The following is another in the Putziler Prize winning series, The Swearing Handyman. Today's edition outlines tips, tricks and steps to replace a hot water heater that has suddenly--and gushily--decided to give up the ghost...and the 40 gallons of water that had been so recently and neatly stored. Anyway, on to the steps.
1. Come home late, ready to go to bed and discover water running all over.
2. Freak in as dignified a manner as possible. I suggest streaking the neighborhood while swearing in tongues, but go with what feels natural. This is key. But avoid firearms...also: key.
3. Remember: the little knob that cuts water flow. It looks like...a little knob.
3a. You may not recall this until you've gone through your personal #2 process.
3b. Also...the gas...ya might wanna turn THAT knobby, too.
4. Choke back the overwhelming paralysis that creeps up on you when you realize a plumber is about to put at least one of his kids through a private community college on your dime.
5. Call reinforcements--I call mine, "Dad." There is no shame in this step; cold showers for the next week while burning through 3 returned and ineffective heaters because you were too friggin proud to call someone who's been there/done that...it's called st00pid.
5a. Avoid st00pid.
6. Do the requisite research. (It ain't called "The Google" for nuthin.) In other words, read the side of the old one and call around for $$ on new ones.
7. Repeat step 2. Perhaps a coupla times. Then just buy the damn thing, unless you like stinking.
8. Have it ready and waiting when reinforcements show up.
9. Watch intently. You may face this again, and it might be nice if you could contribute.
10. Lift, connect, switch stuff back on, light.
11. Enjoy!
Showing posts with label Swearing Handyman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Swearing Handyman. Show all posts
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
A Manly Day For a Conquering Hero....
In every man's life, there are moments where he must face fears-n-facts head on or be sucked into the oblivion. Today was such a day for me.
Those among us who are married know the significance of the "Honey-Do" list. We all know its import; we all know it's there, and; men especially know the only thing worse than not getting to something on said list is screwing something up ON that list and having to call a professional in to fix the mess created.
(An aside for the ladies: that last is EXACTLY why so many of us seemingly ignore the list! It's not that we don't WANT to fix the leaky faucet; it's that we secretly fear the seemingly simple fix isn't simple at all and we'll turn a $25 problem into a nice coupla billable hours to a guy/girl/goat whose derrière is coverage-challenged AND we'll look far more foolish than if we ignore the chore AND! we'll owe someone else a chunk o' change!)
Such was the dilemma facing your hero and mine - um, that'd be me. Do try to keep up....
The master suite's garden tub has been functional, but cantankerous of late. A few niggling issues that, taken individually, could be tolerated by even the most high-maintenance among the better halves out there, but taken together, caused Sweetie great consternation. So much so, she put "Fix tub" on the dreaded list.
Oh, I put it off for a while.... "Ya just hafta wait for the water to cool down." Or: "I'm waiting for a tool/part/time/miracle from on high...." Y'know--I stalled. But then.... the secret weapon......
Sweetie: Well, should I just call the plumber?
(Tip for the ladies: that approach always works! DAMMIT! The fear of someone else making an easy fix far outweighs the fear of Handyman Projects.)
After the all-important Procrastination Stage, I tore out the offending part (Aside: It took several trips under the house, maneuvering through a crawl space CLEARLY! Not designed for anyone taller than the minimum height requirement for a Kiddie Coaster at the county fair.) and took it to Ye Olde Hardware Store (I've learned to avoid those terribly ironic "How May I Help You?" vests at the Scourge of the Earth, a.k.a. Wal-Mart.) for much needed help. I then learned whoever MADE the inlet originally screwed it up, so I had to go back and get the REST of the valve…by getting under the house…in that crawlspace…. (Seriously, Gollum would love it; Dracula could set up his master bedroom; Dick Cheney could escape the Wrath of God there….)
But in a display of true Manly Fortitude and Swearing Frustration/Determination…I got the offending bauble and took it back. So, naturally, the guy finds the bad washer, replaces it In seconds, then utters the most fearsome words he could have possibly birthed:
“Just pop that back in and your set! It should just take a few minutes.”
Smug, competent, mechanically-inclined jackhole....
