#leaky faucet plumber

[tucsontoiletrepair]

Kitchen & Bathroom Plumbing Repairs Tucson

[sithbelle]

It turns out, getting a kitchen sink fixed can be quite the ordeal.

[helloemergencyservices]

How to repair a leaky faucet in Warrington

Stop the water and remove the handle

Turn off the water. If the faucet is on the second floor of a multi-story house, you may have to wait a minute for the water to drain.

To remove the handle, you will probably need to unscrew a set screw with a hex wrench or small screwdriver.

If the house has old galvanized pipes, turning the water off and back on will likely expose debris in the pipes that will clog faucet aerators and showerheads throughout the house.

Find replacement disks

Remove the cylinder that contains the disks and take it to a hardware or home improvement store for replacement parts. The O-rings can be pried out of the cylinder with your fingers.

Remove rubber seals

On some models, you can remove the base plate to expose the rubber seals. Remove them with a small screwdriver, being careful not to damage the plastic housing. If the cylinder is cracked or scratched, replace it. Otherwise, buy a set with the rubber seals and O-rings.

Clean parts

Before replacing the rubber parts, carefully clean the seats with a toothbrush or non-metallic abrasive pad to remove debris and dirt.

Reassemble the cylinder

Reassemble the cylinder and seat it so that it faces the same direction as before.

Find the right parts

Finding the right parts can take more time than working on the faucet. To avoid multiple purchases, remove the worn parts - maybe even the entire faucet - and take them to the store.

Chances are, your faucet will look and function similarly to one of them. However, there are hundreds of faucet types, so you may have an unusual model with hard-to-find parts.

Call the Emergency Plumber in Warrington. We are your right contact partner. Call us now, 01925941004.

[avantelplumbing]

Avantel Plumbing of Chicago IL

Website : https://chicagoplumber.avantel.net/

Address : 1000 West Harrison St, Chicago IL 60680

Phone : +1 (312) 265-2745

Avantel Plumbing Drain Cleaning and Water Heater Services of Chicago IL provides quality plumbing and exceptional service to our customers in the Chicago Illinois Metropolitan area. We work all types of projects including residential, commercial, or industrial, and our types of service include water heaters, toilets, sinks, faucets, sewer, main line and drain cleaning, toilet back ups, bathrooms sinks & bath tubs, garbage disposals, shower drains, floor drains, septic tanks, bio clean maintenance treatments, water lines, water softeners and filtration, backflow testing, frozen pipes, drain repairs, sump pumps, gas lines, repipe, and other home services. We are serving metro Chicago for all your plumbing needs. Give us a call at (312) 265-2745.

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[portraitoftheoddity]

House ownership so far

I moved in at the beginning of May and it's been.... a project. This house is earning the title of my problem child, lol.

So far, I have:

Seemingly gotten rid of the mice (fingers crossed)

Discouraged the scouting carpenter ants (FUCK OFF YA LITTLE BASTARDS)

Removed soooo many spider webs. (I don't hate spiders, just don't want 'em *inside* my house thanks.)

Cleaned up a truly apocalyptic quantity of mouse poop and sterilized so many surfaces. I needed a shop vac for the basement. I still haven't cleaned out one part of the basement that I'm dreading, and need to vacuum the attic.

Replaced all the locks, which involved a chisel to get the strike plates in a place where the deadbolts would actually connect

Caulked up so many holes

Got a plumber to replace the leaky water heater valve

Got a quote for new fencing (mom got bored and came over and tore down the rotted out segments of fence and pulled up the shitty wire fence out back, which I helped her roll up.)

Replaced the stove, since the mice had colonized the old one and rendered it unusable

As of today, I have adequate water filtration so the water comes out clear and is safe to drink! And I don't have to fill up from my parents' well or the town spring.

Tore down the wallpaper in one of the upstairs rooms (now my office) and repainted the wall

Repainted the living room/dining room/front hall where the walls were scuffed to hell

Installed doorbells

Deep cleaned the most disgusting side door I've ever seen

Got an EMERGENCY plumber because the bath faucet broke and wouldn't turn off at 10 at night. X_X

Assembled a medicine cabinet, but haven't hung it up yet

Assembled a new bookcase. Because priorities.

