Home > Leftovers > Could Edward R. Murrow change a faucet?

Could Edward R. Murrow change a faucet?

Yesterday, I changed the faucet in our kitchen. OK, that might not sound like all that much, but as I type it, it feels as monumental as “I graduated from college” or “I have a job.” Because after what I went through yesterday, I honestly think this was much harder.

As everyone who perused my previous posts knows (and I can probably call most of you by name… hey Lil’ Bit, B-Dizzle and Roosta!), I’m a journalism school major. At no time during my four years of college did I learn anything about plumbing. Subject-verb agreement? Check. Passive vs. active voice? Oh yeah. Split infinitives? I’m still not sure what those are, but I remember that I’m supposed to avoid them.

So, it was with some trepidation that I attacked yesterday’s “project.” Again, in my world, the use of the word “project” here is akin to using the term “police action” to describe the Korean War. If blood was shed (as there was yesterday afternoon), for some reason “project” doesn’t cut it.

See, I believe that there is some signficant collusion between homebuilders and plumbers. “Hey, Merle, make sure you put faucets in there so that you have to have a $30 tool and knuckles of steel to change them out. That’ll teach those stupid homeowners to, you know, do anything.”

Here’s the thing… it appeared to be easy. The directions for installing the new faucet only depicted six steps. As a comparison, when I assembled my grill, there were a mind-numbing 37 steps. So, no biggie, right? WRONG! Because like the current Iraqi War, er, Operation Spread Freedom All up in the Middle East, the hard part isn’t getting the parts in place. It’s getting everything out. Removing the old faucet was like removing Dick Vitale from Cameron Indoor Stadium. Sure, it’s theoretically possible, but nobody’s volunteering to try it.

Back to the faucet. After wailing away at the old one, the sucker finally came out. Then, I picked up the directions to see how poorly the next section could go. The wife came down to check on the progress – and see if I had a divorce lawyer on speed dial yet – and she did a doubletake when checking out the instructions.

“What’s this?” she asked.
“Ummm, I think that’s blood from my index finger,” I responded while searching for something called a shank, as the directions called it.
“Should you be bleeding?”
(I begin to wonder if I can shank myself and end the agony)

But, as Shakespeare said, “All’s well that end’s well.” The faucet is installed, and we’re at 26+ hours without a major leak. Not bad, I’d say. Or at least, not bad for a j-school grad.

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Categories: Leftovers
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  1. January 4, 2010 at 1:02 am

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