The faucet in my daughter’s bathroom broke. It started as a slow drip and gradually picked up momentum until the water was running at full speed with no apparent way to shut it off. I closed the water valve under the sink as a temporary measure, then promised my daughter that I would replace the faucet as soon as possible.
That was six months ago.
I will admit that I am not the handiest guy on the block. I am generally about as useful around the house as a houseplant with emotional issues. When it comes to home improvement and do-it-yourself repair projects, I am a master at watching others do them on television, but as far as going hands on in my own home, not so much. “Fixing” a problem, in my experience, involves futzing with something until I make it worse, calling a friend for advice, then proceeding to cause so much damage that I am forced to hire someone to replace whatever it was that I was originally trying to repair.
And yes, futzing is a real word. Feel free to look it up if you’re bored.
Because of my very long string of handyman failures, I have adopted the strategy of ignoring small problems and hoping that they will go away on their own. Granted, this is a strategy that rarely pays off.
By the fourth month of pretending there was no sink in my daughter’s bathroom, the whole situation was already beginning to get embarrassing. My daughter hung up a sign over the faucet stating, “Out of Order, Use Other Sink,” as if the bathroom was located in a bus terminal somewhere. Friends and family had noticed the ongoing issue and started offering to come over and help me fix the faucet. They were just being nice, but I couldn’t help seeing it as a reminder of my own ineptitude. I was being backed into a corner and forced to take action.
Finally, there was only one thing left for me to do.
Sell the house.
My wife quickly said no to that idea, and suggested I call a plumber or fix it myself but to stop acting like a baby. Actually, her comments weren’t quite that nice. Her exact words involved some harsher language and the implication that I might be a bit confused as to my actual gender.
Bolstered by my wife’s motivational diatribe, I went to the hardware store, bought a new faucet, and prepared for battle.
At home I opened the box the faucet came in and pulled out the directions. Step one stated that I would need an adjustable crescent wrench and a pair of safety goggles before getting started. As I did not see any parts of the faucet that looked like they would jump out and poke me in the eye, I grabbed a wrench but opted to skip the glasses.
I crawled under the sink and began uncoupling the old faucet from the water pipes. A thick brown sludge was released from where it had stagnated over the past half year and it immediately splashed down directly into my face.
The glasses suddenly made a little more sense.
Figuring that the worst was already behind me, I powered on, loosening nuts and bolts, and removing pieces of pipe. More sludge was released, and it seemed like every bit of it found its way into my eyes. Nearly blind, and dry heaving just a little bit, I placed the wrench around the last nut holding the old faucet in place. It was rusted to the bolt, so I put some effort into breaking it loose. The wrench slipped, and I raked my knuckles against an assortment of sharp edges under the sink. Metal and porcelain vied with each other to see which could take more skin off the back of my hand. I could not determine a winner as both did an admirable job.
My blood began to mix with the puddle of muck I was lying in, and I wondered briefly who the first person would be to discover my body if I died right there in the bathroom. And would anyone be at all surprised by the manner of my death?
Battered, but still not deterred, I finally wrested the nut free, crawled out from under the sink and ripped the old faucet from its mounting. I tossed the hardware over my shoulder in triumph, then made a mental note to myself to buy some sheetrock putty to repair the hole in the wall I had just made.
The new faucet went in much easier than the old one had come out. When all the pipes and water lines were reconnected, I re-opened the water valve that had been off for the last six months and was elated to see that the faucet did not leak so much as one drop.
The deluge of water now shooting across my feet was coming from somewhere else.
I hastily turned the water off and glanced around at the carnage. Between the water, the blood, sink parts and random damage in my immediate vicinity, I looked like I was the center piece of a rather nasty crime scene. I wasn’t sure if I should call a plumber, or a cop.
It took another fifteen minutes of searching to find the cause of the new leak. The connection between the hot water line and the faucet was not securely attached and had uncoupled under the pressure of the water flowing through. I reattached them and once more turned on the water.
Everything held, and everything worked.
I ran to the living room and called for my wife to come see what I had done. She followed me into the bathroom and paused, staring at the floor. I turned the faucet on and off in demonstration of my accomplishment.
“What do you think?” I asked her, proudly, still turning the water rapidly off and on.
My wife nodded slowly, then said, “I need to take a walk.”
I heard the front door open and slam shut. I think she was a little bit overwhelmed at the great job I had done. She probably wanted to go visit one of the neighbors and brag about her husband.
Who can blame her?