We’ve all come across fictional characters we hate. They’re the villains in the novels we read or the movies we watch. We know they aren’t real, yet they enrage us so much, we despise them with teeth-clenching intensity. We’d like to wring their necks.
The character I hate the most isn’t in a novel, a movie, or a story of any kind. He’s the illustrated do-it-yourself guy in our set of Time-Life home repair books, the one whose shirt is always clean and free of wrinkles, whose pants are pleated and smooth, and whose hands are unblistered and unbloodied. We have most of the books in the series, including guides for erecting outdoor structures, repairing walls and ceilings, refinishing furniture, and remodeling kitchens. He’s in all of the books, this perfect repairman who somehow manages to rewire houses, replace windows, build additions, and pave driveways — by himself, and all without breaking a sweat. Sometimes he disguises himself as a woman, but I’d recognize the crisp outfit and that blank look of calm confidence anywhere. As I said, I hate him.
My wife, on the other hand, has no idea what I’m talking about. For some reason, she has little memory of the time I replaced the gasket below the toilet tank, about fifteen years ago. Our Time-Life book, Plumbing, demonstrated this repair in four easy steps: “Remove tank. Remove old gasket. Install new gasket. Re-install tank.” I got a little hung up between steps 2 and 3, and we didn’t have a functioning toilet for six days. The book didn’t say a word about what to do when you can’t get the new gasket to stretch over the porcelain. It just said “install new gasket,” as though the thing would slip on like silk pajamas. And there was that creepy guy with the immaculate pants, staring serenely, his toilet perfectly re-assembled. And mocking me. Always mocking me.
My latest contact with this evil character came just yesterday, when I noticed that the bathroom sink was full of water after I brushed my teeth. I pushed down on the lift rod, but nothing happened. Now I have some experience with this complex water release system. In fact, I’m the one who installed it about a year ago, and I wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. When I was a child, our bathroom sink had a rubber stopper on a chain. When you wanted to fill the sink, you inserted the stopper. When you wanted to empty the sink you tugged on the chain and it pulled the stopper, allowing immediate flow down the drain. We have since progressed far beyond this primitive arrangement. Now we have a seven-piece contraption that has to be assembled and installed in precise order, all in a dark space so confining that even spiders come out every night to stretch their legs. Given the number of components and all of the possible sequences, this ten-minute project usually takes me about four hours. It also leaves me cursing the invention of indoor plumbing, the discovery of water, and the pathetic excuse for a human being who designed our bathroom vanity. And of course, you-know-who.
Here’s what happened late yesterday morning and into the afternoon. I’ve included a few of the illustrations from the book to help you follow my explanation.
First, there’s a thing called a clevis, an unnecessarily technical sounding word that means strip of plastic with holes in it. The clevis catches and holds the lift rod with help from the strategically placed clevis screw. When installed correctly, the clevis raises and lowers a pivot rod, which in turn raises and lowers the pop-up plug. When you want the plug to go down (to fill the sink), you pull up on the lift rod. When you want the plug to go up (to drain the sink), you push down on the lift rod. It may not sound that complicated but it is to me. While trying to get this thing set up I can feel certain brain cells misfiring, just as they do whenever I look into a mirror and attempt to trim anything without poking out one or more of my eyes.
The problem with our sink is that the clevis and its screw are right up against the back of the vanity, so there’s too much friction when you pull and push on the lift rod. Over time, the screw loosens and the lift rod doesn’t do anything. You can’t fill the sink with water, and if you do, you can’t drain it. This is not a big deal for me, but my wife occasionally likes to soak things. I don’t know why, or even what the things are; I know only that I sometimes have to turn on the shower to wash my hands because there are mysterious items floating in the sink.
A spring clip holds the clevis to the pivot rod. The clip is a thin horseshoe of stiff, sharp metal. There’s also a retaining nut that holds the pivot rod in place, and because it’s facing the back, it has to be tightened by turning it in an unnatural direction, causing severe hand cramps. And it’s hard plastic, so it hurts after a while just from pressure. The pivot rod, by the way, also holds in place a round, white plastic ball that fits perfectly into the opening in the side of the drain pipe. The retaining nut keeps that pivot ball right where it should be, and prevents water from leaking out. This is a key piece of information, one of several I wish I had comprehended earlier.
