I Am Woman [part I]

On my first trip to Home Depot on Sunday morning, the second of what would be four trips in total that weekend, I purchased something called a basin wrench.

On Saturday, I'd asked Aziz what tools I'd need to remove my old faucet and install the new one. He listed an adjustable wrench and a screwdriver, and recommended plumber's putty for creating a seal between the chrome plate and the countertop, but he never said anything about a basin wrench.

It was 10:00 Sunday morning and there was no Aziz in aisle 8, the Aisle of the Faucets. There was, however, a plumbing associate named Hal, an older gentleman who walked with a bit of a slouch and whose face, when I came closer to him, held the expression of a man who hasn't seen his children in ten years.

Hal was standing in front of the wall o' faucets, so I told him I was having a plumbing problem and simultaneously reached up and removed the demo model of my Moen Banbury faucet off the wall, turned it upside down, and showed him the hexagonal bolt I couldn't reach with my adjustable wrench.

"You need a basin wrench," he said, and led me over to aisle 9. I followed, still carrying the demo faucet.

Hal plucked the package containing the wrench from the wall, opened it, and demonstrated its use on the demo Moen faucet. When he flipped the rubber head to a 90° angle I realized this was the tool Donny had been describing to me at Maria's party. I'm not sure whether he called it by its proper name and I just forgot, or whether he just referred to it only as a wrench — when Donny starts talking about tools the conversation moves out of my league quite quickly. Sometimes that happens when we talk about cars, too, but if you ever tell him that I'll deny it.

Back home, basin wrench unpackaged and in hand, the Tragically Hip live concert DVD (which I got for Christmas from Markus and Amy) playing on the TV, I'm back under my kitchen cupboards and whaddyaknow, that basin wrench fits perfectly in between the big stainless steel boobs. A little WD-40, a few turns, and poof, the old faucet is loose. Such elegance.

(Go ahead and laugh at me, Gentle Reader, but I have to tell you, I haven't been this excited about an addition to my toolbox since the miter box I bought back when the X and I installed crown moulding in our livingroom.)

So there I am, just emerging from under my sink, hexagonal bolt successfully removed, my hair unwashed and streaked with WD-40, wearing my very best sweatpants and a navy blue hoodie sweatshirt, and, selbsverständlich, no makeup, when the doorbell rings.

It's Boz.

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In the next story, Postmodern Sass and her new friend, the Naked KnitGirl, go to The Banknote. You'll find out what happened when Postmodern Sass answered the doorbell on Tuesday.