Called the electric company about getting the rotting trees removed that are in danger of falling on THEIR power lines that run through my property (need to follow up)

Have a basement guy working on stabilizing the foundation from the inside by sealing up the crack and adding carbon fiber supports

Put down a deposit with a landscape contractor to install drainage to lessen further foundation issues from water pressure flowing down the hill I'm on

Repainted the guest bedroom, and assembled a bedframe for it

Installed hook latches for the upstairs doors whose knobs don't latch because they're 75 years old

And honestly I feel like I've barely had the chance to touch anything since I am also working full time and freelancing part time on top of that and my job is nuts right now. I have a whole color coded spreadsheet of everything I need to do. I want to repaint both bathrooms and the kitchen, I need to hang the damn medicine cabinet, I want to build a pantry cabinet in the kitchen so I can turn the front hall closet I'm using as a pantry into a hall closet, I want to set up the basement as a chill out den, and there is sooooo much work to do outside I'm trying not to freak out about it because apart from keeping the lawn mowed, I'm trying to relegate most of it to "next year's projects."

I'm so tired.

[bettsfic]

I really don’t understand the concept “if you write you’re a writer” because “if you sing that doesn’t make you a singer”, “if you paint doesn’t necessarily mean your an artist” I feel like the first phrase is used so often to be inspirational but it also doesn’t make much sense. I’m not coming for anyone who uses that phrase I just want to understand the mindset behind it

i mean, that's a really good question.

first, i would argue you could also call yourself an artist and singer using the same logic as "if you write, you're a writer," so let's try a different comparison. if you fix a leaky faucet or a broken toilet, are you a plumber? exactly how many things do you have to fix to consider yourself a plumber? is it when you begin accepting money in exchange for fixing things? or is it when you receive licensure? or is it when it becomes your primary source of income?

it may seem easy. you become a plumber when you get a job as a plumber. to get a job you have to get a license. to get a license you have to apprentice someone and receive training. to receive training you have to find someone to formally mentor you. there's a process, a series of barriers to entry, and for each barrier there's an identity. you're an apprentice, then you're a plumber.

let's try with becoming a doctor. you're pre-med. you're a med school student. you're a resident. you're a doctor.

inevitably someone is going to send me an anon and correct my knowledge of plumbing but i'm not about to start googling information about plumbing just to answer an ask. please take it as an analogy.

plumbing is a lucrative profession. it's specialized knowledge of something that we all require in order to have running water.

being a doctor is a lucrative profession. it's specialized knowledge of the human body and life itself.

writing...is not a lucrative profession. there's no licensure. the only tool you need is a word processor and therefore a computer. the only education you need is basic literacy. no one gives you a full-time job to write creatively. copywriting, sure. ghostwriting, sort of. but to sit down and write what you're passionate about? there's no 401k there.

so without those barriers to entry, without that series of identities at various points in your path, at what point can you call yourself a writer? is it when you accept payment for your work? you can be a formally published, award-winning author and never have received a penny for it. is it when your primary income comes from your work? there are writers on the NYT bestseller list who have day jobs. in fact i don't know a single writer whose primary income is their writing. is it when an editor accepts your work for publication among a pool of other entries? editing is like writing; anyone can start a press or launch a lit mag. moreover, self-publishing is a thing, as well as vanity presses. is it when someone reads your work for their own enrichment without being asked? that's kind of a bizarre gate to have to walk through.

there is no single barrier for entry into writerhood. there is no calling. there is no natural-born talent. and no one is going to tell you you can't do it. well, they may try, but no one has the actual authority to stop you, even if it feels like it.

all creative pursuits are a choice you have to make for yourself when you're ready to, when you've decided your own barrier for entry into that identity. because there is no formal structure, no one else gets to define that identity for you. and so when people say, "if you write you're a writer," what they're really saying is that the only true measurable difference between someone who is a writer and someone who isn't is the act of writing itself.

[legobiwan]

Mario and Luigi for the drabble, “When I’m with you, I’m home.”

Thanks!