A wave of handy-man inadequacy overwhelmed me! What If I couldn't install this gizmo in minutes!?! What if I were the only man on Earth to bring about damnation because he couldn't fix a faucet!?! What if I got stuck in the crawlspace!?! WHAT IF DICK CHENEY HAD MOVED INTO THE CRAWLSPACE WHILE I WAS GONE!?!
Alas, I took the Emasculation Kit home. Then, I just dove in…literally (I did mention/bitch-mightily-about that maternal-forbear copulating crawlspace, right?). And…I conquered the beasty. After a hook-up, a couple of nuts re-tightened, one blast of cold water to the face, one more critical re-tightening…I had it. I was careful; I was deliberate; I was swearing juuuust a little!!!! But no tools were thrown… No l'il ol' ladies were offended....
And then…
HUZZAH!!!!!! Cold water flowed! The tub: RESTORED! My Queen is happy!
And that, my virtual friends, is how we all know this: Gary is all that is Man. Therefore, the Apocalypse begins in 3...
...2...
...1.........
Those among us who are married know the significance of the "Honey-Do" list. We all know its import; we all know it's there, and; men especially know the only thing worse than not getting to something on said list is screwing something up ON that list and having to call a professional in to fix the mess created.
(An aside for the ladies: that last is EXACTLY why so many of us seemingly ignore the list! It's not that we don't WANT to fix the leaky faucet; it's that we secretly fear the seemingly simple fix isn't simple at all and we'll turn a $25 problem into a nice coupla billable hours to a guy/girl/goat whose derrière is coverage-challenged AND we'll look far more foolish than if we ignore the chore AND! we'll owe someone else a chunk o' change!)
Such was the dilemma facing your hero and mine - um, that'd be me. Do try to keep up....
The master suite's garden tub has been functional, but cantankerous of late. A few niggling issues that, taken individually, could be tolerated by even the most high-maintenance among the better halves out there, but taken together, caused Sweetie great consternation. So much so, she put "Fix tub" on the dreaded list.
Oh, I put it off for a while.... "Ya just hafta wait for the water to cool down." Or: "I'm waiting for a tool/part/time/miracle from on high...." Y'know--I stalled. But then.... the secret weapon......
Sweetie: Well, should I just call the plumber?
(Tip for the ladies: that approach always works! DAMMIT! The fear of someone else making an easy fix far outweighs the fear of Handyman Projects.)
After the all-important Procrastination Stage, I tore out the offending part (Aside: It took several trips under the house, maneuvering through a crawl space CLEARLY! Not designed for anyone taller than the minimum height requirement for a Kiddie Coaster at the county fair.) and took it to Ye Olde Hardware Store (I've learned to avoid those terribly ironic "How May I Help You?" vests at the Scourge of the Earth, a.k.a. Wal-Mart.) for much needed help. I then learned whoever MADE the inlet originally screwed it up, so I had to go back and get the REST of the valve…by getting under the house…in that crawlspace…. (Seriously, Gollum would love it; Dracula could set up his master bedroom; Dick Cheney could escape the Wrath of God there….)
But in a display of true Manly Fortitude and Swearing Frustration/Determination…I got the offending bauble and took it back. So, naturally, the guy finds the bad washer, replaces it In seconds, then utters the most fearsome words he could have possibly birthed:
“Just pop that back in and your set! It should just take a few minutes.”
Smug, competent, mechanically-inclined jackhole....
A wave of handy-man inadequacy overwhelmed me! What If I couldn't install this gizmo in minutes!?! What if I were the only man on Earth to bring about damnation because he couldn't fix a faucet!?! What if I got stuck in the crawlspace!?! WHAT IF DICK CHENEY HAD MOVED INTO THE CRAWLSPACE WHILE I WAS GONE!?!
Alas, I took the Emasculation Kit home. Then, I just dove in…literally (I did mention/bitch-mightily-about that maternal-forbear copulating crawlspace, right?). And…I conquered the beasty. After a hook-up, a couple of nuts re-tightened, one blast of cold water to the face, one more critical re-tightening…I had it. I was careful; I was deliberate; I was swearing juuuust a little!!!! But no tools were thrown… No l'il ol' ladies were offended....
And then…
HUZZAH!!!!!! Cold water flowed! The tub: RESTORED! My Queen is happy!
And that, my virtual friends, is how we all know this: Gary is all that is Man. Therefore, the Apocalypse begins in 3...
...2...
...1.........
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