Hey, we're back. I moved to Chicago recently for grad school. Lost my job of seven years. So it goes.
Where were we?
How's Chicago going, you ask? Here's a highlight from my first month:
I installed a bidet yesterday. It took two attempts, partially because I almost flooded my bathroom as an unintentional intermission.
The apartment I live in was once inhabited by a goblin. According to the maintenance guy and leasing agent, the place required some organic grass-fed all-natural elbow grease to turn over. I'm still getting acquainted with its little quirks - they did a good job, but it seems like every day or so I uncover some sealed evil buried in a corner.
Anyway, a bidet. Love it, nothing better than reducing paper use. It's 2024, I think we've moved past analogue toiletries.
Ordered a basic one, no frills. A solid foundation, entry-level if you will. The box promised easy installation, and it was:
1. Attach the hose to the bidet body.
2. Attach the bidet body to the toilet seat.
3. Turn off the water pressure to the toilet, let the tank drain.
4. Attach the T-junction, reattach all the hoses.
5. Turn on the water pressure and voila.
As I went to turn the water pressure back on, the rusted-through knob snapped off at the pipe after a quarter-turn, unleashing the strongest jet of water I've seen in a long time. The knob gets blasted across the bathroom and I'm blinded by a combination of water and wild animal panic.
There's nothing at hand to block the water except my body, so I jam my thumb against the nozzle to prevent the biblical flood from drowning the sins of my bathroom. Wipe my face. Give myself a 5-count of unfiltered, grade-A panic. Consider my options.
My phone is on the sink above me, the podcast continuing as if my heart isn't beating fast enough to drive a rave to ruin. I reach up, dial my maintenance guy, leave a shouty, urgent message about flooding my apartment. Navigate to the leasing company's website, put in an urgent "please come in without my permission, I'm fighting for my life here" maintenance request.
Consider my options. I'm attached to the wall by my thumb. My apartment is 450 square feet, give or take. The floor of the bathroom is already covered in a thin layer of water from the five seconds of spray. If I let it go, I run the risk of flooding my entire unit. I don't have anything here I can plug it with.
The knob. That'll have to do for now, hopefully. I'm not religious, but I pray it's still in the bathroom and not fifteen feet away beneath my bed.
There! In the corner behind the door, just within reach of my stretching foot. Thank god I've cultivated monkey-toes; I grab it, thumb still firmly pressed into the broken valve, and shove it back into the wall. It's stuck fast, thankfully. I get every towel in my apartment and barricade the threshold in case the book of Genesis returns to my bathroom.
Thankfully, when the maintenance guy arrives twenty-five minutes later, God's wrath is still sealed away. He turns off the water to the unit and takes out the knob - the water spray smacks him in the face.
He's never seen anything like it. How is it still pressurized? He says it'll drain eventually, and I empty out my water pitcher, my mixing bowls, my glasses, and we catch the rest of the water as it empties out. "A lotta stuff still in there?" he's laughing, but it's the desperate laugh of a man who doesn't know if he'll be alive when the sun sets.
He replaces the valve, replaces the tube - "Oh, wow, that's a lot of corrosion" - and turns the water back on. We stand over the toilet like the Vega brothers over an open car trunk, but there's no signs of life.
"That was quick thinking with the finger," he said as he dumps three mixing bowls of water into the bathtub. "With water pressure like that, it would have flooded this entire unit in less than 5 minutes. Should be fine now, just have to keep an eye on it."
"Great." My brain is already busy totaling the value of everything in here and comparing it to my renter's insurance. Does my insurance cover interior flooding? Wraths of god? How many completely fresh starts can I brute-force before I embrace complete ascetic minimalism?
Days later, the bathroom is still dry and the bidet was a great decision.
Chicago's pretty fun, too.