I realized I'm answering this one out of order. Whoops! Anyway, have some pre-Mushroom Kingdom conversations and lore-building as your author reminisces about the New York of the '90s.

~~~~~~

He wonders, sometimes, what their lives would have looked like if they had never left Brooklyn.

Barring a miracle - pretty bleak, in all honesty. Maybe being here, in the Mushroom Kingdom, was the miracle. He remembers the frenzied few days leading up to their disappearance. The previous few months had been a mess of unpaid bills and awful business decisions governed solely by spite and fear. They were probably a few months of missed rent payments away from eviction. They were definitely two days away from getting their kneecaps bashed in by some loan shark’s goons. 

He and Mario had gone for a walk, all the way down to Coney Island, 75th to Stillwell to Bowery, to the decrepit-looking Wonder Wheel and a depressingly empty Nathan’s Hot Dogs. It looked like the last of the hotels, some once-bright vestige of his mother’s era, had finally been condemned, tall wire fencing curling up towards the grey winter sky, a perfunctory guard which did nothing to keep out the local graffiti artists and homeless population. 

Luigi jammed his hands into his jean pockets, shivering. He couldn’t tell if he was freezing or terrified.

“What are we gonna do, Mario? We can’t stay here. If he doesn’t get us, the landlord will. You see how they’re starting to develop all that stuff around 86th Street. It’s going to travel north and we’re already behind two months in rent. We can’t stay in Bensonhurst.” Luigi sighed, little frozen puffs of air floating from his mouth. “I don’t even know if we can stay in Brooklyn at this rate.”

It was a miracle they weren’t out on the streets already. For once, their landlord’s habit of sitting around with a bottle of Thunderbird watching Honeymooners reruns and screaming at “that bum El Duque” to throw more strikes fell to their advantage. Sure, there was no such thing as maintenance in the dilapidated six-floor walk-up. But they were plumbers, tradesmen - a leaky faucet or misbehaving shower wasn’t going to be an issue.

Unfortunately, they weren’t also exterminators. 

Mario took a large bite of his hotdog, mustard splattering on the gum-stained sidewalk. It looked like something they’d hang in one of those trendy galleries that kept popping up in lower Manhattan, down around Houston Street. 

“We’re gonna be fine, Lou,” Mario said between bites, bits of bun falling from his mouth.

“We’re gonna end up homeless.” Or missing our kneecaps. Or worse.

Mario crammed the last of his dinner in his mouth, finishing off the hot dog with a few loud chews. He gave a contented sigh, licking at his greasy fingers before wiping his hands on his pants. “No, we’re not gonna be homeless. I’ve told you a million times, Lou, we could be in a cardboard box under the Van Wyck. When we’re together - “ Mario slung an arm around Luigi’s shoulder, pulling him in tight. “When I’m with you - I’m home. We’re unbeatable. And that means we’ll make it through this.”

Luigi eyed his brother’s yellow-tinged fingers and stained shirt cuff, hoping the impromptu moment of fraternal affection would pass. He could deal with Mario’s sunny optimism, usually. But living in a studio apartment one step up from a garbage dump had apparently encouraged his brother’s disposition towards a more slovenly existence. They might be home when they were together, but it wouldn’t hurt if Mario took a damn vacuum to himself once in a while. 

“Mario, I think this time - ”

“Oh, I get it.” The warm arm around his shoulder disappeared, his brother’s voice hardening. Luigi snapped his head to the side, his heart rocketing into his throat. What did I say this time?  

“It’s the location, isn’t it?” His brother gave him a searching, serious look. He looks just like Dad. He even seemed as if he were towering over Luigi, just like Dad used to, despite Mario being the shortest of the three of them. “You’d prefer a box under the BQE.”

Luigi gaped. “I - what?”

“Nah, nah, okay,” Mario waved his hands. “Let’s talk location. You wanna be by the Belt? Or maybe - “ A sly smile grew under his brother’s burgeoning mustache. “You want to move to Queens.”

“Oh my God,” Luigi groaned, slapping his forehead with his palm, pulling his hand down over his eyes. I’d move to Jersey if it got us out of this mess. “Mario, be serious.”

“I am serious! Your secret’s safe with me, bro. Even if you would betray Brooklyn like that." Luigi felt two steady hands take him by the biceps. “Besides, we’re gonna be okay.”

