This is adapted from Plugged In, TNW’s bi-weekly newsletter on gear and gadgets. Subscribe to it here.
Hold on, what’s that vile, musty, and inescapable smell? Shhh, friend, don’t concern yourself with that, it’s just the latest issue of Plugged In.
We all have enemies. And if you say you don’t, then you either haven’t thought about it hard enough, or you’re a dirty liar. Me? I have loads. A veritable adversarial smorgasbord. But, today, I’m here to talk about just one: mold.
Yes, friends, I’m at war with fungus.
This isn’t my first time throwing hands with multicellular filaments, far from it in fact. I’ve lived in plenty of places overrun by my fusty foe, you name a location, and I can answer “mold” after it all night.
But… this particular case is different, different enough to make me want to put some sunglasses on and say “it’s personal” in a low voice because it’s both different and personal — because it’s appeared in the apartment I own.
Just like any landowner worth their salt, let me slip this silken robe from my shoulders and paint you a word picture of the situation.
The mold only appears in one place: the bedroom. In there exists a wall. It is approximately 3 meters long, 90% of which is covered by windows. Underneath the sill is radiator that runs its entire length.
To put it another way, we’ve just ridden the wet bus into condensation city.
For a long old while, I didn’t notice anything amiss. But, before you can say “DON’T OPEN THAT GIANT HORSE, TROJANS, ONLY SOMEONE MENTAL WOULD SEND A GIFT LIKE THAT. IN FACT, WHOSE DECISION WAS IT TO BRING IT IN HERE!?!” there were two corners where my fungal nemesis (nemeses?) had set up shop.
I tried to vanquish it using good, old-fashioned elbow grease (AKA rubbing and spraying), but it always came rocketing back without a care in the world. Proof, if you needed it, that “good, old-fashioned” is simply another way of saying “shit and a waste of your time.”
Thankfully, I turned to something that has never let me down: the concept of gadgetry. I bought a dehumidifier. This dehumidifier:
Because we’re all busy, I’m not going to explain how dehumidifiers work — mainly because I don’t really know. I’d take a stab at some sort of dark magic?
Nor am I going to discuss the actual unit I have in any detail (I have to put a sock over it at night because some brain genius covered it in bright green LEDs), but I will say this: I would kill for my dehumidifier. Honestly, try and take it out of my house and see what happens.
Since the dehumidifier arrived, the fungus hasn’t dared show its spotty face in my house — it has kicked the mold’s disgusting derrière.
And, pals, I cannot tell you how good this feels. I have conquered the mold, trounced its spore advances, and sent it back to the mushroom-y hell from whence it came. They say the enemy of your enemy is your friend, but this feels more than that. The dehumidifier is family now — and I would die for it.
Proof, once and for all, that any and every problem can — and probably should — be solved with a very specific gadget. Now let’s see if consumerism can defeat my next enemy: depression.
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