One More Trip

The remodel is going.   Can't say that it's going well; just that it's going.  It's a lot like building a pyramid.  One piece at a time.  Unfortunately I don't have an entire subservient group of people to do my bidding.  I have 3 teenagers, which if you've ever had a teenager know that they are more like having hemorrhoids - not very helpful and always annoying.  So mainly I'm on my own.  I ordered a water treatment system for my kitchen sink because I'm worried about our kidneys, of course.  I've installed this same system before.  This is nothing new.  Unhook one thingy, add a different thingy, hook them all up, bingo, crystal clear stream water without the giardia and subsequent diarrhea and vomiting.  All in all, an improvement.  However, what I did not anticipate was the 17 year old house that I'm working on.  NOTHING is as it should be.  If a fitting should be a 1/2" it's not.  It's 5/8".  If it should be a 1/4".  It's not it's 3/8".  Of course there is no obvious way to determine these differences when they are hidden behind, in, under, adjacent to a toilet, sink, dishwasher, washing machine.  And of course, there is never sufficient light.  The whole experience is more like spelunking than plumbing.  The process requires a head lamp, copious tools, cushioning, alcoholic beverage, Vaseline (don't ask) and patience.  Patience I have very little of.  I'm under the sink, unhook the relevant connectors trying to remember where they came from for the reassembly; which is not as straight forward as you might think.  During the reassembly the wheels come off.  Nothing fits.  Nothing.  I'm puzzled.  Patience in tact.  I read the directions - for the first time.  I'm doing nothing wrong. When in doubt head to Home Depot.  I take the ill-fitting miscreant parts to the plumbing section and begin perusing the fittings.  Wow.  If you've never had the experience of shopping for fittings, it's a lot like the candy aisle at Wal-mart - a thousand options and none of them right.  Willy Wonka doesn't have this kind of imagination.  Hmmm blueberry conduit?  I choose what looks like something I need and head back.  Assume the position under the sink and resume the installation.  Nothing works.  Read the directions.  Anger sparks to life.  Nothing works.  Home Depot candy aisle again.  With my new understanding of what I need, I begin a new search.  5/8" nipples (hmm, sounds interesting, gotta get that) 1/2" splitter (ich, sounds painful, should get it though), 7/16" reducer (don't want to reduce anything, but I'll take it anyway).  Home. Resume the prostrate position in the kitchen and begin assemblage.  No go - words are said, tools fly, hit my head on the trap.  This time, I take pictures of the impossible arrangement to show the wizard.  You know, the miracle worker in the orange apron.  The wizard mutters something, like, "hmmm, never seen anything like that before."  I say, "oh, I understood that you were the plumbing guy."  He snorts and looks up at me over his little reading glasses and asserts, "I am.  I'm a retired master plumber of 30 years."  Right.  Vladonomics.  I forgot.  Vladonomics?  Never heard of that?  Re-read the wizard's comment.  "Never seen anything like that before."  Apparently I live in some alternative universe where I'm the ONLY one to have X.  Whatever, nothing new to me.  The wizard recovers from the insult just thrown at him and takes this present situation as his doctorate thesis, his capstone project.  After this, he'll retire because, by his own assertion, he's now seen it all!  The wizard hustles to the plumbing fixtures department, only a mere 50 yards away.  He begins opening $300 kitchen faucet boxes with an amazing lack of concern for his own inventory, begins tossing parts from the box here and there, and like a 300 pound Usain Bolt, heads back to the candy aisle abandoning the products.  I, by impulse clean up his mess and restock the shelves he's just ravaged.  When I catch up with him in the candy aisle, he has a pen knife out furiously cutting open packages and connecting parts into an elaborate PVC/brass structure that resembles the love child of Eiffel and Dalí.  Sweat beads pop out on the wizard's pate, a twinkle sparks in his eye and his little mouth is held in a permanent smirk with tongue peeping joyfully out the corner.  He's loving this despite the fact that this creation has now consumed 40 minutes.  "Maybe he's more like I.M. Pei with plumbing fittings," I think to myself.  He's in the zone, and I'm remaining perfectly silent so as not to disturb the master at work.  "There" he grunts and hesitantly shoves at me the creation.  I cautiously take it wondering if he'd like to pose for a picture with it first.  Is that a tear?  He seems visibly moved and somewhat depressed.  We share a tender moment in aisle 3b under a flood of fluorescent light, I lean in for a hug when he abruptly turns and walks away from his newborn and heads toward Doors and Trim.  Now I have to figure out how the hell to check out.  All the packages are scattered on the floor in what looks like New Year's in Times Square.  I choose the same number of packages as pieces in my hands and head out.  At home, I realize that the creation must be dismantled to be used.  This is bad and the wizard would be none too pleased, but I gotta do what I gotta do.  I lovingly, cautiously apply teflon tape, twist on piece one, two, three (This is working out!), four etc.  They all work.  My epic plumbing journey has finally ended.  How sad.  It's like the last page of To Kill a Mockingbird.  Done?  I'm done?  But, I don't want it to be done.  I lie for a few moments with my head resting on a rusted Brillo pad and reflect on the time under the sink, the trips to Oz, time with the wizard and think to myself, damn my back is killing me.

A Little Cloud

The other day, as class was ending and papers were being shoved at me at a furious rate because after all, the bell had rung which always signals the running of the bulls, or rather, the running of the steers as the case may be, one of the little steers left a cloud.  Not a cloud of dust as a steer might, but a cloud of a different sort.  This cloud was not visible, or I would have avoided it.  I would have ducked under, I would have circle around, dang, I would have done a double hand-spring over the foul thing, but no, I walked right into it.  And, as circumstances would have it, desks to the right, desks to the left, table behind, students in front,  I had no alternative but to remain in the cloud.  Typically, a cloud weighs less than the air around it, and it will, with the slightest breeze or draft, dissipate rapidly.  So the most one has to do is hold his breath but for a few moments and wait for the complete dissipation and once again commence breathing.  As was my plan, but this cloud had other designs.  This cloud had weight.  It had heft.  It had substance. It had mass. It had gravitas.  It had staying power. After two or three seconds, I drew in a breath, and got another mouthful, a full tongue-coating.  Whoa, still here?  Three more seconds, a tentative breath and another mouthful.  Panic ensued. But, alas there was work to be done.  An escape was not possible.  10 full seconds and another shallow breath taken, still more noxious fumes were taken in.  This is unthinkable, so I stumbled sideways, ran into a desk, then went over the desk to clean air.  After what seemed like 20 minutes I ventured back to my work station to resume my tasks.  THE CLOUD WAS STILL THERE!  How was this possible?  Measures must be taken.  Battle must be waged. A can of industrial strength, hospital grade disinfectant was employed, but instead of eradicating the cloud I had only added to it.  Now my cloud was intestinal napalm and a chemical cocktail that would surely send the air quality index into the red and outrage Al Gore.  In defeat, I vacated the area, and delightfully watched from afar as the next class entered and a few innocent souls consumed the cloud and replaced it with a healthier carbon dioxide.


With love,
Vlad