Emchap's Shit from the Internet 05/22/19 🍠
I have spent much of the last week down a goofy home plumbing k hole, which would be sort of standard issue if I was a suburban homeowner, but is a sort of futile (if fun) way to spend my time as an urban renter. I can't control any of the plumbing in my house. The ugly all-in-one shower is going to be there until the house no longer is; the weird horn of plenty-themed tile pre-dates me and will be here once I'm gone. But, still, there are some thing I can change in the house, and I've spent the week learning about them.
It started with trying to install a bidet, because I read an Apartment Therapy article at just the right emotionally weak moment, and Amazon exists. The article assured me that it would be easy to install, and then I'd have the cleanest butt in all the land, and as someone who owns an Ikea toolset and a digestive tract that is heavily cued to my stress level, that seemed appealing.
Actually installing the unit was—true to the article—remarkably easy. The trouble started when I had to attach the existing toilet water line to a splitter in order to actually divert water to the bidet. It started fine—I got the water turned off without incident, mostly emptied the tank, had a flexible hose in the back of the toilet like the pictures showed—and promptly went to hell.
My water line connector didn't look like anything I could find online, and when I tried to move the only piece that seemed willing to budge in the general area, the tank emptied its remaining water onto me (and the floor, and some bath sheets). I eventually wound up video calling my dad (who was doing something more enjoyable with his Friday evening, like a normal person) who agreed that it looked weird and that plumbing is hateful. He suggested I douse everything in dish soap to see if that did anything.
I figured it wouldn't make things worse, and so soaped the whole situation up. I had finally decided that the part of the assembly that kept causing the toilet to dump water on me probably was not meant to be moved, and that the bit below was perhaps just stuck, because my house is from the 1920s and the toilet is probably from the 1980s and life is a long string of punishments. This turned out to be correct, and the stupid stuck rubber stopper finally started to turn, freeing the water line.
Hooking everything up went without incident, until I turned the water back on. It was at that point that I discovered that (though routing correctly) the assembly was now made of leaks. I attempted to use some of the provided teflon tape, but it was hardly enough, and seemed to make no difference. (It made no difference because I'd fucked it up, but still.)
I texted a neighbor friend to see if her home might contain a larger wrench than mine (in the feeble, misguided hope that if I just tightened everything I'd be okay), and an hour later her boyfriend (a deeply solid dude) appeared at my door with his non-Ikea tool kit in a bigass case.
Because he is nice, he tried to hook everything up himself, on the assumption that I might have just fucked it up (which, fair). It was somewhat comforting to see that the whole assembly spit water on him, too; if I had screwed it up, it wasn't in a deeply obvious way.
I spent the rest of the evening (including support from twitter friends, who told me to go buy more tape, and a trip to Home Depot to do so) hammering away at the problem, with no luck. I finally threw up my hands and wrote to the company to say that I was pretty sure something was up with the adapter, for which they're now very kindly sending me a replacement. (My plan is to wrap everything in teflon tape, add the new part, and pray.)
Even though the project is still half-finished—I currently have an installed bidet to nowhere—it was pleasant to fuck around in the physical world for a while. So much of my time is occupied in producing intangible products, and there is something enjoyable about having a project give you immediate (damp) feedback. It's the same thing I enjoy about baking (your cake was good or it wasn't, but either way you can hold it) and my backyard pocket garden (where I go to stare at the plants as if to reassure myself that I have some impact on the world).
I look forward to seeing if the replacement part fixes the problem; if nothing else, I need to give my friend his toolkit back.
Shit to read
I have been sitting with this article's point about the ways in which we misuse the term emotional labor since I read it. I do think that it's correct; I do also think that we need a word for the maintaining of social bonds that is so heavily given to women in the US.
Read this great article on hobos.
I don't entirely agree with the author's premise (in part because I think they misunderstand why young women like Didion, who wrote about a particular kind of mid-20s depression and panic so well), but it's a fair point that Joan Didion is kind of a huge asshole.
This AHP response to a Bret Stephens op-ed is delicious.
This article about a horse and good death made me sob. (Yes, I was a horse girl.) This one on finding love in middle age, from the same author, did not make me sob but is very good.
Hell yeah get vasectomies. I have been sitting with this weird surge of (irrational) anger at Bell's note that he didn't want to face pain in a medical context (which like of course he doesn't, no one does) because I think so few people with vulvas ever get messaging that reproductive healthcare (or reproductive life in general!) can exist without some degree of pain. And that is infuriating!
Money can't buy class but it can definitely buy you better media training than this lady has received. Reporters! Are not! Your friends! The people who don't tell you that your art is fundamentally stupid; those are your friends.
I loved this piece on aging and death and memory. (Shoutout to my sister's future children who are going to have to deal with me hanging out in their houses.)
This piece on religion and Houston and drugs is just fucking phenomenal, and ties so, so well to the season 2 finale of Fleabag, which (as anyone who follows me on Twitter knows) has me fucked up right now. Both deal with love and the divine and the concept of grace in a way that is profoundly compelling to me. (Everyone please talk to me about this stupid TV show it's so good and I am resentful of how compelling the chemistry is between Moriarty actor and the lead.)
Bog bodies are old; glacier bodies are in now.
Shit to eat
Haul yourself over to the grocery store while resentful and starving.
Grab pita, the Armenian garlic sauce that is sold only at this grocery chain and the chicken place you're imitating, some persian cucumbers, and some currently-in-season cherries.
Take your granny cart and toddle home.
Put the pita in the toaster, wash and chop the cucumber, dollop on some garlic sauce, and add in whatever wilting vegetables in your fridge can be eaten raw.
Put the pita and the vegetables and the sauce on a plate. Ring with cherries.
Add a quarter of the chicken. Your hands will be covered in chicken fat. You will not care.
Eat in front of the TV, watching whatever TV show you're currently plowing through, and hum the Mountain Goats song about the possum to yourself.
Shit to watch
I loved this "Poncho and Lefty" cover. As I learned from the piece above, TVZ was addicted to codeine cough syrup. I somehow failed to learn this from his actual work, much of which is about being addicted to codeine.
Shit to buy
I think I'm about to replace my coffee table with ottomans (once I tackle the bidet and getting a new showerhead and painting the stupid bathroom something other than "bad yellow", its current color), and I like this one.
I did replace my hand towel rack with this inoffensive one. It is attached to my wall with velcro command strips because I am lazy/have broken drill bits.