So. I’ve been “working” with a plumber now for almost three weeks. He gave me the original estimate on replacing the galvanized pipes, so I went with him. Then he went on vacation. And now he’s back and he’s, like, cranky about working on my plumbing.
Everything seems to be a royal pain in his ass. He shows me the corroded and crusted out original pipes to the house in an accusatory fashion, like I did this to him. On purpose. He’s annoyed because I’m replacing the 1970s aqua vanity with a pedastal sink and he has to change the fittings or whatever in the bathroom floor. He’s irritated that to access the second floor pipes, he’ll need to get in to the kitchen ceiling. Which requires cutting drywall. I’m like, “um…but isn’t this your job?”
Yes, Tony, I want to try to salvage the original tile floor in this 1920s house. And yes, I realize that’s a gamble and that crappy linoleum is often used to cover up even crappier tile. I suspect that he would be a whole lot happier if I was like “Dude, don’t worry about the tile/my kitchen ceiling/counter/floor,—just do what ya gotta do and seriously, don’t sweat replacing the drywall.”
My boyfriend tells me to call in his contractor buddy to deal with Tony. But you know what? I think that one of my responsibilities as a homeowner is learning how to negotiate with recalcitrant workmen who walk on my counters.
So that is my plan for tomorrow. Tony needs an exit strategy out of my house; I need a workable kitchen. Let’s make it work.