Recently, whenever I used my blow-dryer, it gave off the distinct smell of dead fish.
I am a total cheapskate and my hairdryer predates my husband. It still worked, so I complained about the stench and used it anyway. I only wash my hair twice once a week, so I figured it was fine. As long as the dead fish smell did not transfer to my hair.
Then Rob turned on the lights and we lost power in our master bedroom and bathroom. We assumed a breaker had tripped, which was odd since generally our bedroom only uses fans, iPod chargers, lamps, and my dead-fish hairdryer. After a few trips to the breaker box, we realized that there was a more complicated problem.
Electricity is not one of those things that you DIY--unless, apparently, you are the previous owner of our house. The inspection report had mentioned something about non-professional work done on the wiring, something that was supposed to be fixed before closing. Due to a snafu with our realtor, nothing on the list of supposed-to-be-fixed was actually fixed. Lessons learned about buying real estate.
"God works in mysterious ways." This became the refrain from our electrician, working his way room to room, fixing the death trap that was, unbeknownst to us, our house.
It took him a few hours to discover the problem(s). That dead fish smell? Not my hairdryer. It was the smell of the socket burning on the inside of the wall. Oh, the irony of being a low-maintenance girl who almost burned down our house with my once-weekly blow-dry.
Amidst the sparks he talked about God's mysteries--meeting his wife while they served tours in Iraq, being a white man married to a black woman--while my boys skipped among the live wires, me dragging them back by their shirt collars when they got too close. I nodded and listened to his stories, watching as he capped off wires with purple electrical tape. He explained the intricacies of wiring, directly following a story about the time he spent in Trinidad.
"God works in mysterious ways," he said again, as a spark almost--what? Shocked him? Burned him? I don't know enough about electricity to know more than to say it seemed to be a close call.
Another close call: all of the GFI outlets in our bathrooms that should trip in the case of, say, dropping a hair dryer in the bathtub, were only outfitted with the switch. They did not actually work. So had we any sort of issue in either bathroom, we would have been electrocuted.
The kicker? After months of house issues and medical bills, the electrician did not charge us for his hours of (life-saving) fixes.
God does work in mysterious ways.
This is another week of Yeah Write hookups--we're going to need to get a room. But it's a big room, so why not join in? Read, write, follow, post, tweet, tumblr-er, or harlem shake it.