Jerry Zezima, a Newsday assistant editor who writes a nationally syndicated humor column for his hometown paper, The
As a guy who is usually in hot water, which I am using as an excuse for all my wrinkles, I recently found myself in the unusual situation of being in hot water because there was no hot water.
Actually, there was hot water, but it left me cold because it was dripping out of the faucet in an upstairs bathroom. To prevent the equivalent of water torture from keeping me awake at night and driving me even crazier than I already am, I had to open the vanity door and stick my empty head under the sink, an area so small that a Chihuahua would have felt claustrophobic, so I could turn off the hot water.
When I wanted to shave, I had to reverse the process. Then I reversed it again so the water bill wouldn't rival the gross national product of Finland.
This went on for months. Finally, at the strong suggestion of my wife, Sue, who doesn't even shave, I was faced with two choices: fix the problem or grow a beard.
Because I didn't want to look like Presidents Abraham Lincoln and James A. Garfield, both of whom were shot to death, I decided to go with Choice No. 1.
This entailed disassembling the faucet so I could change the washer. Inasmuch as I am the least handy man in America, visions of Niagara Falls flooded my brain, which has water on it anyway.
I sought the wise counsel of Frank and Jerry, two ace maintenance guys at work.
"Make sure," Frank advised, "that you turn off the water or you'll have an indoor swimming pool."
"Maybe," Jerry added, "you should wear a bathing suit."
"How do I get the cap off the hot-water spigot?" I asked.
"Use a screwdriver," Frank answered.
"You mean vodka and orange juice?" I wondered.
"Whatever works," Jerry said.
I also talked with Gary, a talented colleague who used to write about home improvement. He printed out instructions with an illustration of the sink's parts, including the handle seat, the gasket and, of course, the washer. The whole thing looked like the battle plans for the invasion of Normandy.
"There's a tool for taking the faucet apart," Gary said.
"Yes," I replied. "It's called a jackhammer. All I want to do is change the washer. Do I have to buy a new house?"
"Go on YouTube," Gary said, "and watch a video. It will show you how to do it."
So I did. The two-minute video, "How to Replace a Washer in a Leaky Faucet for Dummies," will never win an Oscar, but it was clearly aimed at me. And it was pretty instructive.
I used my smartphone, which has a dumb owner, to take a picture of the faucet. Then I went to Home Depot for further assistance.
I got it from Charlie, who is so knowledgeable that he coaches new recruits at the store. He assured me that I am not as incompetent as I think I am.
"My uncle was worse," Charlie said. "He was a brilliant lawyer who became a judge, but he couldn't change a light bulb. He eventually went blind, which didn't help."
Charlie informed me that my faucet doesn't have washers.
"You have to remove the nut," he said.
"That would be me," I countered.
"And," Charlie continued, "replace the cartridge."
"Do I have to use dynamite?" I asked.
"No," Charlie said. "A wrench will do. But turn off the water first."
"Even I know that," I said.
I bought a replacement cartridge, went home, turned off the water under the bathroom sink and, much to my amazement (and Sue's), fixed the problem.
"Nice job," Sue said. "And we didn't even have to call a plumber."
Unfortunately, now something's wrong with the kitchen faucet. Looks like I'm in hot water again.