Owning a home can be a blessing, unless of course something goes awry.
And without fail, if it can go wrong…well, you know the rest.
I’m moving to a new residence and along with property taxes, utility bills and feral gophers, I’ve encountered a series of interminable setbacks. Most notable of which is my kitchen faucet; henceforth known as “Old Faithful.” I fired up the spigot fully expecting problems because historically, plumbing and I are sworn enemies. Invariably, an eruption of water struck me with the liquefied force of a Super Soaker triggered by a prepubescent male amped on Red Bull and apple fritters.
This meant home improvement war, but unfortunately, I come to battle an unarmed man. While ostensibly a guy’s guy – I watch sports, flatulate with extreme prejudice, write engaging personal essays – my mechanical disinclination is unequivocal. They say traits like manual dexterity are passed through generations. As my shiny pate attests, the only trait I managed to snare was the gene for male pattern baldness.
Because I don’t know the difference between an O-ring and a Jell-O ring (one prevents leaks; the other’s a jiggly taste treat), I solicited the assistance of an unwitting friend to help me in my endeavor. And by “help” I meant that he’d do all the work while I sat there feeling as inadequate as Bernie Sanders rocking a Speedo.
His first suggestion was that we go to a big box home improvement store with a name that rhymes with “Home Depot.” We didn’t need anything, it’s just somewhere handy people feel compelled to go. While there, he enthusiastically engaged a sales associate who together, spoke a language with which I was unfamiliar. Contractor’s English I think. However, some of the nomenclature managed to grab my attention – coupling nut, ball joint and plumbing snake – and made me giggle like a schoolgirl. My dude cred remained intact.
While possessing no aplomb to a plumb, back home I compensated by donning some loose-fitting jeans, revealing as much pant cleavage as possible and achieving the full plumber effect. With my glutes sufficiently exposed, I deftly held a flashlight while my buddy toiled and struggled to install – keeping the technical jargon to a minimum – a bunch of doohickeys, thingamabobs and whatchamacallits.
Upon completion and still resting in a supine position, my cohort cautiously cocked his head and queried, “Is the toilet running?”
“If so, we’d better go catch it,” I anxiously replied, evoking my 7th-grade phone-pranking persona.
Seemingly unamused, he remained reclined.
As my headaches continue to mount, I’m convinced the deed to my house was drafted by the practitioners at Murphy’s Law, L.P.A.
Anyone need a roommate?