Did you know that, according to a tally of all appliances, light bulbs, computers and peripherals, and various little knickknacks, in one year I would use approximately enough power to send the DeLorean from 1955 to 1985 eight and a half times?
I’m more than a little shocked at this.
I’m even more shocked that I’m still in the upper 25% of energy efficiency in my neighborhood.
Wow, the things you do when you’ve many-teen job applications out there, waiting for replies, with six more filled out today.
It really helps put things into perspective, really. The number-crunching thing, that is. The applications thing, well, those things take time.
Why did I do this, you ask? Well, other than to get my mind on other things?
Well, I’ve got this silly pipe dream about putting up solar panels, getting batteries, and trying to go off-grid. I mean, when the energy bill increased by $100 a month right after I became unemployed, I decided to figure out why.
And after pulling every appliance out to look at labels for make/models, many google searches, and downloading of manuals with number-lookup and comparison, then spreadsheet-building at an MIT-physicist level, I can match my numbers to historical energy bills, and I’m mind-blown.
Partially at the fact that the numbers work, but also at the results.
I’m also astounded by the number of things I always took for granted in this house. The fridge and chest freezer are only three years old, but the stove and the dryer are twenty-five years old. There are ways to further improve the efficiency.
Assuming one of these applications pans out.
Maybe I’ll research repairs and renovations on this house. That should take at least a day or two. I mean, there are windows to replace, a roof to do, insulation to check and increase…
You know, while I wait.
‘Cause I’m so patient with waiting and stuff.
Oh, or start sizing solar systems, with panels and batteries and inverters and junction boxes and other things I’m not strictly aware of. Yet.
Oh, but first, I need to go to the bank and get some cash from the ATM.
Love ya, diary. In a strictly platonic, I-wish-your-blinking-cursor-didn’t-taunt-me-so-much kind of way.