I came into the downstairs bathroom (i.e., MY bathroom) on Saturday to see that “replace the flapper valve” in the running toilet (5 minutes project) had somehow turned into my husband trying to contort himself between the cabinet and the throne to see how difficult it would be to take off the tank to replace the… other part, that I’m not going to look up. Suffice to say, a more complicated part.
Now I’ve fixed a lot of toilets over the years. This was an unofficial part of my job description at the theatre where I worked. Teach kids. Direct plays. Fix cranky toilets. At the ranch I laid pipe and fixed stock tank valves and pulled the pump out of our well (many many many times…) tinkered with it and put it back in. I’m not a stranger to plumbing.
But one of the benefits of our stage in life (which is not that old, actually, just more suburban and sedentary) is that we may not be able to contort into weird positions anymore, but we can afford to pay someone to do it for us.
Which sounds kind of dirty when you say it that way. Huh.
ANyway. Mr. RCM was easily convinced to call a plumber. I hope this is not a decision I will regret, since I made this suggestion blithely forgetting all those jokes about how much plumbers charge. Think good thoughts.