My place is a deathtrap

Yesterday I wrote how my place used to belong to crack whores.

Today, I'm writing to tell you how it's also a deathtrap. I know what you're thinking... and I KNOW! I don't know how I get this lucky either.

It all started with a good idea. In an effort to be greener and to save money, I decided to add ceiling fans to my bedroom and living room.

They're SUPER cute... see?

Anyway, my friend Matt agreed to install them in my house...and so I bought he and his wife rounds of drinks as a way of payment of sorts. I figured if they were saving me the price of a handyman, the least I could do is to try to get them drunk. What can I say? I'm a giver.

A couple of weeks later, Matt and I tried to install the ceiling fan in the living room, when we realized that my bedroom light wouldn't come on at all. Yes. That's right. Just messing with the living room light made my bedroom light inoperable.

Turns out my place was renovated (this is after the crack whore removal...which as I understand it has got to be AT LEAST a 12 step process) by drunken artists.

I write "drunken artists" because it is clear that they were hopped up on some kind of mind altering drug. And I use the term "artists" quite loosely. I think of them as saying to each other things like "That is so FIERCE!" as they slap plaster and install 2x4's and do other renovation-friendly tasks. Things like proper wiring and wall studs not consisting of 95% paper shims seem like guidelines rather than rules to them. Besides, it would totally mess with the FEEL of the place, dahling!

So after hours of scratching our heads and drinking beer (also known as "idea juice") we opted to call an electrician. A few days later, an electrician showed up and was able to fix the problem. Turns out that although the wiring was not made solely out of coat hangers, it was put in by complete idiots. It might've been that the first electricians were too scared of getting beaten up by the pizza thugs or that they got paid in blow jobs by crack whores. All I know is that the wiring is not exactly up to Bob Villa's standards.

The electrician agreed to wire up the in-wall remote. One quick spark/fire later, and apparently it's all fixed.

Don't freak out. I'm totally pulling your leg.

It's not fixed.

See, the electrician didn't exactly FIX the problem per se. It's just that the fire/large spark made the previous problem not exist any more. It didn't FIX it, he just UN-BROKE it. When I asked, the electrician said that he would feel safe sleeping underneath the fan - that the problem wouldn't come back and that it wasn't a big deal. According to him, the wiring was fine and perfectly safe.

Then I told my co-worker, Larry. Who told his friend - another electrician. That electrician apparently said that I should in no way operate the fan lest I have a death wish.

That electrician (who conveniently does not work on residential homes) said that anytime there is a large spark/fire, it's a really bad thing and it can happen again at any moment. Without warning. So I should probably run far, far away right around now.

So now I'm trying to figure out which electrician is right. The one that said as many words as Bob Newhart's brother Earl (no, not that one...his other brother Earl) or the electrician that hasn't actually SEEN the work but rather heard about it through a twisted game of telephone.

In the end, I guess I'm going to call another electrician to my place just to get a 3rd opinion. I don't want a guy who is going to convince me that I need all new electrical work done, but I also don't want some guy to tell me just what I want to hear.

Hiring another electrician to rip apart my ceiling and walls just seems easier than trying to determine if I have a death wish from day to day. Don't you think?