Some guys can look at a cabinet and tell if it’s 1/16 of an inch off level. Others can listen to a clothes dryer and tell you it will break in 20 minutes – and be surprised when it happens in 19 and a half instead.
I am not one of those people. If I hear a funny noise coming from under the hood of my car, my usual response is to turn the radio up.
The Cafe, like any building, has its issues from time to time. We have a very talented handyman to take care of those issues.
To call Eddie a handyman is to do him an injustice. He is a craftsman of the highest order. He takes pride in a job well done. He’s offended by a job done wrong. When he comes across shoddy construction or a repair badly executed, he utters a single syllable – “Hmmph.”
Ladies and gentlemen, you do not ever want to hear the Hmmph. That single sound, not so much a word as an expression of total disdain that renders vowels unnecessary, makes you feel as if your home is second-rate, unworthy of Eddie’s many talents – and you’d be right. It’s delivered not with arrogance or conceit, but often with a mournful shake of the head. Hmmph.
It looked as though we would have to call Eddie the other day after I broke the kitchen sink faucet. I contend “broke” is too strong a word. You could still use it, even if it did spray water all over the counter, the floor and the user.
But Executive Chef Heatherann insisted on a new faucet. She’s been wanting to replace the old one for some time, so it seemed like a golden opportunity. Off to the big box hardware store we went.
Before long, we had picked out a lovely replacement faucet, and discussed calling Eddie to install it. But we debated whether we could save some money if I installed it myself.
In my lifetime, I have been called many things, some of them quite memorable. “Handy” has never been one of them.
The high point of my home improvement career to this point was probably the time I tried to take a swag light fixture chain off its mounting hook to lower it. I fell backward off the stepstool I was standing on, nearly ripped the light out of the ceiling by its wires, and somehow landed on the stool in a way that left a bruise on my butt for a week. Which, coincidentally, is about how long Heatherann laughed about it.
But, economic necessity is the mother of invention, if not disaster. So we asked a nearby store employee what he thought.
“Oh yeah, it’s easy,” he said. “You can do it. I could do it in 20 minutes.”
Notice he said HE could do it in 20 minutes. Forgetting that hardware store employees tend to have actual home improvement skills, we took him at his word and decided to go for it.
We got the faucet home, took it out of the box and read the directions. The instructions said I should be able to do the job in 12 minutes.
That was at 3 p.m.
Heatherann, as befitting her role as executive chef, went off to take a well-deserved nap. I picked up my cobweb-encrusted, dust covered toolbox and headed for the kitchen.
Step One – turn water off. OK, that was the easy part.
Removing the old faucet is where things got interesting. The underside of the double sink is not a pretty place. Drains from the sink bowls drop down. The garbage disposal hangs low, its drain line crossing from one sink to the other. Throw in the fill and drain lines for the dishwasher and it’s a “Hmmph”-worthy place.
Let’s see, if I crawl in here, shift my arm that way, and slip that rib under the drain trap, I can almost breathe. So far, so good. Now where’s that wrench? Oh yeah, I left it on top of the sink.
$*&%. (Hint: NOT “Hmmph”)
Crawl out from under sink. Get wrench. Crawl back under sink. Whoops, the box wrench doesn’t fit. Where’s the adjustable? What adjustable?
$*&%!
Time for a second trip to the big box store. Buy the wrench, drive back home. Under the sink I go.
Finally, the water lines are off, the bolts are removed, the old faucet comes out. Time to put the new one on.
What? No one told me I needed the flexible lines from the faucet to the pipes.
$*&%! $*#%@!
It’s 8:30 p.m. Back to the big box a third time. Buy the hoses, back to the house, back under the sink.
The hot line goes on easily. So far, so good. Hey, I might even have found a new career!
The cold line is 2 inches too short.
$*(oh, forget it, this one’s unprintable).
Day 2 dawns and back to the big box I go for the fourth time. Exchange the hose for one that’s four inches longer. Back to the house, back under the sink, connect the lines, turn on the valve.
It works! BUT ... there’s a slow, persistent drip from the cold water line. I tighten the line. It still drips. I loosen the line. It still drips.
$*&%.
For several days, I can’t figure out how to fix the slow drip. Eventually, the leak reveals itself as coming from the old valve under the sink, not the new line.
This raises the potential disaster factor considerably.
I’ve never replaced a shutoff valve before. Taking the valve off requires shutting off the main water supply to the house. Once I take the sink valve off the pipe, the water has to stay off until it’s fixed. If I can’t get it fixed, it will require an emergency call to Eddie, who probably won’t be able to get to it for at least 24 hours.
I ponder this carefully. Executive Chef Heatherann has grown accustomed to certain luxuries in her life. You know, flushing toilets, running water for handwashing, bathing and cooking, little things like that.
I ponder. Then in the grand tradition of guys everywhere, I decide to go for it.
In the grand tradition of amateurs everywhere, I decide to take a look at the valve, then head to the big box (trip #5, for those of you playing the drinking game). Do I bother to take the old valve off and take it with me? Of course not!
I find what looks like a suitable valve. I pay for it, take it home, crawl under the sink. Of course it’s the wrong size.
(fill in your own expletive here).
By this time Heatherann is home for the day, it’s getting dark, and there’s no water in the house. So, back to the big box we go to exchange the valve. (Trip #6).
Finally, through a combination of divine providence, a good flashlight and a bit of dumb luck, we get the valve in place, the water on, and no drips. I take a moment to savor the victory.
But it’s a hollow one. For while the faucet’s in place and working, I know what’s coming.
Sooner or later, Eddie will come over, to replace the disposal, fix a drain line, something. He will take one look at my work – the funky routing, the convoluted S-curve in the hot water line – and he will say one word:
Hmmph.
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