vituperation

Have you ever had something become the bane of your existence? The downstairs shower in Smallville is mine.

It all started with a call from Robyn, and a report that after she took a shower water came out from under the tub. I spent several minutes experimenting, and discovered the problem only happened when the shower was running. And that’s how we ended up having some of that brand new tile cut out.

The tile guy called me when he got the tile removed, and let me know he’d found the problem: the shower arm was cheap plastic (not a surprise, given the other things we’d found that the previous owners did) and had cracked. Thus, when water was diverted up to the shower it sprayed out behind the wall, ran down, and ended up under the tub, where it ran out because the 75-year-old house has some character slants here and there.

While the tile was out, we decided to have the whole faucet replaced, because the new knobs didn’t fit the old hardware so well and kept coming off. We had the upstairs shower faucet replaced, too. Fortunately the tile guy only had to remove a few tiles in each shower for the plumber. But still, we had to pay for: the original tiling and grout, new knobs which wouldn’t stay on, a new shower arm, to have the tile removed for the new faucets, the new faucets, a plumber to install the new faucets, the new tile and grout, and to have the new tile replaced.

All of the new work took about two weeks, because the tile guy stays pretty busy doing big jobs, mostly in Tennessee. Finally, though, it was done, and Friday afternoon I went into the bathroom to put the escutcheon and external hardware on the new faucet. The tile guy was kind enough to loosely put them on for us so Robyn could take a bath.

When the plumber finished hooking up the new faucets several days before, he showed me how things all hooked together in the final assembly. There’s a bracket around the valve mechanism behind the wall. After the pieces go on the outside, long screws go through it all and into that bracket. Tightening the screws pulls everything together, with the bracket against the back of the wall and the escutcheon on the front. Perfect.

Or was, until I realized the tile guy took the brackets out before he put the new tile in. That there was nothing for the screws to attach to, no way for the external hardware to be held in place.

And then found out that SHE WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS threw the brackets away because she thought they were trash. Not that I’m blaming her — the tile guy left them laying with the rest of the broken tiles and trash.

I consulted with the definitive expert on all things home repair, whom I casually call ‘dad’, and we concluded that I could use silicone to hold the escutcheon on place. The actual mechanism is virtually movement-free already, so the only real problem is keeping the escutcheon from spinning, and keeping water from behind it.

Yesterday morning I spent a half hour putting silicone in, taking the time to make sure it looked nice. By the late afternoon it was dry. Not only did it look good, the escutcheon was movement free. Because I’d been working outside all day, finishing the chicken coop and getting the fenceposts set, I decided to take a shower before heading back to suburbia.

That’s when I found out that we spent an extra thousand dollars to not get rid of the original problem. Except now, the water sprays out of the hole in the tile where the shower arm goes in and runs down behind it and out from under the tub.

So I guess we got that for our money.

I feel like a fake in Smallville. Don’t get me wrong — I love it out there and can’t wait to get moved (downstairs bath notwithstanding. Robyn just called and told me one of the mirrors fell off the medicine cabinet and broke at 2:30 this morning) so I won’t have to drive back and forth from house to house. As much as I love it, and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, I don’t feel like I fit in.

When a neighbor came down a few days ago to introduce herself, we stood and talked for several minutes. About church, and how we haven’t decided on a church home. I thought that was a better direction to take than the whole “I don’t believe in God” route. I suspect that wouldn’t have gone over well. This particular neighbor introduced herself by saying, “I live over there, and go to church over there,” while pointing to the two locations.

Or at the corner store. They’re also perfectly nice and accepting. Sure, they tease a little, but it’s not mean teasing, just ribbing. But I feel like a great big sore thumb when I’m there, sticking out all over the place.

As much as I love it, I feel like a poseur when I’m on the tractor, riding around hatless in my shorts and t-shirt instead of overalls and flannel. Feel like everyone’s driving by and thinking, look at the faker, trying to be a country boy when he ain’t nothin’ but cityfolk!

Do they do that? I’m sure they don’t, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a wannabe.

It was really driven home at the co-op yesterday. For those not in the know: the co-op is a local agricultural store, the “farmer’s cooperative.” It’s not a wannabe store like Tractor Supply, it’s the real thing. As I stood in line to pay for my poisons, fertilizers, chicken feed, and creosote fenceposts, I looked around. Everyone knew each other. They all talked with the same deep south accent I worked so hard to get rid of. They all dressed similarly, and it wasn’t in Dockers and a snarky t-shirt. They talked about church, and livestock, and family. Most of all, they all looked like they knew what they were doing in the co-op, not like a yuppie pretending to get “back to the land”. They looked like they belonged.

Worst of all, it dawned on me as I stood there that my t-shirt said Hike faster, I hear banjoes! on the back.

No, scratch that. Worst of all was when my cell phone rang while I was trying to pay and everyone fell silent while the city boy desperately tried to shut off Bono’s voice announcing he was at a place called Vertigo.

It always amuses me how much I overanalyze things. I’m sure to all them I’m just another guy in the store. But in my head, I suspect I’ll always feel like this guy:

Robyn boiled up a couple of eggs for me to give to the girls (whom we refer to as “my bitchez” when we talk about them) yesterday. They sure are getting big. Plans are for them to move outside next weekend.

Here’s the rest of the coop construction:

Framed and ready to build nesting boxes

Four nesting boxes, all in a row

With the back on. Note the flip-up piece…

…to make egg retrieval easy. It locks, to keep predators out.

With the sides and front on. The front door locks (predators), and also
has a hook to hold it open during the day. There’s a flip-up vent above the door,
with hardware cloth behind it, for ventilation.

The final coop, which Robyn will paint sometime this week.

Looking in the front. The sticks are roosts. For roosting.