“Vinny Razzanti’s uncle said we had forty-eight hours,” Luigi groaned between his fingers.

Mario barked out a laugh. “Vinny Razzanti’s uncle couldn’t tell a pizza from a clock if we arranged the pepperonis the right way. The guy’s a dumbass.”

“Yeah, but he’s - “

“No, I ain’t hearing it.” Mario gently guided Luigi’s hands from his face, keeping his fingers wrapped around either wrist as he brought Luigi’s arms to his sides. “Look at me, Lou.”

Luigi swallowed down the wet desperation clawing its way up his throat, opening his eyes to his brother’s concerned, but steely gaze.

“If he comes, he comes. I’ve got a baseball bat next to the mattress and you can - “ Mario waved one of his arms in a broad gesture. “I dunno. Make some kind of exploding gadget or something. You used to want to show off your stuff to Cooper Union, right? Well, think of this as practice, you know, for the application.”

Luigi gave a small shake of his head. I don’t think home pyrotechnics meant to fend off low-level mafia muscle are going to impress the admissions committee. Not that they were going to waste their time with a twenty-one-year-old plumber’s application, anyway. That dream was long gone, buried in Cypress Hills along with their parents. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Mario’s voice broke through his dreary ruminations as he guided Luigi towards Bowery Street. “We’re gonna walk home, maybe pick up a cannoli on the way. Then we’re gonna check the answering machine. If we’re lucky - and I’m feeling pretty lucky right now - there will be a call from some lady in Borough Park.” His brother’s eyes gleamed. “No, even better, some widower in Carroll Gardens. One of those nice brownstones. She’s going to ask for our help. Clogged drains, backed up shower, toilet’s kablooey.” Mario made a slobbering sound meant to resemble a backed up toilet. Luigi thought he sounded like a dog on downers. “The whole shebang. We’ll say, of course, we can fix this, but we’ll have to charge the emergency rate. You know, business and all that. Three hours later - maybe four - boom! Vinny Razzanti’s uncle is out of the picture and we’ll be on our way to the good life.”

“You make it sound so simple, bro.” Luigi couldn’t quite contain the bite of sarcasm that accompanied that statement. 

As always, his brother took his waspishness in stride. Long strides, in fact, as they hurried past the metal skeletons that made up the Coney Island Train Yard, the whirr of traffic from the Belt Parkway rushing and thumping above them. Luigi felt like at any moment some old, rusted buckle would give way, sending a line of cabs and buses crashing into their heads.

He felt like that most of the time these days, to be honest. 

“It is simple, Luigi. You just gotta think positive. You never know what’s around the corner.” Mario tugged at his sleeve. “Now, come on. If we walk fast enough, we can get to Villbate’s before they close.”

“Alright, alright, you win, Mario. Something’s around the corner and for once, maybe it won’t be a guy with a baseball bat.” No. It won’t be a bat. It’ll be something worse. Like a flamethrower. Luigi was too tired to argue with his brother’s indomitable optimism. “Maybe we’ll get to your widower in Carroll Gardens and find the answers in her bathroom.”

Mario slapped his brother on the back. “That’s the spirit, Lou! Could be a whole new world waiting for us. Now let’s go - there’s a pistachio cannoli with my name on it and I am not missing out.”

“Hey, the pistachio cannolis are mine!”

“Not if you don’t run fast enough!” Mario gave his brother a playful push, taking off down Stillwell Avenue. Luigi watched his brother leap over a pile of trash bags, skittering between two cabs, one of which blared its horn in anger.

“Where you go, I guess I follow,” Luigi muttered to himself, adjusting his cap before taking off in his brother’s direction. And who knew? Maybe something was waiting for them around that corner.

[wondernus]

omg hiii idk if you'll remember me but I sent that one junhui req of him anonymously sending little gifts!!

anyway back with more jun, aka jun drunk confession bc A. they hits a soft spot in me and B. I feel like he deserves one or deserves to give one (your choice😌)

pairing: wjh x reader (gn)

tags: alcohol, drunk character, food | f2l, angst

wc: 800

a/n: omg hi anon!! of course, I remember you!! I know it's been MONTHS since you sent this ask so tysm for waiting this long (but it's oki if you forgot about this 😭). I hope life is treating you well and everything is going well for you.

