We liked the plumber who was recommended to us as much as we liked the electrician who was recommended to us.
When he came out to look at the basement and check out what we needed to do to get the washer/dryer connection installed, he said that it was of course no problem. The way he said this, telegraphed a slight disappointment — at least that's what it seemed like, like he wanted to do more. Like when LeBron dunked on the basketball camper:
You know, like this is holding me back.
Maybe plumbers need to convey a certain confidence: I can dig out whole trenches in twenty minutes, lay eight-inch service lines out to the sewer for an entire street, weld together four floors of main in less time than it takes for you to shop at Trader Joe's — of course this is no problem.
We were also looking to change our hot water system. The oil furnace supplied the water for the radiators and the domestic supply. Home fuel oil is close to $4 a gallon. Plus, it felt like the boiler ran out of water when we'd take showers. We needed to do something.
We checked on an indirect-fired hot water system, but it still meant that we'd be paying money to heat up the water in the summer, so that seemed less efficient. The plumber encouraged us to think about a gas hot water heater, which was a lot cheaper than an indirect-fired system.
"If this were my house," he said — he likes to use this construct — "I'd have all gas." It was too expensive to get a new boiler but we did decide to get a gas hot water heater installed.
So the plumber took a look at the rest of the house and noted that we had copper pipes connected to the main — not lead), which was good. He pointed at the long ball valve handle and showed me where the water main shut off was. He also pointed at two regular gate valve handles and said never to touch those.
"See those?"
"Yup, yup," I said.
"Never touch those."
"Nope, nope," I nodded, "OK."
I understood what he was saying, but of course I wanted to know what those handles did.
Everything got done, the washer and dryer were installed (and worked) and getting a gas water heater was the best choice we could have made; the gas has only been running about $20 a month more, and this way we don't depend on a man to come and deliver oil for our hot water.
But I didn't learn my lesson with not touching stuff.
So in the bathroom there are two shut-off valves on the wall past the toilet, which I assume control the sink and shower, even though the sink has its own shut-off valves. I was curious about what they controlled, so I twisted them off, at which point the one on the left started leaking, then wouldn't stop leaking.
"Fuck me," I said, to no one in particular.
I ran down to the basement to the water main shut off and cut the water to the house. Then I chipped away at the tile and tried to see if I could change the leaky shut-off valve. It was stuck.
"Fuck me."
I went to the hardware store to figure out what to do. I told the man behind the counter what I did.
"It wasn't broken?" he said, shaking his head. "So why did you touch it?"
I know, I know: Don't touch it!
He sold me some Liquid Wrench.
I got home and sprayed the Liquid Wrench and started twisting. Nothing was moving. I had visions of summoning the plumber, who would say something along the lines of, "Of course we can fix this, but why did you touch it!?"
Out of frustration I started twisting the handle with the wrench. It moved, buckled and finally broke off:
And the most miraculous thing happened: I turned the water back on and, lo and behold, the handle stopped leaking. I looked around.
"Fuck me."
I poked at it; nothing seemed wrong. So I got out some grout and sealed it up.
If you asked the three of us whether we felt like we've had good lives so far, I think all three of us would say that we have been blessed, for sure. We've traveled to many wonderful places. We've had fun times with wonderful friends. We're all healthy and happy. But nothing could compare to the day we finally got a washer and dryer.
If you've had to use a laundromat, you understand. Even if you had access to units in your building, you understand. Nothing makes life easier than a washer and dryer. Not even a dishwasher.
We've had some tough stretches. We spent six years in our old apartment without a washer or dryer in our building. Then there was the dark era of no laundromat in our neighborhood, which lasted about six months or so, if memory serves, back when a sales office for an expensive new condo took over the space of the one laundromat in existence within a mile of us. Nothing changes a neighborhood like losing a laundromat.
For a time we took our laundry on the subway to a laundromat near one of the stops on our line. We did this once or twice. It was miserable. Then whenever we had a rental car, we took laundry to the 24-hour laundromat the next neighborhood over. That was miserable, too. Then we finally found a pick-up service that wasn't completely overpriced. We used that until a new laundromat opened in our neighborhood. I was so happy when the new laundromat opened.
