Compromises

Everyone talks about their Dream House.

Girls are exposed to this idea early, thanks to Barbie’s Dream House, and thus that particular vision of perfection involves lots of pink and plastic — initially, at least. I have an hunch that boys’ idea of a Dream House involves mostly electronics and spontaneous bouts of professional wrestling, but I’m only guessing because I only have girls and my husband and I seem incapable of talking about anything other than plaster and HVAC and renovation budgets.

Girls rule, boys drool.

There is good news, people. We can return the garden sprayer filled with an invaluable mixture of Downey fabric softener and water to a wise and helpful friend.

You were our light, our love, our salvation. I won't miss you.

We can try to forget about the endless weeks scraping wallpaper and smooshing glue off the edge of a dull blade. It will take awhile to erase those memories, but with the help of our supportive and engaged children, we should enjoy a swift recovery.

"I can't take this pressure anymore, Mommy!"

Through our hard work and devotion to a house we’ve never actually lived in, most of the walls are being re-plastered by a veritable Wizard and the dodgy bits are being salvaged with drywall. The moldings are next in line for repair, not to mention that the entire house has been re-wired and re-plumbed. We are getting a hell of lot of bang for our buck and, at first glance, that coveted Dream House seems like an entirely gettable goal.

But this isn’t a first-glance project. And there is a dark cloud named HVAC hanging over our Dream House.

You see, I am actually a very reasonable person. Flexible. I wouldn’t exactly compare myself to Gumby, but on the whole I’m easy to work with. I bend. I sway. I can roll with the punches.

No one knows this better than The Big C. We’ve had our moments, and in the end we always see to reason. But one area we could not agree on was the HVAC. Well, I guess we agreed on the H part. And I’m not sure what is involved with the “V” part, so I suppose we agree on that because I’m a bit spotty on the particulars. But when it comes to the AC … well … let’s just say I had some preferences.

I hate the look of mini-splits.

There are no words.

They are, by far, the easiest product to install in old homes (and are therefore, usually, cheaper). They take up almost no space and are incredibly efficient because you can control each unit based on your particular needs at any time. And, since our house has a guest suite, this would be very helpful during times when we have no guests. They also have a heat pump to provide some warmth during spring and fall seasons when you don’t want to launch the boiler into overdrive to heat the whole dang house. The Big C calls them “chicklets” because of how they look in the wall.

Totally practical. Totally logical. Totally ugly.

So I started researching. I found the mini-duct systems, which could wind and weave their way through beams in old houses with minimal damage and zero ugly wall units.

Cute! And invisible!

Both HVAC contractors would have tucked themselves into their shells and rolled away, if they could have, when I asked for estimates on installing the mini-duct systems. One, memorably, asked me if I had small dogs or children. When I answered yes to both, he assured me that the mini-duct systems blow out cool air at such a high velocity that any small creature standing beneath it would be shot clear across the room.

“I should also mention,” he added helpfully, “that these systems are also quite noisy.”

So, I guess that’s a NO on the mini-duct system.

Almost all of the HVAC contractors agreed that conventional A/C units could be installed in some areas of the house, and the rest would be best served by the horrendous, ugly, vomit-inducing mini-split systems. But the area that really needs it — the third floor — would be a different story. One they didn’t want to write.

One angelic contractor offered a way of installing the mini-split systems so that they were invisible — a ducted ductless system, if you will. This sent The Big C’s head on such an emphatic shaking jag I was afraid it would fall clear off his shoulders.

I was all for it. Loved it. Still do, in fact, and would totally pay the ridiculous fee he charges for such miracles if the dude ever called me back. But it’s summer, you see, and they’re too busy to return phone calls or emails or the nightly smoke signals I’ve been sending up for the past two weeks.

This is problematic, simply because time is of the essence.

Walls and ceilings remain open as we wait for this HVAC pied piper.

The guest bathroom, which is now mostly just an empty room with no ceiling.

The Big C gnaws his fingernails waiting to give the go-ahead to the Plaster Wizard and his crew to “button up” the third floor. He has ordered the replacement windows so he can keep inching forward, even though he told us at the beginning of the project that those windows were something that could be completed while we were living in the house, to save us money on rent.

And that’s when it hit me. The Big C wants to save us money. And I want to save us money. And my saint-like husband is sitting on his hands while I dig my heels in on this one stupid detail. My aversion to these chicklets was the one thing standing between me and a finished house. Everyone was waiting on MY HVAC GUY to call us back, and he clearly had better things to do.

So I did the only thing I could do: I told Chris to tell The Big C to get the chicklets. He didn’t believe me at first, but after a few heartfelt assurances that this was real and not a particularly cruel bout of PMS, he made the call.

I couldn’t tell The Big C myself, you see.

After all, a girl has her pride.