Aside it being super-duper crunch time with my manuscript, another reason that posts have been sparse is because I have been so busy with super-duper crunch time that I haven’t been engaging in the world outside of my computer enough to experience the usual what-the-fuckery that inspires a good deal of my posts. Well if Mohammad won’t come to the mountain then the mountain will apparently come to Mohammad because there I was minding my own business in my own home on Saturday night when bullshit struck.
After putting in a nine hour day at my part-time job as an optometry tech, I sat down at my desk in the dining room to get some writing done. (There’s nothing like nine hours of dealing with whacko patients to inspire me to get work harder at my writing.) My mother was at her computer in the same room flipping out at Farmville.
“Did you start writing yet?” my mother asked.
“Not yet, I was still catching up on responding to tweets from Wednesday about my hair cut,” I responded.
“Oh good. Can you hit my Farmville request before you start?”
I opened another window on my computer and responded to another tweet as I waited for the game to load.
“I should have assured people that I wasn’t chopping off my hair when I mentioned getting it cut,” I told my mother. My brother had turned on the faucet in the kitchen and raised my voice a bit to be heard over the water running at full blast. “I got several messages telling me to keep it long.”
“What?” my mother asked over the sound of the water from the other room.
“My hair,” I said louder. “I should have made it clear that I never cut my above my shoulders because I like to keep it long enough that it covers my boobs if I ever forget to wear a shirt.”
“What the hell?” my mother asked.
“I know, that’s absurd,” I snickered. “With my amount of boobage I could never grow enough hair to cover them.”
“No not that,” my mother answered looking toward the kitchen. “What’s your brother doing in the sink?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like he’s rising it out.”
“Mike, what are you doing with the sink?” Mumma yelled.
“Nothing,” he shouted from the den.
My mother and I looked at each other and then bolted for the kitchen. We ran in to discover a small waterfall pouring out of cabinet under the sink and a massive pool spreading in front of it. I ripped open the cabinet door and stepped back just in time to avoid being burned by the scalding hot water that was spraying all over under the sink. I glanced inside and saw that the hot water supply line had burst. The water was now pouring out of the open cabinet only that it was too hot for me to turn off the water supply under the sink.
“Turn off the main water supply!” I shrieked.
Mumma ran into the laundry room but by the time she got the valve closed the burst water line had turned the kitchen into something out of a Kevin Costner movie. And much like a Kevin Costner movie I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I had never seen the disaster in front of me.
“I don’t feel like dealing with this,” I groaned.
“Mike you fix it!”
“I can’t. I’m drunk,” my ever-helpful brother replied. I happened to glance at the kitchen table and saw the remains of a Long Island Iced Tea sitting there.
“No you’re not,” I sneered.
“Well I’m buzzed,” he insisted.
“I’ll fix it,” my mother interrupted.
“You are not getting under a sink with scalding hot copper pipes!” I bellowed. And that was how it was decided that I was going to be spending Saturday night fixing a kitchen sink.
My mother emptied the cabinet and then I wedged myself into the cramped and soaking cabinet to survey the damaged. It was fairly easily to disconnect the supply hose from the water pipe but I could not reach the other end of the hose attached to the faucet.
A slight footnote here: the kitchen faucet had been most shittily installed only a couple of years ago and had been leaking. I had fixed it somewhat (with a broken hand at the time ’cause I am a rockstar like that) but it was never exactly perfect. My mother had bought a new faucet in preparation of a friend promising to instal it however that douche canoe kept blowing her off until she gave up.
“That’s it! We are getting rid of this piece of trash right now and I’m putting in that new faucet!” I yelled.
“Just leave it for now, Kat. We can do it in the morning,” Mumma said calmly.
“Like hell! Give me that wrench!” I again wedged myself into the damp wood of the cabinet and began banging, unscrewing bolts and cursing loudly.
“Are you sure that you’re going to be able to get it out?” my mother asked.
I wriggled out from the cabinet–which, between the garbage disposal and my aforementioned ridiculous chest, took the skill of a Circus Soleil performer–grabbed the faucet and ripped the fucker out of the counter top. “Yes,” I replied dropping the faucet into the garbage bag on the floor.
I’d like to say that all went smoothly from there, but though I am a fast learner, I know next to nothing about plumbing so that when I ran out to Lowe’s to get the needed supply line THAT DIDN’T COME WITH THE NEW FACET I bought the wrong one.
“What the fuck does FIP, MIP, OD stand for?” I snarled at Google.
Once I had figured out with a degree of confidence I realized that Lowe’s had closed. Again my mother urged me to leave the sink until the morning but there was a Home Depot not too far away and they were still open so I took off again.
“I’m 99% sure that I have the right line,” I announced when I got home thirty minutes later holding two braided silvery pipes. “And they better be,” I said shoving myself once again under the sink, “because the next time I crawl out of this cabinet I’m not going back in. So I might be sleeping in here.”
Fortunately it didn’t come to that and while it was a pleasure describing the tools I needed Mumma to hand me which I had not brought under the sink with me, I managed to install the new faucet before midnight.
So that was my weekend.
(Try not to be jealous of my glamorous rockstar lifestyle.)