But here's the thing about using a laundromat: It sucks. It sucks to bundle up all your dirty shit and traipse down the street to do laundry. I avoided it as much as possible. We'd go four, five or even six weeks between doing laundry. And then it would take me all day to do the laundry. No kidding — about an hour to sort the stuff, 15 or 20 minutes making trips hauling it back and forth to the laundromat, another ten minutes stuffing it into the machines, a half-hour for the cycle (which, I now know, is totally chintzy and doesn't do much for getting stuff clean), another 15 minutes to load the dryers, an hour for that cycle and another 15 or 20 minutes making trips back and forth from the laundromat. Then the folding. I could spend hours folding all those clothes. It was horrible. Horrible.
So the first big ticket item we got for the house was a washer and dryer. Best thing we did. We could have spent $30,000 and it still would have been worth it.
We did have to get a little bit of work done to prepare the basement for the washer and dryer, but we had some great recommendations, and the work went well. First, they took out a utility sink and changed the drainage so it wasn't flowing into the vent pipe:
Then they ran a gas line for the dryer and a vent out to the backyard:
Then it was turkey time:
We spent the next week just doing laundry. Felt so good. So damn good.
Now I know what people who have washers and dryers think when they see you busting your hump trying to peer out from four weeks of laundry over your shoulder: You sad chump. You sad, sad chump.
When we moved into Kawama we were excited to see that one of our neighbors was a Phillies fan — at least that's what we assumed by the car and its Phillies license plate holder and window stickers.
I think Goober was the first to approach the owner of the car. We were all curious how someone so deep in Mets country could be a Phillies fan. He said something about vacationing in Clearwater, the Phillies' spring training home in Florida, and developing an affinity for the team. Over the summer we'd chat every now and again about the Phillies, say, about Michael Martinez's first big league home run or whatnot.
If the Phillies had gone to the World Series against, say, the Yankees, I hoped a writer would find one more Phillies household on the block and then we'd be profiled as the block in Queens with the most Phillies fans.
That, of course, didn't happen ("We dared for a single season to behave like Yankees fans, to cheer for our team with a swagger instead of hesitation, and in the end we took a kick to the stomach"), and within days of the Phillies' season unceremoniously ending in the first round, the guy across the street replaced his Phillies license plate holder and window stickers with a New England Patriots license plate holder and window stickers.
It's one thing to root for the Phillies because you vacation in Clearwater — even though the Mets are the home team, you have this special link with a different team — fine, I get that. But rooting for the Jets' arch-rival can only be construed as a blatant fuck you to New York City. In my mind this started when Bloomberg announced he was running for a third term, or perhaps when Con Ed couldn't figure out how to get the electricity back on for like a week back in 2006. That's what I'd like to think this is about.
But just the idea that there's one guy in Queens who not only roots for the Patriots but who is so flashy about it is of course really funny to me. Look, New York is a wonderful city. I feel very fortunate to live here. I enjoy living here. But one thing I am physically incapable of ever doing is rooting for its sports teams. I used to say that I only miss two things about my home town: My family and the sports teams. That's still the case, but there's something else at play here when it comes to supporting New York's teams.
One, they don't need me. There are more than enough fans in the 40-million-plus Metropolitan Statistical Area to support two NFL, MLB and NBA franchises, and three NHL franchises. For the most part, those teams dominate if not in wins than at least in financial resources. They could succeed without fans at all.
No, it's something else, which just could be that there's just something really unappealing about latching on to New York teams. I can't quite pin it down. If I moved to Cleveland I might start rooting for the Cavaliers. If I found myself in Vancouver I might bring myself to cheer for the Canucks. But the Yankees? The Giants? The Rangers? The Knicks? God, no.
Maybe one day I'll figure out what it is exactly but for now, I'll just chalk it up to an innate contrarianism.
Which is why tomorrow I sort of want to bring a dozen chicken wings across the street, just as a little wink, like "I feel you, bro." Because the only thing this could possibly be is a Class A Contrarianism, and if we find one more example we could be written up as the most contrarian street in Queens.
