So my mom flies in from Europe tomorrow night, my dad is meeting her at the airport, they are staying overnight in the ghetto Memphis and then boarding a plane to Hawaii early Wednesday morning. They won’t be back until August 2.

Since we are a military family, we are well-versed in Murphy’s Law for Military Families. We all know that everything that can go wrong, usually does, and that everything that can’t go wrong still will anyway.

A few weeks ago our A/C upstairs (we have two units) stopped working. The condensate line was clogged and the unit needed more freon. So that was taken care of, except there was now a wet, spongy, browning spot on the ceiling. The spot continued to increase in size with other random spots showing up for the party. The ceiling fell in – right next to my bed, no less – last Monday afternoon. Dad was outside working and heard it. Nice.

The hole? Is still there. There are two five-gallon buckets hanging from the rafters catching the drips. The A/C is dripping, and not into its pan. So not only do I get to listen to a drip-drip-drip all day and night, but buckets have to be emptied before they become too heavy and bend the nails, spilling water all over the floor, and I have a lovely view of the inside of our roof and a light way too high in the attic for me to reach. (But wait, just one week ago I was climbing a bell tower on a rickety wooden ladder. Why can’t I just get in to the attic and unscrew that lightbulb? Urgh.) It’s really not that big of a deal – the light, I mean.

We’re still waiting on the A/C man to come. Apparently he is not going to. And the A/C has to be fixed before the ceiling can be fixed.

Tonight I went downstairs to – gasp! – throw in a load of laundry and I smelled something burning. Usually that means Mom is in the kitchen, but since she is currently in Crete or trying to get a plane out of there, we can’t blame it on her. The smell was coming from the laundry room, for sure. After careful inspection my dad determines that the panel housing the circuit breakers is warm. “Very warm!” he says.

I am instructed not to do laundry and hey, that’s a-okay with me. (Maybe not my son who needs some underwear and something to wear tomorrow, but I’m definitely okay with prolonging it.) On cue, my phone rings so I make the long haul back up the stairs and have a sweet little chat while waiting for my cue to start the washer.

My dad runs next door and wakes the neighbor, who is (ironically!) an electrician. They check everything out and he determines there is no problem. (The burning smell? Would be my first hint that maybe there is.) Our main power is 200 amps and we are pulling 70. (I just threw that in to make you think I know what I’m talking about, but it really doesn’t mean a whole lot to me.) Okay. Back to doing laundry. Pour in the Gain, hit the start button and I’m on my way back upstairs to finish reading my daily update on Y&R. (Amber totally has whatever’s coming to her!)

Then I figured “What the heck?! Y&R is on TV right now, so I’ll just watch it …”

Um, except that the electricity had other plans. My TV and satellite receiver went out and so did everything in the kids’ room. Lovely. I race downstairs and my dad is already fiddling with the breaker box again. We seem to have major issues, but there is no fire, just the burning smell.

Have I mentioned yet that he is leaving TOMORROW? And I get to deal with this on my own. Except that I work and I can’t sign their checks, so guess whose unintentional skylight view of the A/C unit gets to stay for nine more days? Mine. And guess whose computers – with five years’ worth of pictures – are right above the breaker box in the laundry room? Mine. And guess who lives outside the city limits, so it takes the fire department that much longer to get to us? Me, again.

Gotta love Murphy, though. He’s always guaranteed to make an appearance when you need him the least.

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