He arrives home at around ten, happily singing “I’m home,” knowing that you’re the type of person to worry about him if he tells you he will be out late. And he hates seeing you sit in bed, eyebrows furrowed, and never able to sleep unless you know that your best friend is okay. So he hopes his little greeting can soothe your restless soul before you finally fall asleep.

Quietly shutting the door behind him, but not without stumbling around a lot, he hugs his plastic bag of convenience store snacks close to his chest. Because even drunk Jun, giggly and head-empty drunk Jun, would still go out of his way to go to the convenience store near his job to grab some items as you are the only person on his mind. And he drops the bag on the kitchen counter, flinching when he hears the crash and clang of the two aluminum cider cans against the granite countertop.

But home is dark, and the crashing sound of the bag against the counter echoes in the space it occupies. Maybe there is the echo of the leaky bathroom sink faucet you keep hounding him to get fixed or the occasional murmur from the television of the old couple next door, but tonight, Wen Junhui hears nothing. And it’s only when he finishes taking the contents out of his plastic bag that he realizes that he forgot to turn the lights on.

So he quietly giggles to himself, laughing at his silly little mistake. Because he is home, he can navigate the entire layout without opening one eye. He knows how the side table next to the couch angles outwards and how you align your house slippers neatly next to the shoe rack when you leave home while his slippers are always strewn across the entrance after he somehow always leaves for work a few minutes behind his schedule. He knows the way in which each room smells and how the kitchen smells after your failed attempt at flipping pancakes – how the hair straightener smells when you stand behind him while trying to style his hair.

Stumbling his way to the bathroom, he sighs in relief when he gets to lean against the bathroom sink counter while he washes his hands. Scrubbing the soap between each finger, being sure to clean underneath his fingernails, he makes a mental note to call the plumber tomorrow.

His phone vibrates when he receives a notification. It is a text from a drinking buddy asking if he is okay. Of course, that is what he tells himself. Junhui thinks that there is no better day to go home early to confess his love for his best friend than today. Everything feels right, and it is not just the liquid courage talking.

Besides, you never have to stop confessing your love for somebody even when you’re in a romantic relationship with them. That’s what you always told your boyfriend after giving him a soft kiss on the top of his head while he laid his head against your chest.

Oh, how he loves laying in your welcoming arms.

Another notification sound emitted breaks him away from his transient daydream. The buddy tells his drunk friend not to do anything dumb like visiting another person’s house at night.

The text leaves Jun dumbfounded as to why he would even go to another person’s house when he could just go home to you.

So he stumbles to his bedroom, forgetting his phone on the tiled counter. He squats on the floor beside your sleeping figure, mumbling about how much he loves you while he swats his hand around the dark to reach for the small table lamp the two of you chose at a flea market during one of your first few dates. It’s technically yours; you’re the one who chose and bought the lamp. But his hand never touches something tangible until it comes down hard against the nightstand where the table lamp is supposed to be.

And it stings. The way his tender flesh prickles with pain only sobers him.

And he crumples to the floor after losing balance on his legs, after losing the balancing person in his life.

You broke up with him last month. Your lamp is gone. But he still repeats his same routine every night, making space for you in his life even without your presence, just like clockwork. And it feels empty and lonely sitting in the dark, leaning against the side where his past lover used to lay. And he wishes his love confessions will find a soft place to land, one as soft as your cheek against his lips.

Maybe one day he will learn a new rhythm in which he can love himself unconditionally. Tonight, however, he unfortunately still loves you.

-> requests closed but if you want to talk sfw svt: let's chat!

[were--ralph]

I really wish you werent so crass. you can make sex jokes without being gross about it. elementary playground sense of humor

You're just mad your clunge doesn't drip like mine. Pussy like a leaky faucet need two plumbers to fix it

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