March of the Faucettos

I ain't tappin' that: "My Faucet" by Marcus Quigmire.
CC BY 2.0 Generic. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I have a dripping faucet in my bathroom. Maybe it only needs a washer, maybe it's something more. I do not know. I'm not a plumber. It's been like this for a week. The whole week, in fact, has been like this for a week.

So I called maintenance for my building, but they can't--or won't--do anything about the problem. I do not know why.

They tell me to call a plumber. Which is complicated by the fact that I don't own but rent a condo, so I have to get my landlord's permission to call a plumber.

And why do I rent a condo and not own one or rent an apartment instead, you ask? Because I live in a city that dreams of being socialist but is actually quite the capitalist--or perhaps is just shitty at and indifferent to both, like it is at pretty much everything service-oriented, transportation-based, or creative and inspiring. (Worst public art ever.) And thus there's no money in apartments, and only the wealthy can afford to own the condos. And while I do ok, I'm not at the "I just spent a million maple leaves on a 300 square foot condo" level of income. Maybe in another year. Or fifty.

Anyway, the landlord is cool, go ahead call the plumber, and I'll reimburse you, no problem. She's like that, and I believe her.

So I call the plumber and am asked what kind of faucet is it? As in what brand.

And I'm like, I don't know, it's in the bathroom, it's a bathroom sink faucet and there's no brand name on it. (I double-checked.)

"We only service Moën faucets." You know, the expensive, stylish ones, that emit a stream of lukewarm water onto a flat rock. The water glides from the flat rock into a tray, then dribbles into a minuscule drain, and eventually plunges into Lake Ontario or some such. And somehow you're supposed to shave in this sink, the Rube Goldberg machine of modern plumbing.

Well, hunh, I'm pretty sure there are other types of faucets out there, not just Moën, but never say never. You live in Canada, you get used to fewer retail options. (Really, are Grape Nuts that hard to import?) I'm guessing because it's a small country that, as mentioned, has a peculiar, middling, I dunno what do you wanna do? I don't know what do you wanna do? relationship with socialism, capitalism, and pretty much everything animate or inanimate.

"Do you have the parts?"

Well, no, because I don't know what the problem is, so why would I have the parts? It's probably a washer, and if it is, I'm sure you could spare one, but, honestly, I'M NOT A FUCKING PLUMBER SO HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?!

Interior monologue only, I promise.

"Well, we'll replace it with Moën and charge you for it if you don't have the parts."

Seriously, is Moën the Faucet Mafia and if you don't use them, you end up with a dead horse in your bed?

"Send us a picture of the faucet, try to identify it, and we'll get back to you next week."

Oh, I'll get right on that.

I suspect that if I were to do business with them--which I won't--they'd replace the entire sink, maybe even the cabinetry and the mirror, even though the faucet only needed a washer, because they feel impelled to make everything Moën.

(Or as one of my friends said when I related this story to him: "Sorry, you're going to have to move.")

I know Greta Thunberg won't be pleased with me, but I'm thinking of letting the faucet drip until it becomes a water feature or a fountain. (It's dripping hot water, so let's call it a hot spring or a thermal bath. Les Bains au Harbourfront peut-être ....) Then maybe I can build condos and retail around it, make lots of maple leaves, and retire early.

Screw librarianship. I think I should have become a plumber. I would have made a lot more money and get away with baring my teeth and my ass to the world for fun and profit.