Recently I was overcome with a need to give myself a pedicure. This desire crops up once or twice a year. Normally I let the professionals do their thing while I read some fluffy magazine about celebrities and how they're just like you and me. (Cynicism implied.) But this time I was going to do it myself down to the foot soak.
Our master bath has a jetted tub that sits in the corner all white and shiny. In the two years we've lived in this house the tub has not been used once. It just sits there as a decorative piece. I decided to fire the beast up least enough to soak my tootsies. So I turned the faucet...and I turned...and turned. Not a drop of water rushed out. Surprised and frustrated, I called Hubby into the bathroom. He removed the panel that covers the motor and plumbing. Astonished that there was even a panel, I peered into the tub's guts. Yep, there's the motor. Sure, I see how the plumbing runs to the faucet. We looked for a valve that may have been turned off by the previous owners. And we looked and looked. No valve.
Certainly I am smarter than a porcelain tub. I ran downstairs to see how the plumbing runs into the tub. Since our lower level is finished, there was not much to look at (unless I wanted to remove dry wall). Back upstairs Hubby kept turning the faucet hoping beyond hope that something would happen.
We are two dolts too ashamed to call a plumber who will charge us $5000 an hour to come out, make one minor adjustment and laugh his way into a financially secure retirement.
There should be an exam to pass before you can officially buy a house. I'm sure we would have taken the cram class and bought the Cliffs Notes.
Aug 15, 2010
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