I died during the task and am currently existing in zombie form. That would explain a lot of things, actually. Anyway, that little 3rd floor room had no function I could detect but to act as a torture chamber if I decided to take a second job as a CIA interrogator…


Just got a phone call from my painter friends. They are taking a “sick” day. Work resumes tomorrow.

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So, to provide myself creature comfort and metamorphose that useless space into something valuable, I got the condo kitted out with ductless units. These guys are great – took a whopping one day to install and every room in the house (sans bathroom and kitchen) had it’s own wall-mounted, remote controllable air conditioner, dehumidifier, fan and for the 2nd and 3rd floors – heat. The major pieces were two moderately sized units sitting outside on the ground under the kitchen window and were silent as an empty church. So, her royal majesty could sit on her royally-majestic ass and click the climate control as her mood suited. And the third floor became an office, which to my surprise, I actually used.

At his house, however, the AC is ducted. Runs through the heating ducts and comes up through the floor. I don’t get to play with anything but the temperature setting and getting hit with a blast of icy breeze up your proverbial skirt when walking across the floor is…. not happy. But it works. It keeps the house livable, so I suppose I must be appropriately thankful, but I’m still feeling the pang of loss for my lovely little Mitsubishi’s… wish I’d remembered to take a photo when I had the chance…