vituperation

“Goddamn, Bessie,” I said. “Taking that pedestal sink out was about the biggest pain in the ass I’ve had all week.”

I said this once I’d removed the sink in question from the back half-bath in the Smallville house, after an hour of working on the screws holding it to the wall, a trip to both the co-op and Lowe’s to find screwdrivers short enough to fit in the cramped space under the sink, and another fifteen minutes of work once we were back at the house. Our original plan was to save the sink, because there wasn’t anything wrong with it. The toilet, on the other hand, was history, fake wood seat and all.

We bought the house from someone named Bank, you see, and all the toilets were covered with Bank stank.

No way we were keeping the toilets. We planned to get rid of the other two pedestal sinks, too, to be replaced with little vanities with a bit of drawer and counter space. Now, after all this work, I was ready for an executive decision.

“To hell with this sink,” I said. “Let’s replace it, too.”

After all, what’s another $400 when you’re hemorrhaging money already?

“You should put it by the side of the road,” Robyn suggested. “I bet someone would take it.”

Thus began a discussion. We wondered how long the sink would sit on the side of the road before someone picked it up, but we had no Mr. Owl to ask. As it turns out, the correct answer is: about twenty minutes.

I was painting the back bathroom when the knock came on the front door. I set down the roller and walked through the house to the front room (where Robyn was painting the trim and simultaneously trying to see the person on the porch; she’s weird about answering the door), where I saw a dark shape through the door glass. I opened the door.

The woman on the front porch was young, not much older than the legal drinking age, and very pretty. She wore sweats and a t-shirt, and appeared to be of Hispanic or American Indian descent. Her SUV perched at the end of the driveway, barely out of the street.

We exchanged greetings.

“I was wondering about the sink,” she said. She had no discernible accent, other than a very slight southern drawl. “Are you getting rid of it?”

About this sink for a moment. When I put it out, I stood the pedestal and positioned the sink beside it like a display, aimed at the road. It was maybe six inches off the pavement. I put all the hardware in the sink. Short of putting a sign on it that said “free to good home”, I didn’t know any better way to advertise that this sink was for the taking.

I was actually a little impressed that she was so honest as to come to the door to make sure before just taking it.

“We sure are,” I said. Then, because I explain everything: “We’re renovating, and the sink just doesn’t go with what we’ve got planned. Neither does the toilet, but, well, it would just be gross to put a used toilet out on the side of the road, because I don’t think anyone would—”

“You’re getting rid of a toilet, too?”

I blinked.

“Yes, we are. It’s out—” I pointed around the corner “—there on the trash pile. If you got it you’d probably want to replace the fake wood seat. We’re doing all the bathrooms and replacing the sinks and toilets.”

“And you don’t mind if we take the sink and the toilet?”

“Nope, not at all. We were hoping someone would be able to use the sink. It didn’t dawn on us that someone would want the toilet, too. They both work perfectly fine.”

She thanked me profusely and went to get the sink. Through the window, I watched as her husband climbed out of the SUV and loaded the pieces of the sink into the back. When he was finished, they walked down the driveway and looked at the toilet for a bit, but didn’t take it. I dropped the blind slat as they were getting back into their vehicle.

“I didn’t think they’d want that toilet,” I said to Robyn, and went back to paint. I didn’t make it, though, because a knock sounded on the door before I was even back to the bathroom.

“Did you say you were getting rid of more toilets and sinks?” the woman asked, after apologizing for bothering me.

I confirmed that we were.

“Would you mind if I gave you my number, and you could call us when you were ready to get rid of them?”

I got a pen and paper and took her name and number. She had a pretty cool name, unlike any one I’ve ever heard before. As I wrote, I felt kind of bad for them, needing used toilets and sinks and everything. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the most empathetic person ever born, but I’m really quick to make up sad stories about strangers and feel bad for them without any real basis in reality other than a first impression.

I didn’t feel so bad for them when it dawned on me that they were driving a nicer vehicle than I drive.

She thanked me and left. I went back to work on the bathroom.

About five minutes later, motion out the side door caught my eye. The SUV was rolling slowly down the driveway again. They stopped, and both got out in the cold rain to start gathering toilet parts. As I watched, I realized the tank lid was missing. It lay behind me on the floor, where I’d put it when I was first draining the tank. I grabbed it and ran to the door.

The woman had to come over and get it from me, because that door opens into nothing right now. I need to build some steps before too long. She thanked me, and asked if I knew where the tank bolts were.

“I think I put them—”

“I found them. They’re in the tank,” her husband called. His accent was definitely from the south. Of the border.

“Oh, wait,” I said. “I think I threw the closet bolts away. Let me go look for them.”

I dug through the trash and found the closet bolt. That’s right, bolt. There should be two, you see, but the second one was missing. That side of the toilet had been screwed down to the wood floor. Robyn and I refer to the act of cheating a fix or shortcutting a job around the house as “Banking” it, in honor of the previous owners, who did it regularly. We use the word in sentences like “I’m just going to Bank the walls around the pipe fittings, because they’ll be behind the vanity and no one will know I didn’t paint them.”

Before I carried the wax-coated closet bolt and long screw out to the couple, I grabbed the toilet paper holder and towel ring off the floor. Those were going too, and they might as well go now. All items were received gratefully, and the husband appeared to enjoy my explanation of the screw. I went back in to paint, but before I made it through the house a knock fell on the door.

I think we all know who it was.

“I’m so sorry to keep bothering you,” she said, and she really did look embarrassed. “But our cell phone doesn’t always work right. Can I leave some more numbers in case that one doesn’t work?”

“Sure, no problem.” I fetched the pen and pad again, and dutifully wrote down their home number and her mother’s number.

This time, they didn’t come back.

We got a quote yesterday from someone to tile the two showers. Currently, the showers have been Banked, with thin plastic panels from Lowe’s glued to the beadboard walls to stop water, along with thin plastic soap dishes. We looked at all the panels at Lowe’s, and briefly considered getting some better ones, but would really like to have the showers tiled.

It was with great excitement last night that I opened the email with the quote from the tiler.

“Woohoo!” I exclaimed to Robyn, when I saw it. “He’ll do it for $715, tile and all. That’s perfect.”

And then I realized that was a quote for just one shower. He wants $400 per shower for labor. Eight hundred dollars to install $500 of tile. That’s $8 per square foot of tile for labor.

I wouldn’t pay $8 for a square foot of good sex.

So, we can add “bathroom tiling” to the list of things I’ll be able to do by the time we’re finished with the Smallville house. And while we’re adding to the list, based on the other quotes I got this week, go ahead and add “installing mini-blinds” (he wanted $1400 to put in blinds that I can buy for $800 and do myself) and “installing a burglar alarm” ($600-$1200 for a wireless system I can buy and install myself for about $400).

Looks like I’ll be a Fred of all trades before too long.

Finally, I leave you with a challenge: watch the video below without laughing.

Oh, sure, it’s easy not to laugh at first. But give it two minutes and see if you can. I’m betting you can’t.