Also, the pop-up plug has a loop at the bottom of it, through which the pivot rod slides in order to raise and lower it — but only if you remember. If you don’t, you have to take everything apart and start all over. I had to take everything apart and start all over thirteen times. By now, my fingers were bleeding from the metal clip and my knuckles were hurting from having to loosen and tighten the hard plastic lock nut, which almost never wants to go on straight.
Because of the way our sink and vanity are designed, removing and re-installing all of these parts requires me to sit on the floor with both arms under the sink and my forehead pressed against the front of it. In other words, I might as well blindfold myself, just to add to the fun.
At some point I experienced a flash of brilliance and decided that I didn’t have to put everything back together. Why did we need the pop-up plug to go up and down? I could remove it and leave the drain completely open. When we wanted to fill the sink, we could just insert the plug and push it down until it was seated snugly. Without the pop-up plug, there was no reason to put the lift rod back. In fact, why re-install the pivot rod? All unnecessary hardware! Relieved that I’d just avoided another hour of excruciating torment, I turned on the cold water full force and watched with great satisfaction as it disappeared with a whoosh down the drain. I had discarded superfluous ornamentation in favor of function, and the decision — along with the resulting whoosh — made me feel smart and efficient and happy. It also made me feel that my socks were getting wet. When I looked down, I saw water in places where it was not supposed to be. Specifically, it was running from the bottom of the vanity as quickly as it was disappearing down the drain. It occurred to me at this moment that the pivot ball was no longer in place, and that the water, given a new opening in the side of the drain pipe, was taking full advantage of this fact.
After mopping up, I did install the pivot rod and held it securely with the retaining nut. I could not get the lift rod to move the pivot rod enough to even get the pop-up plug’s attention, however, and did not attach it to the clevis. So now, when we want to fill or drain the sink, we have to reach under the vanity and manually raise or lower the pivot rod. When I mentioned this new arrangement to my wife she was less than pleased, and began to remind me that the faucet was still new and it was really better to have that lift rod working the way it was intended to work. I stopped her by holding up my right hand, the really mangled one (although also the one with surprisingly less bleeding and bruising) and pointed out to her that she might find herself reaching under the sink maybe once or twice a month. This was still not, I explained, any more inconvenient than a rubber stopper with a pull chain or sometimes having to turn on the shower to wash my hands. And if she thought it was, I suggested she need only think back to the toilet tank incident of 1995 to recall some real bathroom inconvenience. I also told her she was being unrealistic, with her expectations of perfect home repairs, especially considering the number of wrinkles in my shirts and pants. As usual, she had no idea what I was talking about.
Betty Londergan
August 19, 2010
Totally, spectacularly hilarious … and all too true. I can’t wait for you to take on the Ikea instruction guide — which of course is in Swedish.. meaning it’s in sign language. If you only knew the cursing diatribe that those little guides have brought on! love this blog!!!
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bronxboy55
August 22, 2010
I haven’t had much experience with Ikea, but set-up instructions for cameras, printers, and computers seem to use a lot of sign language. I find myself translating the pictures into words, which seems weird now that I say it, because I’m sure it’s the opposite of what was intended. But at least we’re not alone in our frustration.
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Amiable Amiable
August 20, 2010
This post made me laugh, and then it made me cry.
We have two bathrooms, and both of their “pop-up plugs” (thanks for the technical term) don’t work. My solution is to just pull them out, despite the toothpaste caps that make their way down the gaping hole. I am too lazy to soak things, though I know I should from all that I’ve ruined in the machine. I am also too lazy to ask my husband to fix the sink parts for the umpteenth time.
