I swear, as God is my witness, I am going to learn my lesson.

I got it in my head (thanks to encouragement from Renee to enjoy my house now BEFORE I sell it) that we should make some repairs.  I told my husband that we were going to change the faucet in our bathroom. 

D: Why can't we just wait for the home inspector to find it?
K:  Find what?  The leak, the lack of a stopper or the drip?

I was given "the Look."  You know that look. 

D:  Why can't we just offer the seller $1000 in lieu of fixing this crap?
K:  Um, I don't know.  Because we don't HAVE $1,000 and the faucet only costs $48.

Off we went to the hardware store.  Because we still go to the town hardware store.  Where all the men treat you like you have three heads if you, as a woman, consider even approaching a DIY project.  They love pregnant women even better.  It reminds them to ask you to take your shoes off and step into the kitchen section to make the picture complete.

So there we were, the three of us, trying to install this damn faucet.  And sure enough after I got the whole thing together, it leaked.  Derek took it all apart again and then I put it all back together.  The Boy offered me a wrench which I considered pounding on my own head.  I finally realized that the bottom pipe was rusted out.  Son of a biscuit.  

D:  NOW do you understand why I don't want to do these projects?

I would have preferred "nannie, nannie boo boo.  I told you so."

Did I mention that I need two water lines as well?  I'm thinking about wearing my "it was fun practicing" maternity shirt to the hardware store tomorrow.  Why not blow their minds completely?


Side note:  thanks to Brett Faaaavvvv--rrrreee's non-playing last night, I'm stuck in the 100 Acre Wood with the rest of the losers.  I'm seeing a page boy haircut and going as Christopher Robin.  Kind of like my own personal tranny Halloween.