Me vs. The Dimmer Switch

Another epic tale.

Erin and I have been in our new house for almost a year.  A couple weeks before Christmas, she asks me to install a dimmer in the dining room.  Up until know, we had been enjoying our 7 bulb, chandelier like fixture with only 3 bulbs screwed in.  Why?  It's just irritating to sit at the table, enjoy a home cooked meal, and deal with 7 small suns burning the back of your retinas.  I'm still not sure why the idea didn't come to me sooner.  I suppose I was just being cheap...again.  Off to Lowes.  Hooray!

I was so proud of myself when I returned with the least expensive product that will get the job done.  According to Erin, I have this "I'm gonna fix stuff" way to my walk when I'm on a project.  She might be right; I just said that.  It couldn't have anything to do with a story my dad told me years ago about his own experience.  Surely, a young man wouldn't be attempting to outperform another man, especially his father.  Me, stubborn and competitive?  Inconceivable!

When my dad was in his early 20s, he and my mother (newlyweds at the time) lived in a modest apartment.  In this apartment arose a need for a dimmer switch over the breakfast table.  I suspect he acted in much the same way as I while dashing off the to the nearest home improvement store.  The details between purchasing and installing this dimmer switch are a bit fuzzy.  However, the outcome always stuck with me.  The newly installed switch did not work.  Any attempt whatsoever to adjust the breakfast room light produced no results.  From the next room my mom was witnessing something completely unexpected.  The picture on the TV was shrinking and growing with every turn of the dimmer switch's dial.  So with the lessons of the father permanently lodged in the forefront of my mind, I continue my efforts.

Since moving into our new house, this is the first time I've really had to turn off the power for anything.  It seemed easy enough.  Locate the fuse labeled "Dining Room Lights" and turn it off.  Grab a flashlight and get to work.  Remove the faceplate.  Remove the switch's mounting screws.  So far, so good.  I reached in to remove the switch...ZAP!  SON OF A B****!!  The light switch for the kitchen shared a wall box with the dining room, but not a fuse.  Realizing that I was still alive and healthy, I saw no reason to discontinue.  I wired my cheap dimmer with the utmost care attempting to follow the included wiring diagram to the best of my abilities.  This was, surprisingly, the quickest step of all.  Erin was positioned at a safe distance in the kitchen and ready to yell at the sign of any sparks when power was restored.

Considering my recent reminder of the electricity's lively nature, I slowly reached for the fuse with a wooden ruler.  Looking back it was silly, but I had already filled my shock quota for the day.  CLICK.  "It's on!", I heard from the kitchen.  My self confidence has been restored and I marched back to Erin, ego fully intact.  This was it...the moment of truth.  Could I succeed where my father failed?  I looked to Erin.  Her face conveyed simple and direct message.  "Quit looking at me and test the damn thing."  So I did.

Nothing!  Nothing happened!  The TV still worked, but the lights now had 3 settings: on, barely on, and off.  It must be genetic.  Hanging my head in shame, I resigned myself to calling in backup.  "Dad?  Yeah...I couldn't install it either.  See you next weekend."