DIY – Pump My Soap Handy Man Edition

The apothecary will soap you now.

I know this is the one post my boss will never read. It’s got soap in it. For some people that’s a dirty word.

So I found myself in the home surrounded by fancy anti-bacterial liquid hand soap pump dispensers, apothecary-style, of the Victorian era. They were made from fancy distressed metal with bumpy textures that, I imagine, were supposed to be trendy in some sort of way.

Get your ass down to the nearest Pottery Barn or Crate & Barrel and you can get a few of your own.

Haven’t you got a clue? It was Mr. Abyss, in the lavatory, with the soap dispenser. That’s how that bitch Mrs. Peacock got what was coming to her. We all knew Abyss was a cleaner. Personally [sunglasses off] … [pause] … I wash my hands of the whole affair. [scream]

Never mind that plastic refillable dispensers cost something like 42 cents each, much less than the value of the human lives that were spent making them. Why bother with trifles like that. This is your home, dammit! Your castle! You have gots to have soap pumps that are distinguished and worthy of the setting where you throw your worn underwear on the floor.

How much would you pay for elegance like this? $10 per dispenser? Knave! $49.99? The realm approacheth. How about $99.99 each? Now you are talking, Sir Knight!

Finally I could go all classy and shit will I went anti on the bacteria on my filthy mitts.

But there was one wee little problem. The fancy pumps didn’t work. Cue an Abyss-style DIY Project! I’m the man and I’ll show you how.

A fancy expensive soap dispenseser for the lavatory. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, the damn things were made of out metal. Who the hell knows what kind? Probably some kind of partially-digested aluminium that was electro-coated with lead then dipped in imitation stainless steel in China. Within a week our luxurious suspended fluids of golden amber were coming out Nickelodeon slime green. (Fuck. I should write for the Peterman catalog.)

Lovely. Green slime anti-bacterial soap. And you wouldn’t believe how awful it tasted, too! Soap metallic flavor is the worst. Why the hell even bother putting fresh berry scent in there in the first place?

Not long after a second problem reared its ugly head. No matter how hard you pumped nothing – I mean absolutely nothing – would come out. (If I had a nickel for every time I’ve said that!)

The damn things broke and/or jammed up. End of story. Useless. Behold! It’s now the mighty Crate & Barrel Archeological Find Paperweight. Look at those magnificent ancient Egyptian lines.

Thus began a new era of going from location to location in the house just to find a place to wash my hands. Geez, I thought. They sure don’t make this easy.

One by one we lost pumps and my hand washing opportunities dwindled. Then, finally, the last one bought it.

I stood there with my filthy mitts and pondered my options. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? Game over, man. Game over!

Then I remembered. I’m a smart guy. I’m a handy man. What would MacGyver do? It was hard and I had to concentrate for a few hours, but suddenly it hit me.

I dashed to the master bath and opened the closet where the Abyss cache is kept. There, in neat tidy rows, were dozens of bars of Irish Spring bar soap, mint in box. I grabbed a few and the DIY project was officially underway.

  1. Materials needed: Bars of Irish Spring bar soap.
  2. Carefully open box.
  3. Extract bar soap.
  4. Install bar soap on sink.
  5. Repeat for every sink in the house.
  6. Recycle boxes. That’s good for the environment!

I cracked open a cold one. Ahhhhhhhhh! There’s nothing like the feeling of accomplishment as you survey the fruits of your labor. To celebrate I went to the nearest sink, turned on the faucet, picked up the soap, and lathered myself up like there was no tomorrow. I even did my hands.

Mike Rowe, eat your heart out. There’s a handy man in this house. You bring me problems and I’ll bring solutions.

4 responses

  1. Hilarious! I wish my husband was half as handy as you!

    Like

    1. Can I take him with me on my next expedition to Home Despot? Tell him to bring hardy footwear. It’s a three-day journey to the interior and back. Mobility devices are recommended.

      Like

  2. So. Now you can have your own reality tv show. “Pimp My Soap.”

    Like

    1. I should. I really should. I do enjoy getting everyone worked up into a lather.

      Like

Bringeth forth thy pith and vinegar

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