Halfway through, though, I was inspired to suggest to my husband that he learn how to properly fix them by reading your post, to look at the handy illustrations and to read the detailed instructions. However, then reading about the pain and struggle you endured, I realized he would use that as an excuse. Obviously, I certainly won’t do anything with all of this wonderful information. So, as my tears drip, drip, drip (much like one of our faucets) on my laptop, I realize the sinks will never be repaired.
Another great post. I love the title! I love the hysterical cartoon! I wish your mangled hands a speedy recovery. Thankfully, the wounds aren’t preventing you from blogging. Unless you’re typing with one finger?
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bronxboy55
August 22, 2010
If we lived closer, we could have home repair parties. That would be fun. We could even videotape the projects and sell them as a reality show. Well, YOU could videotape them.
Thanks for the nice comment and the good wishes. My hands are all better now. I type with two fingers. How about you? I have this image of you doing ninety words a minute.
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Amiable Amiable
August 24, 2010
Home repair parties! Oh, for fun! Yah, you betcha! I’d be happy to film the projects, but I suspect that my husband would just encourage you from the sidelines. Somehow, I imagine you stuck under a sink, me video-taping, and my husband and your wife talking about Sicily. Sorry. Mi dispiace. Worse yet, I’d beat you to blogging about the experience while you’d be trying to free yourself. There’s a Driver Driver beneath my Amiable Amiable exterior. I’d get you a couple of bandages, though. Don’t take me for being cold-bludded.
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bronxboy55
August 24, 2010
Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.
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cooperstownersincanada
August 20, 2010
Hilarious. Nice work! I admire your “do-it-yourself” determination in spite of the mocking Time Life dude. I’m fortunate to have a eager retired dad to do a lot of my handy work.
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Marie M
August 21, 2010
cooperstownincanada, does your dad make house calls to non-relatives? We live in New Jersey.
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bronxboy55
August 22, 2010
I think it’s some kind of memory deficit that causes me to forget just how maddening these little projects can become. If it’s supposed to take fifteen minutes, I always think it will. Then, when I’m an hour and a half into the job, it’s too late to back out because there are vital parts all over the floor and I have to put them back together. Somehow. I bet your dad doesn’t have that problem.
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shoreacres
August 24, 2010
OK. I confess. Every time I read this I started losing it at about this point: A spring clip holds the clevis to the pivot rod…. No deficiency on your part – I respond the same way to instruction books of all sorts. My eyes glaze over. I try and make myself pay attention. I start looking for alternative paths through the woods….
I have a theory. The problem with your Time-Life books and all of these silly instruction manuals is that the technical writers who put them together hate us. They want to be writing about that geranium on their porch that seems to have developed a bit of an attitude, or the neighbor lady who looks really hot in those new shorts, or the Mafioso-like clan that took over the President’s cabinet and now is in the process of… Well, who knows what they’re up to?
In any event, those technical writers are so jealous they take it out on us by leaving out necessary parts of their manuals. An explanatory sentence here, a simpler word there, and we’d whiz through those projects in 15 minutes. We’d have gaskets that fit and thingies that go up and down as they should – but noooooooo. We bandage our knuckles, while they have another go at Dungeons and Dragons 😉
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bronxboy55
August 25, 2010
Maybe the technical writers hate us. Or maybe they’re afraid we’ll see how simple these projects are, figure out we don’t need their help anymore, and stop buying the books. Then they’ll have to go back to writing instructions for shampoo (“Lather. Rinse. Repeat.”) or warning labels for drain cleaner (“Do not swallow.”)
By the way, I just looked it up, and your thought process in this comment is clearly what psychiatrists call “paranoid delusional.” However, paranoia is defined as a thought pattern that isn’t shared by other members of society, and since I agree with everything you said, we cancel each other out and we aren’t paranoid after all. And delusional? Really, who can say? Mafia in the Cabinet? Robert Gates has always seemed a little shady to me. And Janet Napolitano, well just look at her last name.
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Yuan
April 10, 2019
Experiencing a drain problem on your commercial property causes serious headaches for business owners. Not only do drain problems pose serious safety and health risks, but they can also lead to loss of business and income if part of your building needs to be shut down during the professional drain repair.
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