A dozen receptacles in the new house are two-prong. Those always turn out to be the ones into which you need to plug a three-pronged electric cheese grater. Adapters aren’t really safe, elegant, or convenient, so I’m removing all the old receptacles and replacing with ground fault circuit interruptors. Which takes a bit of hard swallowing, since the old receptacles all had lovely bakelite covers, which now go into a drawer to gather dust.
Hired a pair of electricians to do the hard work prepping new circuits for the garage, add a receptacle to the kitchen, replace our antique fuse box, add a phone jack, etc. We love ’em, they’re great. But came home from a wedding today to a VERY contrite note explaining that a “miscommunication” had resulted in a 1.5″ hole accidentally being bored through our beautiful new floors. Mercy. I can just see how the moment unfolded:
“I got daylight.”
“I’m not seeing your drill bit.”
“Where are you?”
They came up on the wrong side of a wall. Rather than behind the stove in the kitchen, the hole is near the stereo, in the living room. They’re willing to pay for repairs of course, but what a drag.