2004-08-08 21:51![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldisciplineSometimes knowing what to do and how to do it don't mean something simple will be easy. Replacing a corroded faucet falls into this category, because the faucet in question was plumbed through an ill-concieved plastic-like surround, which, while doing an admirable job of directing the last 30 years' worth of laundry seepage into the proper subterranean conduit, inconveniently rendered the fitting beneath inaccessible.
If at first you don't succeed, get a bigger hammer. Using said hammer to variously pry nails, act as a cudgel, and ultimately whack the ass-end of a large screwdriver in an effort to dismantle the damn thing sufficiently to get at the fitting.
On the subject of getting at fittings, a momentary aside that will amuse some of you, and make others very, very reluctant to ever run outdoor plumbing - the main shutoff valve for my home's water is a foot below the sidewalk out front, and prying up the cast iron lid sent all manner of multi-legged critters skittering for darker refuge... and made me wish I had a short-handled crescent wrench, because attacking that stopcock from weird angles was darn challenging.
So, after whacking, cracking, and ultimately bringing a dremel to bear on the doomed spigot surround, it was grab-and-yank time, at which point, I did a passable impression of my father, by pulling, snapping, and swearing, followed by uttering something that probably made K a lot more nervous than she let on. "Hon, could you bring me a Band-Aid?" To her credit, she only asked me when my last tetanus shot was, rather than overtly look for red droplets on the kitchen linoleum (there were none), and at least acted reassured when I told her that the small gouge on the back of my finger, presently oozing internal fluids, was from a piece of recalcitrant (and calcified) plastic. In my house, as a child, I'd seen this sort of thing play out with roofing materials, ill-behaved hand tools, and, on one memorable occasion, a kitchen knife and a particularly stubborn coconut.
After dispatching K to Home Depot (alternate universe/ghetto edition) to pick up the appropriate pipe fitting (due to excessive calcification from three decades' drippage), putting things back together was an absolute breeze, and, after a lunch break that featured salads and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
netgoth's gracious lending of a Muppet Show DVD, we assaulted the piles of boxes occupying the office and spare bedroom, and, as of this writing, the only heaps of shit to be de-boxed are K's assorted trinkets and a frighteningly large pile of boxes with the ominous inscription BOOKS - HEAVY writ on them in my hand.
Still not king.
Beard status: Grizzled
Yard status: Shaggy (but not Scooby)
If at first you don't succeed, get a bigger hammer. Using said hammer to variously pry nails, act as a cudgel, and ultimately whack the ass-end of a large screwdriver in an effort to dismantle the damn thing sufficiently to get at the fitting.
On the subject of getting at fittings, a momentary aside that will amuse some of you, and make others very, very reluctant to ever run outdoor plumbing - the main shutoff valve for my home's water is a foot below the sidewalk out front, and prying up the cast iron lid sent all manner of multi-legged critters skittering for darker refuge... and made me wish I had a short-handled crescent wrench, because attacking that stopcock from weird angles was darn challenging.
So, after whacking, cracking, and ultimately bringing a dremel to bear on the doomed spigot surround, it was grab-and-yank time, at which point, I did a passable impression of my father, by pulling, snapping, and swearing, followed by uttering something that probably made K a lot more nervous than she let on. "Hon, could you bring me a Band-Aid?" To her credit, she only asked me when my last tetanus shot was, rather than overtly look for red droplets on the kitchen linoleum (there were none), and at least acted reassured when I told her that the small gouge on the back of my finger, presently oozing internal fluids, was from a piece of recalcitrant (and calcified) plastic. In my house, as a child, I'd seen this sort of thing play out with roofing materials, ill-behaved hand tools, and, on one memorable occasion, a kitchen knife and a particularly stubborn coconut.
After dispatching K to Home Depot (alternate universe/ghetto edition) to pick up the appropriate pipe fitting (due to excessive calcification from three decades' drippage), putting things back together was an absolute breeze, and, after a lunch break that featured salads and
netgoth's gracious lending of a Muppet Show DVD, we assaulted the piles of boxes occupying the office and spare bedroom, and, as of this writing, the only heaps of shit to be de-boxed are K's assorted trinkets and a frighteningly large pile of boxes with the ominous inscription BOOKS - HEAVY writ on them in my hand.Still not king.
Beard status: Grizzled
Yard status: Shaggy (but not Scooby)
