Plumbing Awry
I decide to do a little plumbing job today. The main hose bib leaks a lot of water and being frugal (okay, parsimonious), today is the time to replace it. I make a trip to town to my favorite hardware store, the staff ever patient and indeed seemingly fond of my photos detailing the issue of the day (such an effective visual when I don’t know the names for stuff), and buy a new fixture.
I have an absolute horror of going under the house, a deeply seated sense of claustrophobia instilled from an incident when my older and bigger brother decided it would be great fun to keep me captive inside a cardboard box. Through sheer terror, massive adrenaline surge, and rage I burst through the top where Michael perched, knocking the little bastard onto the ground, whirling off a few punches to compensate.
I’d crawled under this house before to fix a fault in the phone wiring. My cousin and housemate Jeanne sat outside the crawl space opening, prepared to drag me out by my feet if I lost my sanity, which would be a considerable feat as she is maybe 5’ tall and 98 pounds, (me being 5’8”). Neighbor John dropped by earlier and upon hearing my tale of woe decided to share that he had once been under our house, just long enough to spot black widow spiders. And had I heard about the fatal effects of Hanta virus?
I am determined to fix the water leak. Jeanne is at work, she manages to miss most of these home improvement episodes. Maybe I begin these projects because she isn’t here to pound caution into my brain or distract me with wine.
Today is the day however. I turn off the water supply, open the crawl space, line up my assorted pipe wrenches and teflon tape, and climb under the house, where the main water supply is inconveniently located. Chosen by some man who obviously never intended the washer to fail; no intention of living here long enough for the washer to fail; and no enclosed space issues in the event that the afore reasoning was in error. After some choice derogatory words muttered to the purported intelligence of this person, I focus on the task at hand – perhaps I can use this as a plumbing chapter for my imagined independent woman fixing stuff around the house series. I grip the hose bib with my chosen wrench and start unscrewing the fitting. A stream of water sprays from the fitting. Ah, gotta be residual water in the pipes. I give the fitting another twist and the mother blows off. I have a second shower today – but this of very, very cold water. The dog, sitting out of the water flow watches me fixedly, possibly considering my purported intelligence.
I burst out laughing at her stoic expression, humor in the foxhole moment. Ignoring all laws of physics, I decide to overcome the flow of water and insert the new hose bib into the pipe. This does not work except to get me wetter. I notice I’m missing a nipple. Although I have sensation in my two very cold nipples, I mean a plumbing nipple. Eventually, after spending quite some time futilely trying to force the old hose bib back into the slot while being continually doused by snow-melt temperature water I realize I had not turned off the main water supply, that I indeed have no clue where the water main is located.
Soaking wet with soggy jeans hindering my every movement, I walk the property line in search of the water main. Eventually I find it, meter spinning wildly while water blasts away the newly seeded lawn. I shut it off, stagger to the porch and strip off my wet clothes, (outside, a brash act for my modest soul), pour myself a glass of wine and reflect on how much I hate plumbing projects. I scavenge washers from the new fixture to the old unit and get water restored to the house. Voila! Leak-free hose bib. Another notch in my wrench. You go girl!
I have an absolute horror of going under the house, a deeply seated sense of claustrophobia instilled from an incident when my older and bigger brother decided it would be great fun to keep me captive inside a cardboard box. Through sheer terror, massive adrenaline surge, and rage I burst through the top where Michael perched, knocking the little bastard onto the ground, whirling off a few punches to compensate.
I’d crawled under this house before to fix a fault in the phone wiring. My cousin and housemate Jeanne sat outside the crawl space opening, prepared to drag me out by my feet if I lost my sanity, which would be a considerable feat as she is maybe 5’ tall and 98 pounds, (me being 5’8”). Neighbor John dropped by earlier and upon hearing my tale of woe decided to share that he had once been under our house, just long enough to spot black widow spiders. And had I heard about the fatal effects of Hanta virus?
I am determined to fix the water leak. Jeanne is at work, she manages to miss most of these home improvement episodes. Maybe I begin these projects because she isn’t here to pound caution into my brain or distract me with wine.
Today is the day however. I turn off the water supply, open the crawl space, line up my assorted pipe wrenches and teflon tape, and climb under the house, where the main water supply is inconveniently located. Chosen by some man who obviously never intended the washer to fail; no intention of living here long enough for the washer to fail; and no enclosed space issues in the event that the afore reasoning was in error. After some choice derogatory words muttered to the purported intelligence of this person, I focus on the task at hand – perhaps I can use this as a plumbing chapter for my imagined independent woman fixing stuff around the house series. I grip the hose bib with my chosen wrench and start unscrewing the fitting. A stream of water sprays from the fitting. Ah, gotta be residual water in the pipes. I give the fitting another twist and the mother blows off. I have a second shower today – but this of very, very cold water. The dog, sitting out of the water flow watches me fixedly, possibly considering my purported intelligence.
I burst out laughing at her stoic expression, humor in the foxhole moment. Ignoring all laws of physics, I decide to overcome the flow of water and insert the new hose bib into the pipe. This does not work except to get me wetter. I notice I’m missing a nipple. Although I have sensation in my two very cold nipples, I mean a plumbing nipple. Eventually, after spending quite some time futilely trying to force the old hose bib back into the slot while being continually doused by snow-melt temperature water I realize I had not turned off the main water supply, that I indeed have no clue where the water main is located.
Soaking wet with soggy jeans hindering my every movement, I walk the property line in search of the water main. Eventually I find it, meter spinning wildly while water blasts away the newly seeded lawn. I shut it off, stagger to the porch and strip off my wet clothes, (outside, a brash act for my modest soul), pour myself a glass of wine and reflect on how much I hate plumbing projects. I scavenge washers from the new fixture to the old unit and get water restored to the house. Voila! Leak-free hose bib. Another notch in my wrench. You go girl!
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