“Drip, drip, drip”
That was what I woke up to this morning.
Apparently, the handle leaks on that toilet upstairs now. Yeah, everything else seems tight and non-leaky, but the water level rose to the point that it was streaming out the handle on the tank. Have I mentioned that I hate plumbing?
Oh, and the downstairs toilet has decided to act up, too. This time, though, it’s an easy to identify problem: the connection from the water to the tank. Normally, one would use a flexible hose, but not the guy who I got the house from, no sir! For him, it was ridgid pipe or nothing! So, all I have to do, in theory, is get the right size flex hose and replace that. In theory.
And, finally, I have a confession to make about why I get so much anxiety about this kind of thing when my Dad is coming to town. My family used to own a hardware store. Oh, Hoffman’s Hardware in Morgan Park (which is the South Side of Chicago, for those who are unaware) was nothing but a name on a building corner stone long before I was born, but I still feel like I should know how to do this stuff better than I do. Like somehow, magically, I should have been born with the knowlege and skills to do any home repair instantly, with no mistakes. Ignore the fact that my father almost never did these kinds of things in my presence. Usually, I was just in the way as a kid, so I made myself scarce. So, now I learn how to do it the hard way, just like everything else I’ve ever learned that was worthwhile knowing.
Eventually, I’ll post a picture of the pretty rust colored water stain on my ceiling. Damn hard Houston water.
