I Don’t Do Plumbing – A Dishwasher Installation Saga
Do you love your neighborhood home improvement store? Are you firm in your belief that the employees’ skills are right up there with legends like Bob Vila and Norm Abrams? So was I. That is, at least, until I had to install a brand new dishwasher. In my own defense, I never intended to install the food receptacle-cleansing robot from hell. Installation was foisted upon me by a professional installer who told me – and this is a direct quote, I swear – “Sorry, sir. I don’t do plumbing.”
You don’t do plumbing? What, exactly, is the task of connecting a dishwasher to a water line then? Interior decorating? Roofing? Perhaps it’s gardening!
The installation-averse installer who graced my kitchen was sent by a major home improvement store at the low, low cost of just $169. He arrived with my new dishwasher, an adapter kit – which is almost always installed by plumbers, at least in the wild – and a rather modest toolbox that looked like it had been assembled from selections made at the local dollar store.
He carried no spare parts. In his van there wasn’t a single inch of plastic or copper water line to be found. He had no compression fittings; no rubber washers; not even a roll of plumber’s tape. Heck, even his pants were hiked up to a level high enough to save us both the embarrassment of crack exposure. But I digress.
The bigger question: Why would he carry such an encumbering collection of parts? After all, his job is little more than connecting plumbing fittings.
The Problem, Allegedly
By now you might be wondering why the installation impersonator, who arrived an hour late by the way, was unable to do the job for which he was to be so handsomely paid. To use a term I learned from the venerable Judge Wapner way back in the 1980s, my new dishwasher and the water line under my sink were experiencing ‘irreconcilable differences’.
Apparently, size matters because the male end on the dishwasher was a mere ½ inch while the female end of the plumbing line was a more robust ¾ inches. But wait! I explained to my new best friend that I had paid extra for the adapter kit – the kit that the nice lady at the store insisted I needed.
To make a long story short, the adapter kit turned out to be as useful as the non-plumber man standing on the other side of the island telling me I needed to rip out my water lines and install brand-new everything. I was not amused at the moment. Looking back at it now, I’m kind of glad this person didn’t do plumbing. Otherwise, I might henceforth be writing about a very expensive reno featuring new toilets, showers, and a tankless water heater – just to get my dishwasher installed!
Off to the Home Improvement Store
Anyway, as the non-plumber pulled away from my home – sans payment, I might add – I couldn’t help but think that he had a bright future in…pretty much nothing. A plumber who doesn’t do plumbing is like an Attorney General named Pam Bondi. Nice phone and a uniform that fits the part, but not a lot in the get-up-and-go department.
But alas, my experiences with less-than-inspiring home improvement store employees was not over yet. For when I arrived at the store to begin my hunt for the right parts, I didn’t even attempt to go solo. I immediately flagged down a man I thought was intelligent enough to be wearing the official vest of the store in question. Surely he could get me in and out in mere minutes.
I was wrong.
Despite earning a paycheck working in the very department from which I needed to procure my parts, Bertram Einstein (Al’s great-great grand nephew, three times removed from a measurable IQ) could not help me. He had no clue, despite me showing him pictures and providing him with exact measurements.
After what seemed like an eternity spent watching him peruse the various displays with the confusion of a pro, he made his best guess and handed me two parts he promised would do the trick. I looked at them, thought they didn’t seem right, but then convinced myself to trust the guy with the official vest. Bad move.
Two Females Can’t Make a Male
I drove home with a glimmer of hope. Maybe I would be done by dinner time. Silly me. After putting away my shoes and keys, I unwrapped the gifts bestowed upon me by Bertram. Then it hit me: he sold me two female parts.
Friends, no matter what they try to tell you in San Fran, two female ends don’t connect. As my high school biology teacher told us back in the days when we knew the difference between Adam and Eve, two females can’t make a male.
So what did I do? I headed back to the home improvement store. Guess who I met in the plumbing aisle? Yes sir, it was none other than Bertram Einstein. He asked if I needed more help, to which I responded under my breath, “Yeah, have you seen uncle Albert around?”
The non-plumber who started this whole sordid tale was more useful than Bertram. That’s not saying much when you consider that a polygraph machine set up at a Congressional hearing has more value than these two guys combined.
Anyway, I’ve got a lot more to talk about but I can tell your patience is wearing thin. Here’s the bottom line: what should have been a 15-minute installation, performed by a person who allegedly gets paid to do dishwasher installations, turned into a 4-hour nightmare. But I got it done. What’s more, it could have been worse. Much, much worse.
Bertram and the non-plumber – which would be a great name for a slapstick comedy duo – could have tag-teamed it so that the store could still collect the $169 installation fee. Had they tried, I fear they would still be in my kitchen working on a solution.
